“So what are we going to talk about today?” Dr. Counselor leaned back in his seat after congratulating me on my paper being accepted.
“I don’t know.” I said, relatively happy and stable. “I was just here.”
“You said you wanted to come back early in the week.”
“I remember. And I do. I like starting the week here – it forces me to come to campus and refocus if I’m depressed.”
“So tell me about your weekend.”
“My parents were here.” I smiled. “It was wonderful. I really like having them around.”
“And your mom expressed her severe disappointment that you haven’t had a baby?”
“No. Never. It’s very subtle when it does happen. But they did really well this weekend. Oh, but one thing did happen that made me feel badly.”
“What was that?”
“Mom said that Aunt called her. My mom has an older sister who has two daughters. Both of them have a single child. Older Cousin a boy, and Cousin a little girl. When my grandparents died, there were four big items – one for each of the grandchildren. Aunt took the two family Bibles – gorgeous books we’d had since arriving from Ireland and England, depending on which side of the family we’re discussing. Mom got Grandpa’s trains.”
“Real train sets?” He asked, leaning forward with great interest. I nodded proudly.
“With the falling logs and steam and hills and little trees. Real trains set – an Army one and a Lionel.”
“Nice.”
“I know! Anyway, there would be one for me and one for Brother. But Aunt called and asked if she could give one to her grandson – Older Cousin’s little boy. Mom was surprised she even asked. We’re not the type of family to argue over possessions – though I guess any family can get sucked into that pretty quickly – but this issue has been settled for years. Mom said that Aunt told her to ask Brother about it, then to let her know if she could have one.”
I paused for effect while he waited patiently.
“It’s like I don’t matter because I don’t have a baby! It’s my train!”
“Have you thought about the train a lot?” He asked.
“No.” I admitted. “I didn’t even remember it existed. But still! Because I haven’t married and been pregnant, it’s like she’s writing me off. No need to save anything for Katie. She’s going to die alone. It’s my train!”
He nodded and considered me for a moment before changing the subject. “Are you lonely now that Mom and Dad have gone home?”
“A bit.”
“Well, that’s what we should talk about next. I see him tonight – the man I told you about.”
Huh, I thought with mild surprise. He wasn’t kidding about setting me up. I gave him a card when he asked how he should give Client my email address. I cocked my head at him, wondering what the deal was, then shrugged. I can have coffee with someone, I decided. It might be fun. It will undoubtedly make a decent blog post.
I smiled when I decided he was being proactive. I’m lonely. Client is lonely. I’d like to be in a stable relationship. So would he. Rather than talking about these problems, let’s just kill two birds, yes? Free up those two appointment slots so he can help other people find happiness. As strange as I find the idea, I rather respect his plan. If meeting someone would help, then meet someone. After all, I’m proof positive that blogging your problems just leaves you with a lot of text describing your problems. Not a lot of actual progress.
All that took about 10 minutes.
“What else?” He asked, apparently ready to fix another of my concerns.
“I was writing my book last night.” I told him, then paused to answer some questions about the plot and characters and my motivation for this particular project. Then I said, “It was about Winnie. She was in my research group and passed away this summer.”
“I remember.” He said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“She was an exquisite woman.” I told him. “Did you know her?” He shook his head and regarded me with solemn sympathy.
“I didn’t know her as well as I wanted.” I said, looking down and toying with the zipper of my red cardigan. So we talked – covering details that are remarkably fresh for me as I’ve gone over blog posts, editing and crying and adding more details as I built my chapter with regret that such an event needs to be included.
“I have her violet.” I told my therapist. “Jill gave it to me when I moved in the office Winnie used. It bloomed for Jill – she said it was like Winnie was telling her she was in a better place. That everything was OK. There were so many purple flowers.” I said, shaking my head. I don’t believe the plant was trying to tell Jill anything. Not really. “I got it just as the last blooms were dying. I have nightmares about killing that plant.”
Eager to tell him about my bad dreams – I don’t keep a dream journal, but that doesn’t mean I won’t tell stories from my subconscious – I was peeved when he interrupted.
“Has it bloomed for you?”
“No.” I replied. “But it’s healthy. It has new growth in the center – it looks full and green.”
He was shaking his head even as I spoke. “You need it to bloom.” He said firmly, turning to his computer while I raised my eyebrows. “Let’s see how we can encourage it to do that.”
After handing me a printed document on the care of African Violets, he summarized. “Light, food, water, warmth. You need to nurture this plant. Make it give you flowers. Then when you see them, you can say a prayer – thank God for reminding you that Winnie is in a better place. No pain, no worries, no tears for her. Her work here was done, and she was called home.”
I nodded. Again with the proactive, I thought, but saw his point. Talking doesn’t bring her back – all the dream descriptions and worry over that plant don’t help. But I can do something – put that energy toward finding the right fertilizer, watering from the top occasionally to prevent salt buildup, moving it toward the brighter light over my desk so it might bloom more frequently. It seems right – caring for this plant with a little more than random waterings. I like it – the advice I got. Good for Dr. Counselor.
I sat silently, sadly thinking my thoughts, and he watched me for a moment.
“Maybe you could write her a letter.” He suggested. “Say good-bye. Tell her you wish you could have seen the kitchen she painted. Or met her children before her memorial service. You can thank her for the times she showed up when you needed a bit of goodness in your life. How she made you feel less alone. You can ask for her prayers in the times you feel afraid and isolated. Just tell her all the things you wish you’d been able to say.”
“I wish she hadn’t had to leave.” I whispered and he handed me a Kleenex to wipe my eyes.
“She doesn’t hurt anymore. I don’t know why she had to go, but I do know God is caring for her now. She’s fine, Katie. I know it.”
“I do too. I’m just sad. I don’t think I really grieved for her.” I admitted. “I was so busy trying to figure out why the man I loved was so withdrawn – wanted to be stronger or happier or less devastated by this loss so that he would want to be with me again.”
“You’re a caring person. The pain was bound to come back until you felt you’d honored it enough. I think a letter would help you – you like to write. You like to talk to people. So talk to your friend.”
We talked for a few more minutes before he started to sum up, writing my name in his little appointment book for the same time next week.
“So!” He said, clapping his hands as he turned his attention to me again. “Homework! You’re going to take care of your plant – try to make it happy so it can give you some flowers.”
I nodded.
“And you’ll write Winnie a letter.” He said more gently. “Give yourself some closure and permission to be sad.”
He paused a moment and let me sniffle.
“I’m going to give your card to this man I see tonight. And if it doesn’t work with him, there will be someone else. Don’t give away that train, Katie. Your aunt can't have it - you’re going to need it for your children someday.”
Well done, Dr. Counselor, I thought as I walked back to my office. That will turn into a good blog post about therapy. And I am keeping my train. Not just because it's mine, but because I will at some point need it.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The birthday weekend
“Well,” Dr. Counselor said after being told of my refusal to leave my house on Monday and Tuesday, “let’s backtrack and see what upset you. What did you do on Saturday?”
I thought hard, barely resisting the urge to ask him to check my blog for me. It has lately become more of a daily diary than an outlet for stories, so I knew I could remember if I just peeked at the post titles. But I’d rather he not read what I write, so I focused and remembered.
“Friend came over. We had dinner and drinks and worked on our respective laptops.”
“And on Sunday?
“I went to church, though I didn’t want to.” I frowned at myself. “Then I came back and Friend and I got breakfast, then we hung out and worked for the remainder of the day. It’s nice to have her – we’re both pretty contained so it’s not like we constantly talk. She’s just around. It’s comfortable. Nice to not be alone.”
“When did she go home?” He asked.
“Sunday evening. After she got the mouse for me.”
“And were you sad after she left?”
I paused, considered it more carefully before shaking my head as I was about to do. “I guess so.” I admitted. “I didn’t want to deal with the dead mouse, and I liked that she took care of it for me. Then I started thinking that a boyfriend would have taken care of it for me too. But I don’t have a boyfriend – any man who loves me and wants to do me favors, laugh at my stories and sit in my living room for hours with me. And I’m getting older – not old – but older. And this isn’t going to happen – I’m not going to find anyone to share my life.”
Then he pulled out a book on optimism, which I’d told him I’d already heard about. He’s starting to bug me by saying the same thing to so many of his clients. Which is likely why you shouldn’t go to the same therapist as a close friend. And write/read detailed stories of the sessions so I can identify specific phrases that he’s used with someone else. But I did appreciate the clarity he’d lent to my early-week mood. I wasn’t sure why it had hit so hard, but I knew I was struggling.
I bring this up not because I’m growing dependent on Friend to provide one of my few social experiences of late, but because my parents head home today. They’re still sleeping – cat and dog tucked around them – but started to pack and load a few items into the car last night. I hate it when they leave. Regardless of how long they stay or how ready I am for them to go, watching them get in the car and drive away always makes my heart hurt.
I’m ready for another relationship – I understand that there are annoyances and difficulties with being in love with someone. That sometimes you must give far more than you’re able to take. I want that mutual sharing of responsibilities and knowing of your partner.
But when it comes to selfishly basking in someone caring for you? Well, there are few people who can do that better than parents and grandparents.
I remember holding Grandma’s hand, likely playing with her wedding ring on a finger that held the softest of skin, and standing on tiptoes to see over the counter. There were all kinds of wonderful treats in the glass case of the bakery near her house – cakes and frosted cookies, brownies and pastries – but I wanted to see what was behind the cashier in the case along the wall. Thumbprint cookies – a shortbread texture laced with pecans, buttery and rich. And in the center lay a dollop of densely sweet icing, colored in a variety of pastel shades.
Grandma would smile at me, order a dozen, and I would carry home the thin Styrofoam tray wrapped in a clear plastic bag bearing the name of the bakery, holding the 12 cookies, staring down at the pink, purple, yellow, blue and green frosted wonders, carefully deliberating on which color I would consume first. (I miss Grandma terribly to this day. It’s so strange how someone can be gone for so long, yet remain such a force in my life.)
Anyway, my parents arrived late Thursday night and I opened the garage so they could load their luggage into the side of the house that contains the bedrooms. Mom handed me a 9x13 plastic container as she unloaded the car, and I peeked inside. “Treats?!” I asked, thrilled. “I didn’t have any treats today!”
She smiled as I hurried to the house from driveway. I unearthed 2 dozen of the pretty thumbprint cookies in lieu of a birthday cake, and gasped again when seeing a small box wrapped in pretty paper. “And Fannie Mays?!” I asked as my parents made their way to the kitchen. “Vanilla buttercreams?” I asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She smiled and kissed me again. “Happy birthday.”
I have treasured those sweets over the past couple of days – I just had a purple frosted thumbprint – and relished the memories that last as far back as my memory goes in addition to the sugary rush. It’s nice to have people around who know you from the ground up. To remember that while they may not have all the details of my current life, they still understand and love me as much as they possibly could.
I also received a digital photo frame to display my countless images in addition to three pairs of tennis shoes. “Yours were getting old at Christmas so I wanted to make sure you had enough now.” Mom said when I continued to open boxes of shoes, giggling all the while.
Dad installed the dog door in the kitchen and repaired the damage to my guest room. Mom finished my laundry and did some light cleaning. We ate out – cheese biscuits and barbeque on Friday, followed by a late steak supper that evening. We ate for free since the steak took about an hour to arrive.
“You were so nice about it.” The waitress explained when she told us she’d had our bill taken care of. “You didn’t complain or yell or anything – I really appreciate that. It’s been a rough night.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” I said after she hurried away. We had sipped water and eaten our salads. Enjoyed four or five rolls each since she continued to bring us bread. Told stories and laughed. Brother was attending a dance at work – he’s been at this particular retirement community since he was 16 and has worked his way into management.
“I bet he’s dancing right now.” Mom smiled. He likes his job – enjoys his elderly friends and their stories and preferences. He did dance, he reported yesterday. There wasn’t a big group at the party, but they enjoyed the punch and cookies he provided. A few of the ladies had requested he lead them around the floor and he’d obliged.
Little One has a penchant for shopping and milkshakes, they told me later over still more rolls. Brother has ordered them to lay off the latter, as he cannot drive by a McDonalds without being barraged by demands for a milkshake. Vanilla. Sister-in-law called Mom the other day, handing the phone immediately to Little One.
“Grandma?” She said. “Shopping?”
“No, sweetheart. Grandma can’t go shopping with you tonight. It’s very cold and I have to get ready to go see Aunt Katie tomorrow.”
“Fine.” Little One said, annoyed. “Bye.” And with that, she hung up. Sister-in-law called back to laugh with Mom. “She always wants to go shopping!”
Yesterday was a bit sleepier. We retrieved toaster sandwiches for breakfast, then puttered around until we visited a historical site near my house. Proceeding to Cousin’s home, we ordered pizza while we talked and watched Flip That House and taunted the participants.
“How,” I asked, “can you have such gigantic biceps and not develop the rest of your arms? Look at his forearms! They’re tiny! But his biceps are huge!”
“He must only know one way to pick up his dumbbells.” Dad noted. “Even his triceps are bad – it’s all in the bicep for him.”
“And his hair looks like it belongs on a Ken doll.” Cousin noted.
“Look at the tiny realtor.” I said later.
“Those girls look like giants compared to him.” Mom mused.
We watched as he noted the walls were marred around the outlets. We nodded in agreement until Jay quipped, “It’s easy for him to notice that because his head is so close to the ground.”
“OK!” Cousin said later. “It’s time for birthday cookie!”
“I’m going to need a candle to blow out.” I said and she obediently dug through her drawer.
As she proudly displayed her finding, I frowned. “A used candle? You can only offer a single item and it’s pre-lit?”
She sighed and turned to revisit her drawer and Mom pushed her toward the frosted cookie. “It’s fine.” She scolded me and Cousin and I shared a grin.
“So, wait.” I said after I’d blown the sucker out four times. “I not only get a single, used candle, but it’s a mean one?! How is my wish going to come true if it keeps reigniting?!”
People were laughing too hard to answer me.
Mom, Dad and I returned home to sleep and I rose this morning when Mom went to check on their laundry. They’ve stayed in bed so far – much longer than I expected – and I know I’ll enjoy the quiet after they depart. But I’ll also miss them – the way loneliness stays a bit farther away because I’m not alone. How there’s someone to tell that Chienne found a bit of grossness on her morning walk. Someone to shake her head over my cat as he is distraught over not being able to escape the house any longer.
And knowing that if dead mouse should happen to appear, I would not be required to handle it.
I thought hard, barely resisting the urge to ask him to check my blog for me. It has lately become more of a daily diary than an outlet for stories, so I knew I could remember if I just peeked at the post titles. But I’d rather he not read what I write, so I focused and remembered.
“Friend came over. We had dinner and drinks and worked on our respective laptops.”
“And on Sunday?
“I went to church, though I didn’t want to.” I frowned at myself. “Then I came back and Friend and I got breakfast, then we hung out and worked for the remainder of the day. It’s nice to have her – we’re both pretty contained so it’s not like we constantly talk. She’s just around. It’s comfortable. Nice to not be alone.”
“When did she go home?” He asked.
“Sunday evening. After she got the mouse for me.”
“And were you sad after she left?”
I paused, considered it more carefully before shaking my head as I was about to do. “I guess so.” I admitted. “I didn’t want to deal with the dead mouse, and I liked that she took care of it for me. Then I started thinking that a boyfriend would have taken care of it for me too. But I don’t have a boyfriend – any man who loves me and wants to do me favors, laugh at my stories and sit in my living room for hours with me. And I’m getting older – not old – but older. And this isn’t going to happen – I’m not going to find anyone to share my life.”
Then he pulled out a book on optimism, which I’d told him I’d already heard about. He’s starting to bug me by saying the same thing to so many of his clients. Which is likely why you shouldn’t go to the same therapist as a close friend. And write/read detailed stories of the sessions so I can identify specific phrases that he’s used with someone else. But I did appreciate the clarity he’d lent to my early-week mood. I wasn’t sure why it had hit so hard, but I knew I was struggling.
I bring this up not because I’m growing dependent on Friend to provide one of my few social experiences of late, but because my parents head home today. They’re still sleeping – cat and dog tucked around them – but started to pack and load a few items into the car last night. I hate it when they leave. Regardless of how long they stay or how ready I am for them to go, watching them get in the car and drive away always makes my heart hurt.
I’m ready for another relationship – I understand that there are annoyances and difficulties with being in love with someone. That sometimes you must give far more than you’re able to take. I want that mutual sharing of responsibilities and knowing of your partner.
But when it comes to selfishly basking in someone caring for you? Well, there are few people who can do that better than parents and grandparents.
I remember holding Grandma’s hand, likely playing with her wedding ring on a finger that held the softest of skin, and standing on tiptoes to see over the counter. There were all kinds of wonderful treats in the glass case of the bakery near her house – cakes and frosted cookies, brownies and pastries – but I wanted to see what was behind the cashier in the case along the wall. Thumbprint cookies – a shortbread texture laced with pecans, buttery and rich. And in the center lay a dollop of densely sweet icing, colored in a variety of pastel shades.
Grandma would smile at me, order a dozen, and I would carry home the thin Styrofoam tray wrapped in a clear plastic bag bearing the name of the bakery, holding the 12 cookies, staring down at the pink, purple, yellow, blue and green frosted wonders, carefully deliberating on which color I would consume first. (I miss Grandma terribly to this day. It’s so strange how someone can be gone for so long, yet remain such a force in my life.)
Anyway, my parents arrived late Thursday night and I opened the garage so they could load their luggage into the side of the house that contains the bedrooms. Mom handed me a 9x13 plastic container as she unloaded the car, and I peeked inside. “Treats?!” I asked, thrilled. “I didn’t have any treats today!”
She smiled as I hurried to the house from driveway. I unearthed 2 dozen of the pretty thumbprint cookies in lieu of a birthday cake, and gasped again when seeing a small box wrapped in pretty paper. “And Fannie Mays?!” I asked as my parents made their way to the kitchen. “Vanilla buttercreams?” I asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She smiled and kissed me again. “Happy birthday.”
I have treasured those sweets over the past couple of days – I just had a purple frosted thumbprint – and relished the memories that last as far back as my memory goes in addition to the sugary rush. It’s nice to have people around who know you from the ground up. To remember that while they may not have all the details of my current life, they still understand and love me as much as they possibly could.
I also received a digital photo frame to display my countless images in addition to three pairs of tennis shoes. “Yours were getting old at Christmas so I wanted to make sure you had enough now.” Mom said when I continued to open boxes of shoes, giggling all the while.
Dad installed the dog door in the kitchen and repaired the damage to my guest room. Mom finished my laundry and did some light cleaning. We ate out – cheese biscuits and barbeque on Friday, followed by a late steak supper that evening. We ate for free since the steak took about an hour to arrive.
“You were so nice about it.” The waitress explained when she told us she’d had our bill taken care of. “You didn’t complain or yell or anything – I really appreciate that. It’s been a rough night.”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.” I said after she hurried away. We had sipped water and eaten our salads. Enjoyed four or five rolls each since she continued to bring us bread. Told stories and laughed. Brother was attending a dance at work – he’s been at this particular retirement community since he was 16 and has worked his way into management.
“I bet he’s dancing right now.” Mom smiled. He likes his job – enjoys his elderly friends and their stories and preferences. He did dance, he reported yesterday. There wasn’t a big group at the party, but they enjoyed the punch and cookies he provided. A few of the ladies had requested he lead them around the floor and he’d obliged.
Little One has a penchant for shopping and milkshakes, they told me later over still more rolls. Brother has ordered them to lay off the latter, as he cannot drive by a McDonalds without being barraged by demands for a milkshake. Vanilla. Sister-in-law called Mom the other day, handing the phone immediately to Little One.
“Grandma?” She said. “Shopping?”
“No, sweetheart. Grandma can’t go shopping with you tonight. It’s very cold and I have to get ready to go see Aunt Katie tomorrow.”
“Fine.” Little One said, annoyed. “Bye.” And with that, she hung up. Sister-in-law called back to laugh with Mom. “She always wants to go shopping!”
Yesterday was a bit sleepier. We retrieved toaster sandwiches for breakfast, then puttered around until we visited a historical site near my house. Proceeding to Cousin’s home, we ordered pizza while we talked and watched Flip That House and taunted the participants.
“How,” I asked, “can you have such gigantic biceps and not develop the rest of your arms? Look at his forearms! They’re tiny! But his biceps are huge!”
“He must only know one way to pick up his dumbbells.” Dad noted. “Even his triceps are bad – it’s all in the bicep for him.”
“And his hair looks like it belongs on a Ken doll.” Cousin noted.
“Look at the tiny realtor.” I said later.
“Those girls look like giants compared to him.” Mom mused.
We watched as he noted the walls were marred around the outlets. We nodded in agreement until Jay quipped, “It’s easy for him to notice that because his head is so close to the ground.”
“OK!” Cousin said later. “It’s time for birthday cookie!”
“I’m going to need a candle to blow out.” I said and she obediently dug through her drawer.
As she proudly displayed her finding, I frowned. “A used candle? You can only offer a single item and it’s pre-lit?”
She sighed and turned to revisit her drawer and Mom pushed her toward the frosted cookie. “It’s fine.” She scolded me and Cousin and I shared a grin.
“So, wait.” I said after I’d blown the sucker out four times. “I not only get a single, used candle, but it’s a mean one?! How is my wish going to come true if it keeps reigniting?!”
People were laughing too hard to answer me.
Mom, Dad and I returned home to sleep and I rose this morning when Mom went to check on their laundry. They’ve stayed in bed so far – much longer than I expected – and I know I’ll enjoy the quiet after they depart. But I’ll also miss them – the way loneliness stays a bit farther away because I’m not alone. How there’s someone to tell that Chienne found a bit of grossness on her morning walk. Someone to shake her head over my cat as he is distraught over not being able to escape the house any longer.
And knowing that if dead mouse should happen to appear, I would not be required to handle it.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Yay for today!
"How do I forward this?" Mom asked. I had praised her for figuring out my laptop enough to read her messages from work and advised that there was probably a button to send that particular information to another recipient. Chienne and I took a longer walk than normal in the bright sunshine and cold breeze. It was delightful.
"You need a mouse. I hate this little square thing you have to use." She said, frowning.
"I have a wireless mouse at work!" I said, distracted. "It has a magnifying button and a button that goes back when you're browsing! And the roller wheel is completely silent! I love my wireless mouse..."
Mom smiled at me, then nodded toward my laptop.
I deleted some messages, let her read some forwards and forwarded the requested email. "All done?" I asked and she nodded happily.
"I figured it out!" She announced proudly and I cuddled her for a second. Then I clicked over to my email.
For crying out loud, I said to myself, first they ruined Christmas and now my birthday visit? Bastards.
"Oh." I said in soft surprise, smiling broadly as I read the short note again. Then I turned to smile at my mother. "They're going to publish my paper."
Because there was something incredibly special about reading
while there were people here who knew of the struggle and saw how bitterly disappointed I'd been over Christmas. I battled hard for this little paper and have no small amount of pride in the work and the text describing it. My paper deserves that journal and they were absolutely right to take it. Yay for them!
After sending many emails so that others could bask in my hard-fought success, I folded laundry while Mom tried to rest. Then Dad and I worked for a couple hours to install the new dog door.
"This one is in the bottom right corner of the hole." I explained through the large hole in my door as I peered through one of the screw holes. If you drill the door in a crooked manner, it's rather difficult to fit the dog door together properly. It eventually required 3 screwdrivers (one tool for each of us, though the drink might have really helped the process), the spatula from my grill, a tiny screwdriver, a hammer and some pliers. We would have employed my electric tool but it was a touch too big.
We did get it together - all of us taking a turn lying on the floor to guide the screws to the proper positions - and it's huge, but rather pretty. I'm quite proud of the new dog door.
We then went for cheese biscuits, baked potato and salad and I found myself happy. Feeling bright and positive and lovely about life in general. While I spared the thought that I would have been miserable had the paper been rejected, I shrugged and decided I'd worry about that later. For now, I'd just enjoy the rush of getting something in press.
We picked up a few items at Lowe's. Chienne has a bad habit of entering Sprout's room, eating the food located behind the door, nudging the door too far closed to reach the kibble she isn't supposed to have, then being trapped in her misbehavior. I scold her harshly in these cases, but it doesn't help. She got trapped and dug at the molding around the door while I was at work yesterday. So we needed spackle and sandpaper to carefully repair the damage (freaking dog - so much work to do because of her and her kitten friend!).
Then we came home and I tried to do some work - answered email from the penguin (3 of his 4 figures are mine - I believe this makes me proud) then declared I was going to nap. Because it was my birthday weekend. (I'm not sure what my excuse is for the other weekends. I just really enjoy sleeping during the day.) Now I'm waiting to go find steak for dinner. And thinking that in addition to some glorious news from Friend (which made me cry - I couldn't be more happy for her), today was a really, really nice collection of hours.
28 just might be my year.
"You need a mouse. I hate this little square thing you have to use." She said, frowning.
"I have a wireless mouse at work!" I said, distracted. "It has a magnifying button and a button that goes back when you're browsing! And the roller wheel is completely silent! I love my wireless mouse..."
Mom smiled at me, then nodded toward my laptop.
I deleted some messages, let her read some forwards and forwarded the requested email. "All done?" I asked and she nodded happily.
"I figured it out!" She announced proudly and I cuddled her for a second. Then I clicked over to my email.
For crying out loud, I said to myself, first they ruined Christmas and now my birthday visit? Bastards.
"Oh." I said in soft surprise, smiling broadly as I read the short note again. Then I turned to smile at my mother. "They're going to publish my paper."
Because there was something incredibly special about reading
Dear Dr. [Me],
I am pleased to inform you that your revised manuscript, referenced below, has been accepted for publication in [Journal that required three revisions].
while there were people here who knew of the struggle and saw how bitterly disappointed I'd been over Christmas. I battled hard for this little paper and have no small amount of pride in the work and the text describing it. My paper deserves that journal and they were absolutely right to take it. Yay for them!
After sending many emails so that others could bask in my hard-fought success, I folded laundry while Mom tried to rest. Then Dad and I worked for a couple hours to install the new dog door.
"This one is in the bottom right corner of the hole." I explained through the large hole in my door as I peered through one of the screw holes. If you drill the door in a crooked manner, it's rather difficult to fit the dog door together properly. It eventually required 3 screwdrivers (one tool for each of us, though the drink might have really helped the process), the spatula from my grill, a tiny screwdriver, a hammer and some pliers. We would have employed my electric tool but it was a touch too big.
We did get it together - all of us taking a turn lying on the floor to guide the screws to the proper positions - and it's huge, but rather pretty. I'm quite proud of the new dog door.
We then went for cheese biscuits, baked potato and salad and I found myself happy. Feeling bright and positive and lovely about life in general. While I spared the thought that I would have been miserable had the paper been rejected, I shrugged and decided I'd worry about that later. For now, I'd just enjoy the rush of getting something in press.
We picked up a few items at Lowe's. Chienne has a bad habit of entering Sprout's room, eating the food located behind the door, nudging the door too far closed to reach the kibble she isn't supposed to have, then being trapped in her misbehavior. I scold her harshly in these cases, but it doesn't help. She got trapped and dug at the molding around the door while I was at work yesterday. So we needed spackle and sandpaper to carefully repair the damage (freaking dog - so much work to do because of her and her kitten friend!).
Then we came home and I tried to do some work - answered email from the penguin (3 of his 4 figures are mine - I believe this makes me proud) then declared I was going to nap. Because it was my birthday weekend. (I'm not sure what my excuse is for the other weekends. I just really enjoy sleeping during the day.) Now I'm waiting to go find steak for dinner. And thinking that in addition to some glorious news from Friend (which made me cry - I couldn't be more happy for her), today was a really, really nice collection of hours.
28 just might be my year.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
A bit odd. But mostly good.
Today was one of those lovely days where people I love made some gesture to indicate my affection was returned. As I do enjoy being the center of attention, I basked in the experience. I spoke to Brother and Dad on the phone as I commuted to work. Barely resisted telling the woman at the bus stop that I was dressed prettily in honor of turning 28 when I’m sure she was thinking I was insane for wearing a short jumper and thin white shirt. My hair was pulled back, but I allowed curling locks to frame my face. And, of course, my feet were shod in my favorite brown flats with their pretty satin bows. The woman’s glance at my outfit was justified either way you looked at it – I was very cute and freaking freezing.
I boarded the bus and scooted to the window seat as we stopped to pick up more passengers. I found myself staring at one man in particular. Perhaps it was the orange stripe on his jacket. Maybe he was just in my line of vision. He was rather cute. But he glanced up and we looked at each other for just a moment through the window of the bus. I settled my bag more comfortably on my lap and continued to look out the window at the cloudy day. I glanced over when someone sat next to me, then turned away immediately when I saw it was him. I noticed there were seats left, though not many. But what should I say when faced with a cute man of the appropriate age who is seated mere inches away for a 3 minute ride?
I don’t know. I didn’t say anything. I just thought about how Dr. Counselor would be so disappointed in me for not smiling or doing something to indicate interest.
We had almost reached the last stop when my seatmate said something.
“I’m sorry.” I said, turning to him in surprise. “What’s that?”
“My feet are really hot.” He said again, glancing at me quickly before facing forward again.
“Oh.” I smiled. “My legs are very warm too. We must be over a vent.”
“Right.” He responded with a brief smile and we lapsed back into silence.
“We must protect against the cold at all costs.” I offered and received a grin for my effort.
“Of course.” He said, still smiling.
“You have a nice day.” He said softly as we pulled to a stop and everyone rose from their seats.
“You too.” I said equally softly.
A rather meaningless exchange for most people, probably. I took note though because 1) He might have been the tiniest bit interested in me. This is unusual. 2) I wasn’t sure how I felt about the situation. I wanted to talk to him – there was something about him that was interesting – but I was afraid. Some immediate impulse insisted that I face the window instead of smiling in greeting. He might hurt me – decide at some point that I was not worthy of further attention. And I don’t want to feel that pain again.
“By avoiding the bad stuff,” Friend offered when I was huddled in my house on Tuesday, claiming I was pretty numb, “you lose your chance at the good stuff.”
Dr. Counselor agreed. “There are no complete successes.” He lectured after I shared my bus ride defeat. “Nobody always wins in love or science or friendship. Bad things do happen. You will get rejected if you put yourself out there. But – if you truly want a man to love you – you can have that. I know you can.”
We played the chair game – moving from corner to wall to other wall. I was asked to move my chair to Dark Blue. I live there a lot, but I knew that. He told me – in a moment of frustration – that I was free to stay there forever. If I couldn’t be positive or strong – if all I could offer was timid fear – then I didn’t have to return. He couldn’t help me if I wouldn’t make an effort!
I looked at him, unimpressed. “I am trying. I’m just not going to say ‘I will find someone!’ as you request because it might not be true. I won’t do it. Not even as an exercise.”
“OK, I’m not saying that either.” I shook my head a minute later. He’d moved into some feline analogy for some unknown reason. Perhaps because I admired the lynx on his calendar. I really don’t know.
Dark Blue was supposed to be a cat hiding under the bed. “That’s not fun.” He said. “Not the kind of pet you want.”
“I don’t know.” I argued, for today I was arguing and not crying. “I think it’s fine for cats to hide under the bed.”
“All the time?!” He asked, eyebrows raised.
“Well, no. The cat has to eat and play.”
“Exactly! So move here.” I stepped into Yellow. “Now say I am a curious, sleek, gorgeous pussycat.”
At which time I laughed a little, opened my mouth to reword his phrase and shook my head. When he just stared at me after my initial refusal, I shrugged. “Totally not saying anything that even vaguely resembles that statement. I’m sorry.”
I grew tired of his sighing and he likely felt the same of mine. “I don’t want to play anymore.” I said – sick of moving around the room, having him encourage me to talk to the pieces of myself.
“You’re projecting the internal into physical space!” He said.
“I understand.” I said impatiently. “I don’t like it anymore. Enough.”
So we sat again and he asked if I was gay. I stared at him for a moment and said no. “The problem is that I can’t find a man who likes me as much as I like him. It’s finding the right guy. Not that I’m confused about my sexuality.”
“Honestly!” I later said to Friend. “If I were a lesbian, I’d just do that. I think.”
“Complain that you can’t find the right girl instead of guy.” She noted and I nodded.
But then – as if the moving around the room talking to myself, refusing to play into the cat language, answering questions about whether I prefer men or not, it got even more strange.
“I have another client,” Dr. Counselor said, “who shares some of your concerns. He worries he won’t find love and marriage. And he’s nearing 40.”
He’d asked earlier how old I was after giving me a hug and offering me a bottle of water as a birthday gift. (He didn’t have anything else, he explained when I tried to refuse the Dasani.) “You look young.” He said. “The dress is above your knees. Your hair is in a ponytail. Let me see your shoes.”
I pointed my toe out and smiled. “They have bows on them!” I explained, and he smiled.
“Just then,” he pounced, “you were bright and happy and young. Very open and sweet. That’s who you are.”
“I hope things work out for him.” I offered of his male client. I understand it can be tough for men to date. I feel for them.
“I told him about you.” Dr. Counselor said.
“OK.” I offered, confused.
“You might like him. Is 40 too old for you?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe. I guess it depends on the person. Do you want me to have lunch with him?”
“I’m not a matchmaker!” He laughed, and I raised my eyebrows in question.
“OK.” I said again. “Well, good luck to him.”
“How could we get you two together?” He mused. “In a professional way that doesn’t compromise your privacy?”
“I don’t know.” I said, not really caring. “I’m good at blind dating. I don’t know enough people to turn down friends. But it doesn’t really matter either. I’m fine either way.”
“So I could give him your email address? Just say you’re someone I know?”
“Sure.” I said easily.
“Will you do me a favor?” He asked near the end of the session that was more about me being stubbornly pessimistic than him being a bit strange.
“It really is going to depend on the favor.” I said.
“Will you invite me to your wedding?”
I stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “Sure,” I said. “you’re more than welcome to come.”
I returned to my office to find Ken, the grad student who shares my wall, had left me a post-it. Bright yellow, it said “Happy Birthday!” with a scrawled happy face underneath.
“A post-it card?!” I cooed when I walked in. He looked up and smiled. “Thank you!” In addition to being older than I am, Ken returned from lunch with a Starbucks gift certificate. Which was very sweet and unexpected and lovely. It’s nice to share an office with such a man.
In addition to the emails and comments – from friends on and offline – that made me smile with pleasure, I received phone messages and a tremendous amount of work to try to finish today. Friend offered Thai food (delicious panang curry) and I returned home to clean a bit in preparation of my parents’ arrival. I sent email to the penguin to finish up Part 1 (of many) of Project H. Then I talked to Rachel for hours. I brought my Infra-red door (very impressed with this website – free shipping that was insanely fast.) inside and paid some bills.
It was a good day. I felt pretty. Hopeful about work. Assured that I matter to the people most important to me. I enjoyed the well wishes from people I enjoy reading online - I really do like you all very much. Perhaps I’m learning more than I think through this post-doctoral work. Regardless, if I didn’t have a blog, where would my therapy stories go? I hope eventually I stop having them – that I find the strength in myself to encourage and guide and support. But for now? I have a feeling you can expect more weekly weirdness for a little longer.
I boarded the bus and scooted to the window seat as we stopped to pick up more passengers. I found myself staring at one man in particular. Perhaps it was the orange stripe on his jacket. Maybe he was just in my line of vision. He was rather cute. But he glanced up and we looked at each other for just a moment through the window of the bus. I settled my bag more comfortably on my lap and continued to look out the window at the cloudy day. I glanced over when someone sat next to me, then turned away immediately when I saw it was him. I noticed there were seats left, though not many. But what should I say when faced with a cute man of the appropriate age who is seated mere inches away for a 3 minute ride?
I don’t know. I didn’t say anything. I just thought about how Dr. Counselor would be so disappointed in me for not smiling or doing something to indicate interest.
We had almost reached the last stop when my seatmate said something.
“I’m sorry.” I said, turning to him in surprise. “What’s that?”
“My feet are really hot.” He said again, glancing at me quickly before facing forward again.
“Oh.” I smiled. “My legs are very warm too. We must be over a vent.”
“Right.” He responded with a brief smile and we lapsed back into silence.
“We must protect against the cold at all costs.” I offered and received a grin for my effort.
“Of course.” He said, still smiling.
“You have a nice day.” He said softly as we pulled to a stop and everyone rose from their seats.
“You too.” I said equally softly.
A rather meaningless exchange for most people, probably. I took note though because 1) He might have been the tiniest bit interested in me. This is unusual. 2) I wasn’t sure how I felt about the situation. I wanted to talk to him – there was something about him that was interesting – but I was afraid. Some immediate impulse insisted that I face the window instead of smiling in greeting. He might hurt me – decide at some point that I was not worthy of further attention. And I don’t want to feel that pain again.
“By avoiding the bad stuff,” Friend offered when I was huddled in my house on Tuesday, claiming I was pretty numb, “you lose your chance at the good stuff.”
Dr. Counselor agreed. “There are no complete successes.” He lectured after I shared my bus ride defeat. “Nobody always wins in love or science or friendship. Bad things do happen. You will get rejected if you put yourself out there. But – if you truly want a man to love you – you can have that. I know you can.”
We played the chair game – moving from corner to wall to other wall. I was asked to move my chair to Dark Blue. I live there a lot, but I knew that. He told me – in a moment of frustration – that I was free to stay there forever. If I couldn’t be positive or strong – if all I could offer was timid fear – then I didn’t have to return. He couldn’t help me if I wouldn’t make an effort!
I looked at him, unimpressed. “I am trying. I’m just not going to say ‘I will find someone!’ as you request because it might not be true. I won’t do it. Not even as an exercise.”
“OK, I’m not saying that either.” I shook my head a minute later. He’d moved into some feline analogy for some unknown reason. Perhaps because I admired the lynx on his calendar. I really don’t know.
Dark Blue was supposed to be a cat hiding under the bed. “That’s not fun.” He said. “Not the kind of pet you want.”
“I don’t know.” I argued, for today I was arguing and not crying. “I think it’s fine for cats to hide under the bed.”
“All the time?!” He asked, eyebrows raised.
“Well, no. The cat has to eat and play.”
“Exactly! So move here.” I stepped into Yellow. “Now say I am a curious, sleek, gorgeous pussycat.”
At which time I laughed a little, opened my mouth to reword his phrase and shook my head. When he just stared at me after my initial refusal, I shrugged. “Totally not saying anything that even vaguely resembles that statement. I’m sorry.”
I grew tired of his sighing and he likely felt the same of mine. “I don’t want to play anymore.” I said – sick of moving around the room, having him encourage me to talk to the pieces of myself.
“You’re projecting the internal into physical space!” He said.
“I understand.” I said impatiently. “I don’t like it anymore. Enough.”
So we sat again and he asked if I was gay. I stared at him for a moment and said no. “The problem is that I can’t find a man who likes me as much as I like him. It’s finding the right guy. Not that I’m confused about my sexuality.”
“Honestly!” I later said to Friend. “If I were a lesbian, I’d just do that. I think.”
“Complain that you can’t find the right girl instead of guy.” She noted and I nodded.
But then – as if the moving around the room talking to myself, refusing to play into the cat language, answering questions about whether I prefer men or not, it got even more strange.
“I have another client,” Dr. Counselor said, “who shares some of your concerns. He worries he won’t find love and marriage. And he’s nearing 40.”
He’d asked earlier how old I was after giving me a hug and offering me a bottle of water as a birthday gift. (He didn’t have anything else, he explained when I tried to refuse the Dasani.) “You look young.” He said. “The dress is above your knees. Your hair is in a ponytail. Let me see your shoes.”
I pointed my toe out and smiled. “They have bows on them!” I explained, and he smiled.
“Just then,” he pounced, “you were bright and happy and young. Very open and sweet. That’s who you are.”
“I hope things work out for him.” I offered of his male client. I understand it can be tough for men to date. I feel for them.
“I told him about you.” Dr. Counselor said.
“OK.” I offered, confused.
“You might like him. Is 40 too old for you?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe. I guess it depends on the person. Do you want me to have lunch with him?”
“I’m not a matchmaker!” He laughed, and I raised my eyebrows in question.
“OK.” I said again. “Well, good luck to him.”
“How could we get you two together?” He mused. “In a professional way that doesn’t compromise your privacy?”
“I don’t know.” I said, not really caring. “I’m good at blind dating. I don’t know enough people to turn down friends. But it doesn’t really matter either. I’m fine either way.”
“So I could give him your email address? Just say you’re someone I know?”
“Sure.” I said easily.
“Will you do me a favor?” He asked near the end of the session that was more about me being stubbornly pessimistic than him being a bit strange.
“It really is going to depend on the favor.” I said.
“Will you invite me to your wedding?”
I stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “Sure,” I said. “you’re more than welcome to come.”
I returned to my office to find Ken, the grad student who shares my wall, had left me a post-it. Bright yellow, it said “Happy Birthday!” with a scrawled happy face underneath.
“A post-it card?!” I cooed when I walked in. He looked up and smiled. “Thank you!” In addition to being older than I am, Ken returned from lunch with a Starbucks gift certificate. Which was very sweet and unexpected and lovely. It’s nice to share an office with such a man.
In addition to the emails and comments – from friends on and offline – that made me smile with pleasure, I received phone messages and a tremendous amount of work to try to finish today. Friend offered Thai food (delicious panang curry) and I returned home to clean a bit in preparation of my parents’ arrival. I sent email to the penguin to finish up Part 1 (of many) of Project H. Then I talked to Rachel for hours. I brought my Infra-red door (very impressed with this website – free shipping that was insanely fast.) inside and paid some bills.
It was a good day. I felt pretty. Hopeful about work. Assured that I matter to the people most important to me. I enjoyed the well wishes from people I enjoy reading online - I really do like you all very much. Perhaps I’m learning more than I think through this post-doctoral work. Regardless, if I didn’t have a blog, where would my therapy stories go? I hope eventually I stop having them – that I find the strength in myself to encourage and guide and support. But for now? I have a feeling you can expect more weekly weirdness for a little longer.
Twenty-eight
I kept waking up from a heavy sleep, momentarily confused when my stomach hurt upon opening my eyes. Then I remembered that I couldn't find Sprout before I went to bed. Without evidence that he was safely inside (he can go outside until I go to bed, at least until the Infra-red dog door arrives this weekend), I couldn't risk locking him out. I kept telling myself he was certainly fine - just wandering around or hunting more ick - and slept without him curled on the corner of my bed.
When I looked at the clock for the third time, it was nearing 2:00. As I pulled the covers under my chin and tried to relax, I realized he was in trouble if he hadn't made his way back inside. It's cold out and he's but a tiny cat. So I got up, disturbing a sleepy Chienne in the process, and roamed the house silently, looking for a stripey feline.
In what felt like a strange dream, I opened the back door and flipped on the patio light, shivering in the cold as I peered around the fenced area. I didn't see him and despaired that he'd gotten lost on an adventure and grew too cold trying to find his way home. Entering the house again, I methodically made my way through the house, checking the back of the armchair, under the bed in his room, the guest bathtub where he sometimes plays.
"Oh, Sprout." I said forlornly as I stood in my bedroom, looking at the spot where he typically spends the night. Then I turned to see him emerge - heavy-lidded and sleepy - from the master bathroom. He allowed me to hold him, purring comfortingly as I stroked his fur. He was warm and safe and jealousy finally drove the dog from beneath the covers as she watched her kitten friend get copious amounts of cuddles.
I think I have a strong tendency to worry. And I rather enjoy the rush of relief I feel when things are OK. So instead of saying I started my birthday feeling scared my kitten had frozen to death, let's start the day when I was caught in that delicious place between sleep and wakefulness, the dog warming my feet and the cat purring near my ear. Because that was lovely. And instead of rather dreading this day as I've been doing, let's just hope it's a happy one.
So far, Mom, Brother and Pastor have offered their birthday wishes and I found myself cooing over them and knowing people care that I'm officially 28 (though I think I was born around noon. Cord wrapped around my tiny neck, Mom wanted a C section anyway, went straight from the doctor to the hospital, perfect baby arrives, blah blah blah). In addition, I have received bloggy emails that I enjoyed tremendously. So given that I don't tend toward announcing "It's my birthday!" so people can be happy for me, I think I'm giving it a shot this year. If it's not too much trouble, someone can wish me success at work (first author publications, experiments that go smoothly, collaborators who play nicely), time with friends and family, appreciation for moments that go right and the ability to release and ignore times that go wrong, or the ability to pray effectively. If that doesn't work, there's always the hope that I find someone to love who loves me in return (and all the fun stuff that goes along with that), health (both physical and mental), lots of laughter, interesting blog posts that are entertaining to write, good site stats...
If it was your birthday, I'd wish all of the above for you. :)
When I looked at the clock for the third time, it was nearing 2:00. As I pulled the covers under my chin and tried to relax, I realized he was in trouble if he hadn't made his way back inside. It's cold out and he's but a tiny cat. So I got up, disturbing a sleepy Chienne in the process, and roamed the house silently, looking for a stripey feline.
In what felt like a strange dream, I opened the back door and flipped on the patio light, shivering in the cold as I peered around the fenced area. I didn't see him and despaired that he'd gotten lost on an adventure and grew too cold trying to find his way home. Entering the house again, I methodically made my way through the house, checking the back of the armchair, under the bed in his room, the guest bathtub where he sometimes plays.
"Oh, Sprout." I said forlornly as I stood in my bedroom, looking at the spot where he typically spends the night. Then I turned to see him emerge - heavy-lidded and sleepy - from the master bathroom. He allowed me to hold him, purring comfortingly as I stroked his fur. He was warm and safe and jealousy finally drove the dog from beneath the covers as she watched her kitten friend get copious amounts of cuddles.
I think I have a strong tendency to worry. And I rather enjoy the rush of relief I feel when things are OK. So instead of saying I started my birthday feeling scared my kitten had frozen to death, let's start the day when I was caught in that delicious place between sleep and wakefulness, the dog warming my feet and the cat purring near my ear. Because that was lovely. And instead of rather dreading this day as I've been doing, let's just hope it's a happy one.
So far, Mom, Brother and Pastor have offered their birthday wishes and I found myself cooing over them and knowing people care that I'm officially 28 (though I think I was born around noon. Cord wrapped around my tiny neck, Mom wanted a C section anyway, went straight from the doctor to the hospital, perfect baby arrives, blah blah blah). In addition, I have received bloggy emails that I enjoyed tremendously. So given that I don't tend toward announcing "It's my birthday!" so people can be happy for me, I think I'm giving it a shot this year. If it's not too much trouble, someone can wish me success at work (first author publications, experiments that go smoothly, collaborators who play nicely), time with friends and family, appreciation for moments that go right and the ability to release and ignore times that go wrong, or the ability to pray effectively. If that doesn't work, there's always the hope that I find someone to love who loves me in return (and all the fun stuff that goes along with that), health (both physical and mental), lots of laughter, interesting blog posts that are entertaining to write, good site stats...
If it was your birthday, I'd wish all of the above for you. :)
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
In the moment
Dad spent time in the hospital in Fall, 2000. He had a heart attack the night before classes were due to begin, so I skipped a majority of that first week as I spent time in a large structure downtown, waiting for Dad to get better after an emergency angioplasty that had left him with about 75% functionality in his heart.
He had been on a ventilator since his procedure performed late Monday night and lasting into Tuesday morning. He had since opened his eyes and watched us as we spoke to him. Would squeeze our hands tightly as he cried upon seeing us after we’d been gone a short time. He hated being attached to machines though and would often seek attention to motion at the tube down his throat. He’d make a face and gesture that he wanted it out. We’d tell him we knew – that we were asking people – that we’d have them remove it as soon as possible.
I entered the room one morning after spending the night at home – I curled around our german shepherd and accepted the comfort of her dense coat and sympathetic personality. I woke on the living room floor, the same spot as I’d knelt then laid flat in order to cry. I showered and changed clothes, then went back to the hospital to the tiny room with a single glass wall opposite the one containing a window. Mom was slumped over in a chair, sleeping fitfully, so I quietly moved toward the bed.
Dad’s eyes opened to regard me and he reached for my hand. I wrapped all 10 of my fingers around his palm, blinking back tears as I squeezed.
“Hi, Daddy.” I said softly. “Did you sleep?”
He shrugged in response. Motioned to the bustle taking place on the other side of his glass wall. I turned to look at the nurses and patients and doctors as morning rounds would soon begin.
“Are you feeling any better this morning?” I asked. He shook his head just a little and motioned to his mouth. “I know you don’t like the tube.” I said gently. “I think they’re going to take it out today. I’ll ask when we see the doctor.” He nodded and closed his eyes, opening them only to cough. I kept one of my hands on his and brushed away tears with another.
“Just breathe.” I said. “That’s all you have to do right now. Pull air in, then push it out. Don’t fight the machine – just let it help you breathe.” I waited until he closed his eyes then let my own drift shut. I matched the rhythm of my breathing to his and just focused on the soft sounds as our lungs took in oxygen.
In utter helplessness, we spent time with God. Not praying with words – at least I didn’t – but standing in His presence as I felt Him match his breathing to ours as we stood in a CICU room on a sunny morning in late August. In those minutes, I wasn’t worried about when the tube would come out, though I hoped it would be soon. I didn’t think about where I should be at school. I had no worry for Brother as he slept in a waiting room full of strangers down the hall. I didn’t wonder when the nurses would be in to check on us. All we had to do was breathe. The rest would figure itself out and when the time came to act, I would somehow know what to do.
I was reminded of those moments as I listened to Prayer on my commute to and from work today. God’s mercy flows from the highest point to the lowest. Sometimes our strength separates us from His power and when we are the most needy is often when we can access the most help. It’s not a how-to manual on prayer, but rather a set of explanations on how prayer is considered so important in people’s lives, yet is often such an unsatisfying activity. I like it – I needed to hear it. I think I need to focus on the given moment more and the overall goal a bit less. In these days – when I’m inexplicably struggling pretty damn hard – I just need to breathe. And focus on the little moments that make up a day.
Before Work
I had a few errands to run this morning. My garbage service irritated me before Christmas, so I let them know – quiet haughtily, actually – that I no longer wished to work with them. The dump isn’t far from my home, so I would take care of my trash on my own. It’s rather inconvenient though. Smelly. I put it off until I really must remove my garbage, so I am – as Friend pointed out – punishing myself far more than I am my former garbage people.
“Is there a place for aluminum cans?” I asked the man who supervises when I arrived this morning. He always sits on a stool behind the middle of the green dumpsters. The far left one is for cardboard, then there are two for standard garbage. I had two small bags of garbage, a tiny bag of cardboard, then another bag of diet soda cans. I had properly placed all but the aluminum.
“Are they empty?” He asked, and when I nodded, he tapped a plastic bin in front of him. “Right here.” He advised and I reached for the bag in my trunk, emptying it where directed, then smiled and offered my thanks.
He just stays there – dawn to dusk. Five days a week. Watching people drive in and leave what they no longer want. Enforces the organizational structure. Answers questions when needed. But mostly he sits peacefully and watches. Smiling when smiled at, observing quietly otherwise. I sometimes have seen him get up to push a button that compacts the trash, making room for others to leave their items. Other times he’ll poke with a stick to settle the bags more securely.
After stopping to get gas, I proceeded to work. The bus driver saw me moving across the parking lot rather quickly in my brown flats with their pretty bows. She pulled around the corner and just as I sighed, thinking I’d have to wait until the next one came around, she opened the door and paused as I walked faster to meet her.
“Thank you.” I said breathlessly as I boarded the empty vehicle, took a seat in the front row and crossed my legs. We picked up two more passengers, making three other stops where nobody got on or off. She smiled and said “you’re welcome” when I expressed my gratitude again before departing at my destination.
Life is monotonous, I decided. Poke at then compact the garbage. Drive the same route in the same campus to take people from their cars to their offices. Re-do experiments and re-write papers. Just because it’s superficially boring or seems pointless, I decided, doesn’t mean it’s not valuable in the larger scheme. If you do a job where you can think your thoughts and provide for your family, that’s profoundly important. In recognizing that for others, perhaps there’s hope in seeing it in myself.
Friend
“If you don’t have anything to talk about in therapy,” I wrote after I arrived at my desk this morning, “ask about the names of the chairs.”
“I didn’t have to ask.” She reported an hour later. I eagerly await her description of the event and hope it arrives soon.
“You’re not supposed to cry in yellow.” I told her after she gave me meager details. “If you view my diagram, I think you’ll see that crying should be done in Dark Blue. I spent most of my time in Dark Blue. Yellow just felt…foreign. What God wants me to be – this blissful creature in tune and at peace with everything around her? Doesn’t sound like me.”
That's reason enough to dread therapy tomorrow, I think.
Dawn
I greeted people as they entered the conference room, then selected two slices of pizza. Shaking my head over the grease content, I found a napkin and viewed the title slide of someone’s PowerPoint presentation.
“I wanted everyone to introduce themselves to Dawn.” Boss said from his seat at my right. “She should be here soon, then we’ll get started.”
She entered the room and smiled as we all dutifully offered our names and areas of specialization. She sat at the end of the table near the door and I turned my back to her as I viewed the screen on which the presentation would be projected. I tried mightily to focus my attention, but had only moments of success.
In truth, I’ve spent some time lately thinking about Winnie. How she’ll fit in my book, how so much potential was lost, how I can’t really be angry at her for leaving so I’ll instead focus that disappointment on the one who did decide to go. I wondered how her family did this Christmas. If their loss occupied all of their thoughts or if they found ways to enjoy old traditions while incorporating new ones. I prayed they were well.
When the lights came on and the projector was turned off, I turned to face the center of the table. When we were all dismissed and rose to leave, I took a breath and went to say hello to Dawn. She is – in many ways – the opposite of Winnie. Smaller – in stature and in spirit. She’s quiet and polite, her smile is more refined than joyful. I couldn’t picture her admiring my pretty shoes, sharing her struggles to make me feel less alone or coming to distract me before I had a talk. Winnie left an empty space. Dawn won’t fill it. She will, however, make room for herself, which is exactly as it should be.
“Have you moved in yet?” I asked her. She’ll be using a desk diagonal from my own in the large-ish room I use.
“Only some.” She responded. “I brought in a clock, but the rest of my stuff is at home.” I smiled and shared stories of the multiple times I’ve moved since my arrival at my current institution and told her to let me know if she needed anything. I went back to the office to see her clock – it was shaped like a pink flower as it hung prettily on the far wall. I looked around at my items – the teddy bear holding a felt flower, my magnet toy, the violet, my calendar of North American landscapes, my photos of family and friends. I liked her clock, I decided, and told her so.
We talked about her project as she sat at her desk. I moved some journals out of a file drawer for her. They weren’t mine so I put them in the library. When she asked about being a woman in an all-male department, I paused to consider her seriously. I offered an honest opinion on the subject and wondered if she’d disagree when she’d been here for some time. I listened to her teaching philosophies and her reasons for returning to research. I laughed and admitted I have no idea when she asked what I’d be doing when I left here. I showed her where the office supplies were kept and asked if she needed post-its, pens, pencils, paper, paper clips, or any other item beginning with a p and belonging on a desk.
I sent an email to Maria – she’ll be using the desk directly behind mine. My little office is filling with people. I think that can only be good. I sent a summary of Project H to the penguin. I looked at an article from GradStudent (already in my office) and pondered a statistic with which I’m unfamiliar. I did some reading and looking and we talked about what we thought these people were trying to measure.
Driving home, I listened to more thoughts on prayer. Thought of standing next to my dad and helping him breathe. Decided that being in the moment – accepting when there was humor or joy or breathtaking pain – was a good strategy for now. At the very least, today was better than yesterday. And that’s something.
He had been on a ventilator since his procedure performed late Monday night and lasting into Tuesday morning. He had since opened his eyes and watched us as we spoke to him. Would squeeze our hands tightly as he cried upon seeing us after we’d been gone a short time. He hated being attached to machines though and would often seek attention to motion at the tube down his throat. He’d make a face and gesture that he wanted it out. We’d tell him we knew – that we were asking people – that we’d have them remove it as soon as possible.
I entered the room one morning after spending the night at home – I curled around our german shepherd and accepted the comfort of her dense coat and sympathetic personality. I woke on the living room floor, the same spot as I’d knelt then laid flat in order to cry. I showered and changed clothes, then went back to the hospital to the tiny room with a single glass wall opposite the one containing a window. Mom was slumped over in a chair, sleeping fitfully, so I quietly moved toward the bed.
Dad’s eyes opened to regard me and he reached for my hand. I wrapped all 10 of my fingers around his palm, blinking back tears as I squeezed.
“Hi, Daddy.” I said softly. “Did you sleep?”
He shrugged in response. Motioned to the bustle taking place on the other side of his glass wall. I turned to look at the nurses and patients and doctors as morning rounds would soon begin.
“Are you feeling any better this morning?” I asked. He shook his head just a little and motioned to his mouth. “I know you don’t like the tube.” I said gently. “I think they’re going to take it out today. I’ll ask when we see the doctor.” He nodded and closed his eyes, opening them only to cough. I kept one of my hands on his and brushed away tears with another.
“Just breathe.” I said. “That’s all you have to do right now. Pull air in, then push it out. Don’t fight the machine – just let it help you breathe.” I waited until he closed his eyes then let my own drift shut. I matched the rhythm of my breathing to his and just focused on the soft sounds as our lungs took in oxygen.
In utter helplessness, we spent time with God. Not praying with words – at least I didn’t – but standing in His presence as I felt Him match his breathing to ours as we stood in a CICU room on a sunny morning in late August. In those minutes, I wasn’t worried about when the tube would come out, though I hoped it would be soon. I didn’t think about where I should be at school. I had no worry for Brother as he slept in a waiting room full of strangers down the hall. I didn’t wonder when the nurses would be in to check on us. All we had to do was breathe. The rest would figure itself out and when the time came to act, I would somehow know what to do.
I was reminded of those moments as I listened to Prayer on my commute to and from work today. God’s mercy flows from the highest point to the lowest. Sometimes our strength separates us from His power and when we are the most needy is often when we can access the most help. It’s not a how-to manual on prayer, but rather a set of explanations on how prayer is considered so important in people’s lives, yet is often such an unsatisfying activity. I like it – I needed to hear it. I think I need to focus on the given moment more and the overall goal a bit less. In these days – when I’m inexplicably struggling pretty damn hard – I just need to breathe. And focus on the little moments that make up a day.
Before Work
I had a few errands to run this morning. My garbage service irritated me before Christmas, so I let them know – quiet haughtily, actually – that I no longer wished to work with them. The dump isn’t far from my home, so I would take care of my trash on my own. It’s rather inconvenient though. Smelly. I put it off until I really must remove my garbage, so I am – as Friend pointed out – punishing myself far more than I am my former garbage people.
“Is there a place for aluminum cans?” I asked the man who supervises when I arrived this morning. He always sits on a stool behind the middle of the green dumpsters. The far left one is for cardboard, then there are two for standard garbage. I had two small bags of garbage, a tiny bag of cardboard, then another bag of diet soda cans. I had properly placed all but the aluminum.
“Are they empty?” He asked, and when I nodded, he tapped a plastic bin in front of him. “Right here.” He advised and I reached for the bag in my trunk, emptying it where directed, then smiled and offered my thanks.
He just stays there – dawn to dusk. Five days a week. Watching people drive in and leave what they no longer want. Enforces the organizational structure. Answers questions when needed. But mostly he sits peacefully and watches. Smiling when smiled at, observing quietly otherwise. I sometimes have seen him get up to push a button that compacts the trash, making room for others to leave their items. Other times he’ll poke with a stick to settle the bags more securely.
After stopping to get gas, I proceeded to work. The bus driver saw me moving across the parking lot rather quickly in my brown flats with their pretty bows. She pulled around the corner and just as I sighed, thinking I’d have to wait until the next one came around, she opened the door and paused as I walked faster to meet her.
“Thank you.” I said breathlessly as I boarded the empty vehicle, took a seat in the front row and crossed my legs. We picked up two more passengers, making three other stops where nobody got on or off. She smiled and said “you’re welcome” when I expressed my gratitude again before departing at my destination.
Life is monotonous, I decided. Poke at then compact the garbage. Drive the same route in the same campus to take people from their cars to their offices. Re-do experiments and re-write papers. Just because it’s superficially boring or seems pointless, I decided, doesn’t mean it’s not valuable in the larger scheme. If you do a job where you can think your thoughts and provide for your family, that’s profoundly important. In recognizing that for others, perhaps there’s hope in seeing it in myself.
Friend
“If you don’t have anything to talk about in therapy,” I wrote after I arrived at my desk this morning, “ask about the names of the chairs.”
“I didn’t have to ask.” She reported an hour later. I eagerly await her description of the event and hope it arrives soon.
“You’re not supposed to cry in yellow.” I told her after she gave me meager details. “If you view my diagram, I think you’ll see that crying should be done in Dark Blue. I spent most of my time in Dark Blue. Yellow just felt…foreign. What God wants me to be – this blissful creature in tune and at peace with everything around her? Doesn’t sound like me.”
That's reason enough to dread therapy tomorrow, I think.
Dawn
I greeted people as they entered the conference room, then selected two slices of pizza. Shaking my head over the grease content, I found a napkin and viewed the title slide of someone’s PowerPoint presentation.
“I wanted everyone to introduce themselves to Dawn.” Boss said from his seat at my right. “She should be here soon, then we’ll get started.”
She entered the room and smiled as we all dutifully offered our names and areas of specialization. She sat at the end of the table near the door and I turned my back to her as I viewed the screen on which the presentation would be projected. I tried mightily to focus my attention, but had only moments of success.
In truth, I’ve spent some time lately thinking about Winnie. How she’ll fit in my book, how so much potential was lost, how I can’t really be angry at her for leaving so I’ll instead focus that disappointment on the one who did decide to go. I wondered how her family did this Christmas. If their loss occupied all of their thoughts or if they found ways to enjoy old traditions while incorporating new ones. I prayed they were well.
When the lights came on and the projector was turned off, I turned to face the center of the table. When we were all dismissed and rose to leave, I took a breath and went to say hello to Dawn. She is – in many ways – the opposite of Winnie. Smaller – in stature and in spirit. She’s quiet and polite, her smile is more refined than joyful. I couldn’t picture her admiring my pretty shoes, sharing her struggles to make me feel less alone or coming to distract me before I had a talk. Winnie left an empty space. Dawn won’t fill it. She will, however, make room for herself, which is exactly as it should be.
“Have you moved in yet?” I asked her. She’ll be using a desk diagonal from my own in the large-ish room I use.
“Only some.” She responded. “I brought in a clock, but the rest of my stuff is at home.” I smiled and shared stories of the multiple times I’ve moved since my arrival at my current institution and told her to let me know if she needed anything. I went back to the office to see her clock – it was shaped like a pink flower as it hung prettily on the far wall. I looked around at my items – the teddy bear holding a felt flower, my magnet toy, the violet, my calendar of North American landscapes, my photos of family and friends. I liked her clock, I decided, and told her so.
We talked about her project as she sat at her desk. I moved some journals out of a file drawer for her. They weren’t mine so I put them in the library. When she asked about being a woman in an all-male department, I paused to consider her seriously. I offered an honest opinion on the subject and wondered if she’d disagree when she’d been here for some time. I listened to her teaching philosophies and her reasons for returning to research. I laughed and admitted I have no idea when she asked what I’d be doing when I left here. I showed her where the office supplies were kept and asked if she needed post-its, pens, pencils, paper, paper clips, or any other item beginning with a p and belonging on a desk.
I sent an email to Maria – she’ll be using the desk directly behind mine. My little office is filling with people. I think that can only be good. I sent a summary of Project H to the penguin. I looked at an article from GradStudent (already in my office) and pondered a statistic with which I’m unfamiliar. I did some reading and looking and we talked about what we thought these people were trying to measure.
Driving home, I listened to more thoughts on prayer. Thought of standing next to my dad and helping him breathe. Decided that being in the moment – accepting when there was humor or joy or breathtaking pain – was a good strategy for now. At the very least, today was better than yesterday. And that’s something.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Untitled Thoughts
It’s scarier to slide downward than it is to climb up, I decided as I slipped once again on some loose dirt that covered the unstable rocks that littered the path to the bottom of the waterfall.“Are you sure we shouldn’t turn around?” I asked, gripping the rail along one side and stopping to try to control the shakiness in my legs.
“We made it this far.” Friend noted easily, not struggling nearly as much as I was. “We’re going to the bottom of the falls.”
“Fine.” I muttered, gasping as I felt myself slip once again. “Freaking gravity.”
In truth, I had dreaded the journey back up. Wondered if whatever was located at the bottom of the impressive waterfall was worth the panting climb that would follow seeing it.
I did, in fact, pant and request moments of rest on our climb back up. It had been cold at the bottom, more crowded with people than I expected as we sat on the rocks and felt the water mist over us. But I felt more stable on the return journey. My legs were strong enough to carry me, though I did get quite tired. I could lean forward to retain balance rather than being terrified that I was going to lose my footing and tumble down the hill until I dashed my head on the rocks and died in an undignified heap. And though I’d insisted that Friend go find help if I did fall to hurt myself, I really would rather avoid the pulled muscles and broken bones that might accompany such an event.
The point? I feel myself slipping rather effortlessly into a mild depression. And though there is a steep slope to a hole I very much want to avoid, the gentle dip into quiet isolation isn’t nearly so scary. It’s cold outside – honest to goodness cold – and I find myself badly wanting to snuggle into bed, rising only to check my email and find starchy foods to consume.I didn’t think it was that bad though. So I’m staying home today. Not such a big deal. I filled out some simple paperwork. So that’s something at least. If I haven’t opened any of my grant documents, that’s understandable. Nothing overly worrisome.
Chienne was whining insistently this morning, eager for her morning walk. I resisted – kept telling her we’d go later – until 9:00 arrived and I realized I wasn’t ever going to want to go. I should just do it. Once I start, I tend to get lost in my thoughts and enjoy the time outside. So I threw on a sweatshirt, grabbed a Kleenex and plastic bag and headed out the front door with a happy puppy on her leash.
“Goodness.” I gasped as the wind off the lake chilled me immediately. “It’s actually cold.”
I let Chienne choose the route, and she pulled me directly into the wind. I winced and shivered and tried to convince myself I’d warm up as we moved around. It didn’t work. I found myself turning around after 5 minutes and calling her to follow. She looked up from a mailbox and trotted back to me, big brown eyes confused.
“You’re a good girl.” I told her. “It’s just too cold. I just don’t want to be out here. We should rest instead. Let’s go home.” She trotted obediently at my side, looking up at me again and again as we headed toward home. Instead of crossing the street, she tugged me to the left, selecting an alternate route I might prefer. I sighed and looked longingly at the house. Glanced over to see my dog gazing equally longingly down a side street. So I followed her for another 30 minutes. I warmed up. It wasn’t bad at all. But I still felt strange – that feeling in my stomach saying that I’m unhappy. I needed to nap – to avoid people and work and thought in general.
Given that I didn’t make it to work or to my tutoring session, I think I can safely say I’m having a problem this week. I read somewhere recently that someone thought birthdays were easy for happy people. If you were satisfied with your life, it wasn’t bothersome at all to watch the years pass. If, however, there were many points of unhappiness, age is a cause for concern. Days passed uselessly. Friends drifted away. And finding myself isolated to some degree and without much motivation to resolve that issue, I’m beginning to acknowledge that Thursday is causing me some problems.
At 14, I sat in a biology classroom. The front row was directly in front of a reptile tank – a clear glass aquarium that contained rocks, greenery and this gross lizard-like creature. There were actually snakes and reptiles all over the large classroom on the first floor of my high school. So as we learned basics of the scientific method and read aloud from a textbook, these creepy organisms would scuttle and slither in their cages. I hated them.
One day, Mr. Biology – a 22-year old specimen of cocky male energy – decided to feed one of his pets. I was paying attention to something on my desk – perhaps a quiz of some sort – and glanced up to find him dropping a tiny cricket into the tank. I found myself overwhelmed with sadness and fear for the tiny bug when faced with this gross predator. But the lizard was stupid – he was slow and dumb and could not catch the quickly-moving cricket as he hopped smartly around the cage. Mr. Biology, watching his pet with a frown, reached in, captured the cricket again and broke its leg. Replacing it in the tank, the lizard walked over to the doomed insect and observed it for a moment, likely confused in his minute lizard brain. He finally ate it and Mr. Biology looked at me with some concern as I felt my face convey the severity of my pain and rage at this event. I found that I hated him too.
In two days, I will turn 28. This doesn’t concern me too much in and of itself. Still young enough, I tell myself. I have plenty of time to fall in love and have a child, though there is some despair that I won’t be granted the opportunity, regardless of how much time is allowed. I will determine my professional future to the best of my ability, though right now work is rather sucky. I have time to turn things around. I’m OK.
Yet this morning, I entered the hall to find Sprout playing with a cricket. I watched for a moment, unmoved, and reached for my toothbrush. Then I sighed – inconvenienced – and glanced down at the cat. The cricket – leg broken – was dragging itself along the hall and trying to escape the cat. I shooed Sprout away then went to get my flip flop so I could kill the bug and stop its misery. Sprout looked annoyed that his toy had become motionless and I grabbed a tissue and picked up the tiny body. There was no pain. No rage. Just the resignation that this is how life is. If you’re a tiny cricket, it’s highly likely that someone is going to break your leg and eat you. You’re just too near the bottom of the food chain, little buddy.
“As I get older,” Pastor said as we had coffee, “there are just more shades of gray. I used to have all these ideals and certainties. Then there’s cancer and my children grew up and I had to watch them make mistakes and get hurt. The world has become such a scary place. Our reputation as a county is not good. I find that I’m not optimistic. I have hope – a good deal of hope – but when faced with reality, it sometimes feels foolish to expect that everything will be OK as we would define ‘OK.’”
I think that’s true. When faced with reality, there has to be some acceptance of the likely outcome. Fall in love? How nice for you. Be prepared to get hurt though – it’s simply more probable than finding lasting happiness. Get a new job? Congratulations!...But there will likely come a point where you’re overworked, underpaid, feeling inadequate and wondering if you took the wrong professional road. Make a friend? Delightful. Perhaps you could start counting the days until she moves away. They all do, you know. At least in my experience. Men fail to show interest at some point. The job that seems right – the degree that seemed so important – lead to more confusion. Friends – beautiful, wonderful women – all move away. Flung to the far reaches of this country, only available by phone or email when I need someone to be here. (And if you'd like to bring up Friend - who showed up at a time I very much needed her, she's on her way out too. I know it.)
The problem is that recent experience indicates that each new year of age brings more of the same. I will celebrate my 28th birthday very similarly to how I spent my 14th. My parents will take me for dinner and offer gifts, albeit a day late since they’re driving down on Thursday night. I’ll write posts when I'm a year older that are derivative of something you’ve read from me before. I’ll get more gray hair. Watch a lot of TV. Read some books – perhaps finish mine and tuck it away somewhere – a reminder of how stupid I was and how what went wrong was never meant to go right. I'll be alone. Always alone. 14, 28, 42.
Cousin got me a Christmas gift. I think I failed to mention that. We all agreed to just buy for the children. I, of course, don’t have children (you may feel free to weep for me at any time.) so I just get to enjoy the little ones as they open their gifts on Christmas. So on Christmas Eve, she arrived with a basket from her cat and dog for my dog and cat.
“Since you always get ripped off at holidays now.” She explained. “I thought I’d get something for your little ones. Mom said I shouldn’t give it to you on Christmas, so I brought it tonight.”
I was touched – it was very sweet and I adore her for thinking of me. But as I sit with a kitten on my shoulder, purring happily, and a dog sleeping peacefully on my other side, I wonder if this is it. When hope starts to feel foolish, when I’m trying to write one of what could be countless grant applications, when my Christmas gifts consist of rattles and jingle balls for my pets rather than my children…
Well, the slip into flat depression is easier than it should be.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Coffee & Wine
“Thank you.” I sniffled, reaching for the napkin she removed from under her cup of coffee.
“That was under my drink.” She apologized. “I can go get you a clean one.” I regained my composure, wiped away a stray tear from each eye and shook my head. Aimed a smile at my new pastor – a woman I like and respect a tremendous amount.
“The plan,” I told her, “was not to reveal how very messed up I am right now. I just wanted to find out about Bible studies and Sunday School classes.” I smiled sheepishly and ducked my head, knowing I should probably feel embarrassed but instead basking in a strange sort of comfort.
The tears didn’t come from revealing the beginning of the end, though my defense debacle came spilling out with great detail and remembered misery. She had told me a story of her son and his own graduate studies and when presented with a secret, I immediately reciprocate. I love getting to know people and will do all I can to create a comfortable yet intimate environment. So tell me something that not everyone knows and I’m wide open.
Which led, in this instance, to a two hour conversation in a Starbucks with soaring wooden ceilings with exposed beams, soothing dark colors and the aroma of coffee. Coffee – for me – will forever be associated with early mornings of childhood. Hearing my parents conversing softly in the living room as I rested at the other end of the hall, knowing it would soon be time to get up and brush my teeth, but not quite yet. For now, I could drift between dreams and the coming day, feeling warm and loved and safe. Coffee still soothes me and Starbucks provided an environment that was strangely right for both introductions and personal stories.
The tears weren’t brought about by stories of a friend lost – to a car accident or to some strange set of circumstances tinged by an emotional undercurrent so intense I find myself writing a novel to try to explain it to myself. I instead wept over the lizard. Told her of my former pastor and the peaches he wanted so desperately after mere hours of fasting. How he advised that that energy – that need – should be focused on God. Just for a little while. Just to see how it felt, evaluate our secular desires, allow a bit of time to cleanse our souls.
“I knew I was supposed to hear it.” I confessed to Pastor last Thursday morning. “That God was warning me – trying to guide me in the right direction. I knew, I considered it very carefully, then I ignored it. Made a conscious decision to disobey. And that’s not like me – it really isn’t. I generally do what I’m told.” I shook my head, shame washing over me, tinged with regret.
“I… I didn’t think I’d find anyone to love – to keep as my very own. I still don’t. And this man in particular… I just loved him so much. Had this incredible certainty that I could love him regardless of what I discovered as we grew closer. And I needed to be loved – so desperately wanted someone to see me, hear my secrets, understand my fears – and love me anyway. And I know God can do that, but I wanted a partner! I wanted him.” I gestured to the room around us – people I could see and touch and hear. “Not Him.” With a wave of my hand upward, I blinked back tears – the guilt so overwhelming that I couldn’t continue.
After I wiped my eyes, she regarded me kindly. Allowed a few tears of her own. We’d talked for a long time already – family dynamics, how it feels to be a professional female in a work environment dominated by men, cancer and sickness, war and death, the difference between hope and optimism, how one relates to this higher power in which I believe.
“Can you forgive yourself?”
I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. I haven’t so far.”
“You know,” she said softly, reaching to touch my hand, “that this… willful defiance bothers you more than it bothers God.” After a pause when I didn’t reply, she continued.
“You know Luke 15.” She said. “Let’s talk about the prodigal son for a minute. He did a bad thing – squandered all his father had given him, lived badly, made poor decisions. And yet when he came home – before he had a chance to apologize or repent to his father – he was welcomed joyfully. When he tries to ask for what he deserves rather than to reclaim his place in the family, his father brushes that aside. He doesn’t need to hear it. The important part – the only part that really matters – is that you came home. You needed to return and you found your way back. God is joyful in that. He delights in your return.”
So I cried again, smoothing the crumpled napkin so I could dab at my eyes once more.
“I turned away.” I whispered. “I wanted to be loved so badly. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So I didn’t trust… couldn’t be grateful and patient in the present moment… I think I deserved all those bad things.” I told her softly.
She stopped to think. I’ve rarely come across someone who listened that well – whose focus on my words was so complete that she truly needed a moment to gather her thoughts to reply. Though I’ve been trained in counseling basics – know that listening is the critical part – I’m rarely good at it.
“Some would disagree with me.” She warned. “But I think there’s Biblical support for shaking your fist at God. Especially in the Psalms. There are problems in life that I think should enrage us. When we rail against something cruel or unfair. Children get cancer or are abused – thinking about that makes me so angry. So confused at what God could be thinking! I think it’s OK to be angry and disappointed that God allowed bad things to happen to you.”
“It’s not that the world is bad.” I thought out loud. “It’s that people I trusted – people I thought I knew and loved – disappointed me. I didn’t matter enough. Wasn't smart or talented enough. Not loving or interesting or pretty or compelling enough.”
“You’re still hurt.” She recognized. “That’s OK. You will heal.” I nodded in agreement – it’s started, but try as I might to rush the process, it just takes time. I’m working through it.
“I think,” she continued carefully, “that – for me – it’s better to be open and angry with God than it is to withdraw.”
“That’s what I do. With everyone, actually. When I’m hurt, I retreat into this safe little shell and just lash out occasionally. Make noise so people know I’m still there – still in pain – but refuse to let much touch me.”
She offered more advice – we spent more time talking. She encouraged me to attend a Sunday School class, thought about people to include if she started a Bible study. She told stories and I offered comfort. Then we’d switch.
“What’s your book about?” She asked once, leaning forward with a smile.
And I stammered. Finally blushed and shook my head.
“That’s OK.” She said.
“It’s silly.” I offered. “I just want to understand myself a little more. How I ended up here – why I made certain decisions, the driving force behind my choices, how I can avoid the same mistakes again. So by fictionalizing it, I might be able to be more objective. Divorce myself from the personal pain and hope and see it for what it was. To see me for who I was.”
“I don’t think you’re messed up at all.” She said before we left. “I’m glad you shared all this with me – let me know you. I see health as honestly acknowledging where you are, seeing where you hope to be, and taking steps to get there. The medication, the therapy, coming to talk to me – I think it’s all progress. You should feel good about that.”
I thought about it as I headed to work. I keep seeking help – reaching out tentatively and hoping someone yanks me toward where I need to go – but then I retreat again. Huddle into isolated safety so I can berate myself for bad decisions, look around fearfully for someone who seems safe and wonderful but who will eventually hurt me, pull away from God because I don’t deserve Him.
“God isn’t angry at me.” I said experimentally as I waited at a red light. “He’s happy I came home.” Then I paused to see how it felt. Frowned. “It seems like He’d be irritated at the very least.” I decided.
Then the thought appeared that I found a wonderful church – one that offered immediate comfort, a loving welcome and gentle lessons. I just spent hours with a woman who was smart and strong, who would include me in her prayers, who guided me toward a loving God who offered joy at my presence. Would someone angry have offered Pastor to me?
In light of the fact that I decided He would not, it seems I would have been eager to attend services yesterday. I wasn’t. I’m not sure why – there’s still this urge to clutch at what went wrong rather than to make confident strides toward what might go right in the future. I really want to keep writing this book – I have ideas on why, but I’m not positive. I doubt it will be something I have tremendous pride in when it’s finished. I’m hesitant to allow new people in my life – the chances that they’ll someday hurt me after gaining my trust and affection is terrifying. The thought that our time here is finite – the chances we are awarded are limited – leaves me paralyzed sometimes. I'd often rather do nothing than make another mistake.
Services yesterday centered around the first miracle Jesus performed. Children’s time was on the outward focus of the Lord. “He didn’t turn paper to gold to make himself rich. So he could buy all the things he wanted in the world. Instead he turned water to wine. Healed the sick. Forgave the sinners. We should try to help others – to love others – instead of thinking about what we want all the time.”
I’ve read John 2 again this morning. I’m a bit confused. Jesus seems reluctant to help – it’s not time, it’s not His problem. But He helps anyway – provides the best of wines when it seems there’s nothing at all left.
“Is your soul empty?” Pastor asked the congregation. “Do you feel as if there is nothing for you to drink, let alone offer to others? Trust that God will take what you have – as meager as it might be – and make something amazing. Not just for you, but for the world. The best is yet to come. The most coveted of wines isn’t offered at the beginning – it’s made at the end so that you can truly behold the glory of God.”
“That was under my drink.” She apologized. “I can go get you a clean one.” I regained my composure, wiped away a stray tear from each eye and shook my head. Aimed a smile at my new pastor – a woman I like and respect a tremendous amount.
“The plan,” I told her, “was not to reveal how very messed up I am right now. I just wanted to find out about Bible studies and Sunday School classes.” I smiled sheepishly and ducked my head, knowing I should probably feel embarrassed but instead basking in a strange sort of comfort.
The tears didn’t come from revealing the beginning of the end, though my defense debacle came spilling out with great detail and remembered misery. She had told me a story of her son and his own graduate studies and when presented with a secret, I immediately reciprocate. I love getting to know people and will do all I can to create a comfortable yet intimate environment. So tell me something that not everyone knows and I’m wide open.
Which led, in this instance, to a two hour conversation in a Starbucks with soaring wooden ceilings with exposed beams, soothing dark colors and the aroma of coffee. Coffee – for me – will forever be associated with early mornings of childhood. Hearing my parents conversing softly in the living room as I rested at the other end of the hall, knowing it would soon be time to get up and brush my teeth, but not quite yet. For now, I could drift between dreams and the coming day, feeling warm and loved and safe. Coffee still soothes me and Starbucks provided an environment that was strangely right for both introductions and personal stories.
The tears weren’t brought about by stories of a friend lost – to a car accident or to some strange set of circumstances tinged by an emotional undercurrent so intense I find myself writing a novel to try to explain it to myself. I instead wept over the lizard. Told her of my former pastor and the peaches he wanted so desperately after mere hours of fasting. How he advised that that energy – that need – should be focused on God. Just for a little while. Just to see how it felt, evaluate our secular desires, allow a bit of time to cleanse our souls.
“I knew I was supposed to hear it.” I confessed to Pastor last Thursday morning. “That God was warning me – trying to guide me in the right direction. I knew, I considered it very carefully, then I ignored it. Made a conscious decision to disobey. And that’s not like me – it really isn’t. I generally do what I’m told.” I shook my head, shame washing over me, tinged with regret.
“I… I didn’t think I’d find anyone to love – to keep as my very own. I still don’t. And this man in particular… I just loved him so much. Had this incredible certainty that I could love him regardless of what I discovered as we grew closer. And I needed to be loved – so desperately wanted someone to see me, hear my secrets, understand my fears – and love me anyway. And I know God can do that, but I wanted a partner! I wanted him.” I gestured to the room around us – people I could see and touch and hear. “Not Him.” With a wave of my hand upward, I blinked back tears – the guilt so overwhelming that I couldn’t continue.
After I wiped my eyes, she regarded me kindly. Allowed a few tears of her own. We’d talked for a long time already – family dynamics, how it feels to be a professional female in a work environment dominated by men, cancer and sickness, war and death, the difference between hope and optimism, how one relates to this higher power in which I believe.
“Can you forgive yourself?”
I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. I haven’t so far.”
“You know,” she said softly, reaching to touch my hand, “that this… willful defiance bothers you more than it bothers God.” After a pause when I didn’t reply, she continued.
“You know Luke 15.” She said. “Let’s talk about the prodigal son for a minute. He did a bad thing – squandered all his father had given him, lived badly, made poor decisions. And yet when he came home – before he had a chance to apologize or repent to his father – he was welcomed joyfully. When he tries to ask for what he deserves rather than to reclaim his place in the family, his father brushes that aside. He doesn’t need to hear it. The important part – the only part that really matters – is that you came home. You needed to return and you found your way back. God is joyful in that. He delights in your return.”
So I cried again, smoothing the crumpled napkin so I could dab at my eyes once more.
“I turned away.” I whispered. “I wanted to be loved so badly. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So I didn’t trust… couldn’t be grateful and patient in the present moment… I think I deserved all those bad things.” I told her softly.
She stopped to think. I’ve rarely come across someone who listened that well – whose focus on my words was so complete that she truly needed a moment to gather her thoughts to reply. Though I’ve been trained in counseling basics – know that listening is the critical part – I’m rarely good at it.
“Some would disagree with me.” She warned. “But I think there’s Biblical support for shaking your fist at God. Especially in the Psalms. There are problems in life that I think should enrage us. When we rail against something cruel or unfair. Children get cancer or are abused – thinking about that makes me so angry. So confused at what God could be thinking! I think it’s OK to be angry and disappointed that God allowed bad things to happen to you.”
“It’s not that the world is bad.” I thought out loud. “It’s that people I trusted – people I thought I knew and loved – disappointed me. I didn’t matter enough. Wasn't smart or talented enough. Not loving or interesting or pretty or compelling enough.”
“You’re still hurt.” She recognized. “That’s OK. You will heal.” I nodded in agreement – it’s started, but try as I might to rush the process, it just takes time. I’m working through it.
“I think,” she continued carefully, “that – for me – it’s better to be open and angry with God than it is to withdraw.”
“That’s what I do. With everyone, actually. When I’m hurt, I retreat into this safe little shell and just lash out occasionally. Make noise so people know I’m still there – still in pain – but refuse to let much touch me.”
She offered more advice – we spent more time talking. She encouraged me to attend a Sunday School class, thought about people to include if she started a Bible study. She told stories and I offered comfort. Then we’d switch.
“What’s your book about?” She asked once, leaning forward with a smile.
And I stammered. Finally blushed and shook my head.
“That’s OK.” She said.
“It’s silly.” I offered. “I just want to understand myself a little more. How I ended up here – why I made certain decisions, the driving force behind my choices, how I can avoid the same mistakes again. So by fictionalizing it, I might be able to be more objective. Divorce myself from the personal pain and hope and see it for what it was. To see me for who I was.”
“I don’t think you’re messed up at all.” She said before we left. “I’m glad you shared all this with me – let me know you. I see health as honestly acknowledging where you are, seeing where you hope to be, and taking steps to get there. The medication, the therapy, coming to talk to me – I think it’s all progress. You should feel good about that.”
I thought about it as I headed to work. I keep seeking help – reaching out tentatively and hoping someone yanks me toward where I need to go – but then I retreat again. Huddle into isolated safety so I can berate myself for bad decisions, look around fearfully for someone who seems safe and wonderful but who will eventually hurt me, pull away from God because I don’t deserve Him.
“God isn’t angry at me.” I said experimentally as I waited at a red light. “He’s happy I came home.” Then I paused to see how it felt. Frowned. “It seems like He’d be irritated at the very least.” I decided.
Then the thought appeared that I found a wonderful church – one that offered immediate comfort, a loving welcome and gentle lessons. I just spent hours with a woman who was smart and strong, who would include me in her prayers, who guided me toward a loving God who offered joy at my presence. Would someone angry have offered Pastor to me?
In light of the fact that I decided He would not, it seems I would have been eager to attend services yesterday. I wasn’t. I’m not sure why – there’s still this urge to clutch at what went wrong rather than to make confident strides toward what might go right in the future. I really want to keep writing this book – I have ideas on why, but I’m not positive. I doubt it will be something I have tremendous pride in when it’s finished. I’m hesitant to allow new people in my life – the chances that they’ll someday hurt me after gaining my trust and affection is terrifying. The thought that our time here is finite – the chances we are awarded are limited – leaves me paralyzed sometimes. I'd often rather do nothing than make another mistake.
Services yesterday centered around the first miracle Jesus performed. Children’s time was on the outward focus of the Lord. “He didn’t turn paper to gold to make himself rich. So he could buy all the things he wanted in the world. Instead he turned water to wine. Healed the sick. Forgave the sinners. We should try to help others – to love others – instead of thinking about what we want all the time.”
I’ve read John 2 again this morning. I’m a bit confused. Jesus seems reluctant to help – it’s not time, it’s not His problem. But He helps anyway – provides the best of wines when it seems there’s nothing at all left.
“Is your soul empty?” Pastor asked the congregation. “Do you feel as if there is nothing for you to drink, let alone offer to others? Trust that God will take what you have – as meager as it might be – and make something amazing. Not just for you, but for the world. The best is yet to come. The most coveted of wines isn’t offered at the beginning – it’s made at the end so that you can truly behold the glory of God.”
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Another mouse?
“Hey, Sprout. What do you have there?” I heard Friend ask down the hall. “Something fun?”
I smiled when she came back, then scowled when I saw she still had the Gatorade ring in her hand. “What did he have?” I questioned briskly. “You didn’t give him the ring?”
“He already had a toy.” She said, smiling. “It was once alive. Might still be alive.” She mused. “It’s behind his door.”
“$100.” I offered. “You go get the mouse.” Then I frowned with great concern when she sat down with her laptop again. “Seriously,” I whined. “I can’t do this!”
“You need to get a magnetic dog door.” She advised for the hundredth time.
I whimpered pitifully as I went to the kitchen, searching for heavy-duty grocery bags and copious amounts of paper towels. Then I grabbed the broom and dustpan, proceeding slowly down the hall toward extreme mental torture.
“Is it in my bathroom?” I asked softly, peering around the door while keeping my body safely in the hall – an entire bedroom between me and the ick.
Friend walked briskly by, a couple of paper towels in hand and snatching the bag from me.
“You’re going to get it?!” I asked, thrilled, then took a couple of steps after her, my tools outstretched. “Do you want my broom and dustpan? Gloves? More paper towels?”
“The hard part,” she said, “will be convincing Sprout to give it to me. Go on, Sprout.” She said firmly.
“I’ll get a spray bottle!” I called, eager for a chance to escape the carnage. I – keeping a safe distance – spritzed the cat several times. He just stared at me – he rather likes water. But he was distracted enough that Friend was able to get the ick.
I turned rapidly when she emerged, loathe to see the remains of the creature. “It’s all the way dead.” She announced and I made a horrified face.
“You touched it when it could have been alive? Wait! I don’t know what to do with it yet! Don’t show it to me!”
I moved quickly toward the garage and the heavy garbage bags. Shaking one open, I pretended she wasn’t laughing at me. “OK,” I instructed. “Put it in the bag, but do NOT touch me with it!” Keeping my face turned away, I waited until a gentle weight settled in the bottom. Then I took it outside to the garbage can.
“You picked it up with just a paper towel?” I asked when I returned inside, incredulous. “I am in awe of your bravery.” I added solemnly as she shook her head at me.
“I was going to just pick it up by the tail, but I thought that would freak you out. It’s just a mouse.”
“$200 if you stay the night and deal with any more ick.” I said as she threatened to go home to deal with her indoor cats and laundry. “But what if he brings something else in?!”
“Magnetic dog door.” She reminded. And I sighed.
“Sprout!” I called as I heard him come in once again and race down the hall to my bedroom. “Sprout!”
“Does he have another one? Already?”
“I don’t know.” I whined. “$20 if you go check.” Seeing she wasn’t eager to do so, I crept down the hall, chased him from the room and – standing on tiptoe – peered in the bathroom.
“Hello? Mouse? Are you in there?” Not receiving an answer, I was inspired. “Chienne! Come here, pretty girl!” She trotted down the hall, tags jingling happily, and looked at me.
“Can you go check the bathroom for ick?” I requested. She responded to my nudge and entered the room, returning after mere seconds.
“Did you find anything?” I asked, hearing Friend laughing down the hall.
I walked to Sprout’s room, saw him on the bed, and closed his door. “No more outside for you.” I proclaimed before returning to the living room to search for dog doors that would prohibit his leaving to hunt. I heard his little body thud against the wooden barrier as he started to speak indignantly against his unfair imprisonment.
“His ick is not only gone,” Friend stated with a sad shake of her head, “but you won’t let him find more?” Then she grinned at his howls of increasing volume.
“No more ick.” I said firmly, stopping to smile myself at his pleas for the freedom found only in the great outdoors.
I found this and will order one tomorrow – there appears to be some problem with the website thus far. Then, feeling sorry for the poor kitten (who is also a killer, apparently), I closed the dog door with its protective plastic covering and released him from his room. He blinked at me sleepily when I opened the door.
“He didn’t even care.” I informed Friend loftily. “He was napping.”
“I think he cares now.” She offered a moment later. I listened more closely to the thudding and talking from the kitchen.
“Is that him at the dog door?” I asked incredulous once again. Friend nodded.
I got up to see him exploring the strange covering with great anger. He meowed at me. “No.” I told him easily, then returned to the loveseat feeling satisfied with my plan. I had kissed Chienne on the head and told her to let me know if she needed out. But the cat is unhappily locked inside from now on.
He's napping on the ottoman as I type, but I'm quite sure he's plotting his next expedition. I only hope I'm smart enough to thwart it.
I smiled when she came back, then scowled when I saw she still had the Gatorade ring in her hand. “What did he have?” I questioned briskly. “You didn’t give him the ring?”
“He already had a toy.” She said, smiling. “It was once alive. Might still be alive.” She mused. “It’s behind his door.”
“$100.” I offered. “You go get the mouse.” Then I frowned with great concern when she sat down with her laptop again. “Seriously,” I whined. “I can’t do this!”
“You need to get a magnetic dog door.” She advised for the hundredth time.
I whimpered pitifully as I went to the kitchen, searching for heavy-duty grocery bags and copious amounts of paper towels. Then I grabbed the broom and dustpan, proceeding slowly down the hall toward extreme mental torture.
“Is it in my bathroom?” I asked softly, peering around the door while keeping my body safely in the hall – an entire bedroom between me and the ick.
Friend walked briskly by, a couple of paper towels in hand and snatching the bag from me.
“You’re going to get it?!” I asked, thrilled, then took a couple of steps after her, my tools outstretched. “Do you want my broom and dustpan? Gloves? More paper towels?”
“The hard part,” she said, “will be convincing Sprout to give it to me. Go on, Sprout.” She said firmly.
“I’ll get a spray bottle!” I called, eager for a chance to escape the carnage. I – keeping a safe distance – spritzed the cat several times. He just stared at me – he rather likes water. But he was distracted enough that Friend was able to get the ick.
I turned rapidly when she emerged, loathe to see the remains of the creature. “It’s all the way dead.” She announced and I made a horrified face.
“You touched it when it could have been alive? Wait! I don’t know what to do with it yet! Don’t show it to me!”
I moved quickly toward the garage and the heavy garbage bags. Shaking one open, I pretended she wasn’t laughing at me. “OK,” I instructed. “Put it in the bag, but do NOT touch me with it!” Keeping my face turned away, I waited until a gentle weight settled in the bottom. Then I took it outside to the garbage can.
“You picked it up with just a paper towel?” I asked when I returned inside, incredulous. “I am in awe of your bravery.” I added solemnly as she shook her head at me.
“I was going to just pick it up by the tail, but I thought that would freak you out. It’s just a mouse.”
“$200 if you stay the night and deal with any more ick.” I said as she threatened to go home to deal with her indoor cats and laundry. “But what if he brings something else in?!”
“Magnetic dog door.” She reminded. And I sighed.
“Sprout!” I called as I heard him come in once again and race down the hall to my bedroom. “Sprout!”
“Does he have another one? Already?”
“I don’t know.” I whined. “$20 if you go check.” Seeing she wasn’t eager to do so, I crept down the hall, chased him from the room and – standing on tiptoe – peered in the bathroom.
“Hello? Mouse? Are you in there?” Not receiving an answer, I was inspired. “Chienne! Come here, pretty girl!” She trotted down the hall, tags jingling happily, and looked at me.
“Can you go check the bathroom for ick?” I requested. She responded to my nudge and entered the room, returning after mere seconds.
“Did you find anything?” I asked, hearing Friend laughing down the hall.
I walked to Sprout’s room, saw him on the bed, and closed his door. “No more outside for you.” I proclaimed before returning to the living room to search for dog doors that would prohibit his leaving to hunt. I heard his little body thud against the wooden barrier as he started to speak indignantly against his unfair imprisonment.
“His ick is not only gone,” Friend stated with a sad shake of her head, “but you won’t let him find more?” Then she grinned at his howls of increasing volume.
“No more ick.” I said firmly, stopping to smile myself at his pleas for the freedom found only in the great outdoors.
I found this and will order one tomorrow – there appears to be some problem with the website thus far. Then, feeling sorry for the poor kitten (who is also a killer, apparently), I closed the dog door with its protective plastic covering and released him from his room. He blinked at me sleepily when I opened the door.
“He didn’t even care.” I informed Friend loftily. “He was napping.”
“I think he cares now.” She offered a moment later. I listened more closely to the thudding and talking from the kitchen.
“Is that him at the dog door?” I asked incredulous once again. Friend nodded.
I got up to see him exploring the strange covering with great anger. He meowed at me. “No.” I told him easily, then returned to the loveseat feeling satisfied with my plan. I had kissed Chienne on the head and told her to let me know if she needed out. But the cat is unhappily locked inside from now on.
He's napping on the ottoman as I type, but I'm quite sure he's plotting his next expedition. I only hope I'm smart enough to thwart it.
Absence explained.
It is not that I’ve been away from my laptop to any great extent this weekend. Though I did spend a good deal of yesterday napping, I also did a good deal of writing. It just happened to go in the folder for my book – chapters that were waiting in my head, mental lists I was making to try to remember a couple of key points for each part of the story, specific phrases or words I felt were somehow important. So I sat down and completed one chapter and started on two others.
Friend arrived and started to marinate steaks before we flitted off to Walmart to buy extra items for dinner. I provided bread (soaked with butter), cheesy potatoes and salad. Oh, and frozen fruit for daiquiris.
There was googling for drink recipes as I baked cheesy potatoes and put together a salad. I preferred the peach variety we made first and consumed three of the five glasses that were contained in the blender. As I grew increasingly drunk, I just started work on more chapters. As the screen filled with sections of the story – I’m writing it all out of order according to where I’m drawn that particular day – I wrote and clicked and searched for old posts, both published and saved as drafts. It’s coming along. I haven’t read much in the order it will eventually go, but the pieces read individually well. And since I don’t have any real plans for the final product, I’m quite content with that.
As I tend to do when I’ve sipped too much alcohol – even when mixed with delicious peaches and simple syrup made with vanilla sugar – I grew very sleepy. Unable to keep my eyes open much past 9:30, I shuffled off to bed to sleep. I woke this morning before dawn to clean the kitchen, moving slowly but happily as I washed and dried dishes and cleared away clutter. After I fed the cat, I shooed the dog from the room. Chienne eats Sprout’s food to which she is allergic and then we have all sorts of problems. A hungry cat, itchy dog and unhappy me.
Then I went back to sleep.
I woke again hoping that it was after 9:30. That way I would have no time to prepare for church and would have to just nap all day. I squinted at the clock that produces my soothing rain sounds and sighed when I saw it was 8:30. That left time to play online, eat yogurt, walk the dog and get ready for church. So I did, scowling over my reluctance. I thought I was doing better!
I can’t really tell you why I’m avoiding the post the describes the conversation between myself and my new pastor. It was too important and special? It covered topics that are sensitive and painful and I’d rather leave it alone? Just busy with other things? I really don’t know. I think I want to write it. I also thought I'd be eager to worship this morning.
I returned home after a service I enjoyed and after a gigantic brunch at Waffle House that continues to leave me feeling very full 5 hours later, I set about working on my histograms. Again. They didn’t behave as I wanted when I first attempted my correction suggested by Boss. So I found the coding error, fixed it, then went through my 30 patients again. It’s not hard – just time consuming. Running code, checking numbers, looking at results. Repeat. Then checking statistics, reordering data, making pretty graphs. I won my battle against sleep today – I closed my eyes for a few minutes but didn’t cuddle into bed. Instead, I got enough work done to send a decent document to my collaborators. As soon as I write it.
I’m largely content with my weekend. I wanted to make some progress on the book – get certain words and scenes out of my head. That was effective. I needed to get through those histograms again as the quick fix I promised was not quite as straightforward as I wanted. Chienne took a bath (she entered the tub voluntarily after giving me a pained sigh and allowed me to blow her dry as she tossed her ears about amidst my giggles), Sprout got his claws clipped (well, half of them. I need to finish, but one was bloody from a hunting escapade and I got grossed out!), and my house is clean and laundry done. I’m rested and ready to go to work tomorrow, I think.
And maybe now that I’m back in my blog-writing mode, I can tell you about my new pastor soon.
Friend arrived and started to marinate steaks before we flitted off to Walmart to buy extra items for dinner. I provided bread (soaked with butter), cheesy potatoes and salad. Oh, and frozen fruit for daiquiris.
There was googling for drink recipes as I baked cheesy potatoes and put together a salad. I preferred the peach variety we made first and consumed three of the five glasses that were contained in the blender. As I grew increasingly drunk, I just started work on more chapters. As the screen filled with sections of the story – I’m writing it all out of order according to where I’m drawn that particular day – I wrote and clicked and searched for old posts, both published and saved as drafts. It’s coming along. I haven’t read much in the order it will eventually go, but the pieces read individually well. And since I don’t have any real plans for the final product, I’m quite content with that.
As I tend to do when I’ve sipped too much alcohol – even when mixed with delicious peaches and simple syrup made with vanilla sugar – I grew very sleepy. Unable to keep my eyes open much past 9:30, I shuffled off to bed to sleep. I woke this morning before dawn to clean the kitchen, moving slowly but happily as I washed and dried dishes and cleared away clutter. After I fed the cat, I shooed the dog from the room. Chienne eats Sprout’s food to which she is allergic and then we have all sorts of problems. A hungry cat, itchy dog and unhappy me.
Then I went back to sleep.
I woke again hoping that it was after 9:30. That way I would have no time to prepare for church and would have to just nap all day. I squinted at the clock that produces my soothing rain sounds and sighed when I saw it was 8:30. That left time to play online, eat yogurt, walk the dog and get ready for church. So I did, scowling over my reluctance. I thought I was doing better!
I can’t really tell you why I’m avoiding the post the describes the conversation between myself and my new pastor. It was too important and special? It covered topics that are sensitive and painful and I’d rather leave it alone? Just busy with other things? I really don’t know. I think I want to write it. I also thought I'd be eager to worship this morning.
I returned home after a service I enjoyed and after a gigantic brunch at Waffle House that continues to leave me feeling very full 5 hours later, I set about working on my histograms. Again. They didn’t behave as I wanted when I first attempted my correction suggested by Boss. So I found the coding error, fixed it, then went through my 30 patients again. It’s not hard – just time consuming. Running code, checking numbers, looking at results. Repeat. Then checking statistics, reordering data, making pretty graphs. I won my battle against sleep today – I closed my eyes for a few minutes but didn’t cuddle into bed. Instead, I got enough work done to send a decent document to my collaborators. As soon as I write it.
I’m largely content with my weekend. I wanted to make some progress on the book – get certain words and scenes out of my head. That was effective. I needed to get through those histograms again as the quick fix I promised was not quite as straightforward as I wanted. Chienne took a bath (she entered the tub voluntarily after giving me a pained sigh and allowed me to blow her dry as she tossed her ears about amidst my giggles), Sprout got his claws clipped (well, half of them. I need to finish, but one was bloody from a hunting escapade and I got grossed out!), and my house is clean and laundry done. I’m rested and ready to go to work tomorrow, I think.
And maybe now that I’m back in my blog-writing mode, I can tell you about my new pastor soon.
Friday, January 12, 2007
That can’t be good.
Week of Work
“Do you realize,” I asked Friend in the same booth we used for our last visit to the same restaurant, waiting to enjoy more caramel pie, “that I will have been in the office every day this week? For the first time since starting this post-doc, I actually made it to campus five days in a row!”
“That’s…actually pretty sad.” She said dryly. I frowned when I considered that she’d had a long and trying day. I decided she deserved some extra help with the explanation.
“I think you’re interpreting this incorrectly.” I said. “I went to work for five days in a row. That’s impressive.”
“But it took you a year an a half to do it.” She said, mimicking my slow, explanatory tone. So I rolled my eyes at her.
“It’s sad that you chose to focus on the negative.” I scolded and she smiled.
“Good for you.” I think she finally offered. “For…going to work.”
“Thank you.” Then I wondered if I’d work from home today and ruin my Week of Work. I didn’t – I made it to work before dawn to attend an early experiment. Then I walked to the bus stop and smiled at the woman waiting.
I don’t know you. Let’s talk!
“Good morning.” I said, making sure my travel cup was open before I sipped my coffee. The woman offered a greeting and we settled into silence.
Then, for no apparent reason but feeling some strange need to do so, I said, “It’s warmer than I expected this morning.”
“There’s a cold front coming in.” She said, friendly and completely willing to talk to me while we waited. “It’s supposed to rain soon, then get really cold. Almost down to the 20s or 30s!”
“Wow.” I said, thinking I’d probably shamefully wear my coat as I did yesterday. I get cold! I don’t know why, but my body has decided it shouldn’t get below freezing and I’ll shiver even in 30 degree weather. Sad.
“I even heard it was supposed to snow on Tuesday.” She confided. “When my son first started driving, it snowed really hard. He was almost in an accident on his way to school, and…” She continued to tell me a story and I listened, making the appropriately sympathetic responses when necessary. Then I followed her up the steps of the bus and she proceeded to one of the back seats while I sat closer to the front.
Don’t worry – I made a new friend at the next stop.
Surprised at my eagerness to indulge in pre-7AM conversation with strangers, I aimed a vague smile at the woman who sat next to me just moments after I boarded the bus.
“There’s terrible weather coming through Oklahoma.” She stated and I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, trying to picture the United States map to decide how close Oklahoma was to my current locale. Not very, I thought. But maybe I’m confused.
“Do you have family there?” I asked, not sure what to say.
“I do, actually! A brother and his 3 kids. But I was worried that we’d start to see some of that terrible weather here.”
“Ah.” I said. “Ice makes driving a challenge.”
“Ice makes driving impossible!” She said, voice rising with her passionate statement. I smiled. For people down here, yes, ice does, in fact, mean they should stay inside their houses. Given that I’ve driven on ice multiple times, I know that you can do it. It’s just a bit difficult in some spots. (MapleMama, by the way, has some excellent tips for winter driving. My own tip? If you live in the south? Stay Home. Abandon all hope, snuggle in for a nap, and hope you’ve stocked up on necessities beforehand as the store shelves will be largely bare in the pre-winter-weather panic.)
I nodded, not eager to insult my neighbors, but agreeing with her assessment of the region’s driving skill. “It’s good to just stay home.” I offered, thinking that would be a safe statement.
“My husband’s father has Alzheimer’s.” She said. And I offered a sympathetic sound before she continued. “He and his sister check on him every day so they’ll have to get out of the house.” I nodded in understanding but remained quiet. “I told my husband that we should stay at his dad’s house though. He has gas heat and ours is electric. If we lose power – and you know we will – then at least we’d be warm over there! So I asked if his dad had food and he said, ‘of course he has food.’ Like it was a stupid question! So I reminded him that if power went out, the microwave wouldn’t work and the refrigerator wouldn’t stay cold either! Though if it’s that cold outside – they’re saying it could get down to the teens! The teens!! – we could just put the food out the back door to keep it cold.”
“Excellent point.” I said, amused and fascinated by her planning.
“I don’t know how people live up north.” She said with a shake of her head at their clear stupidity. “Like…[Upper Midwest state]? That’s just crazy!”
“I went to grad school there!” I said, smiling with fond memories of walking the mile to class in subzero temperatures with strong winds. “You get used to it.” I told her as she looked at me with a mixture of shock and horror. “Plus, you go numb almost immediately when it’s that cold, so it doesn’t hurt until you start to thaw.”
“It snowed every third day for a whole month when I was in college.” She said. “And it wouldn’t melt! There was this snowball that hung around in front of the union for that whole month! It didn’t melt! We didn’t ever leave campus at all – you just couldn’t drive in it!”
“You went to school down here?” I asked, smiling as I remembered wading through waist-high banks of snow that had been present for months, only vaguely remembering how the city looked without a coating of dingy, packed down ick. We lived – walked our dogs, went to work, shopped as normal (no stockpiling!) and just acclimated to our environments. I miss it, I sighed, then wondered how true that statement actually was.
“My car won’t get warm enough when it’s cold.” My new friend complained. “Everything feels dirty from all the salt and sludge. It hurts to go outside. You could fall down if there’s ice!” With that, I remembered lying on my back outside my lab one winter day. In the second before I scrambled to my feet – hoping nobody had seen my spectacular flop – I thought, “This is freaking ridiculous.” I had fallen on my hands and knees that morning – there was ice on the sidewalk between 2 huge banks of snow as I walked Chienne. She got excited and pulled me down. I fell forward and thought about how much falling down hurts. Then I landed on my back later that day, every muscle screaming with indignation, and wondered why in the world we’d live in a place that created this kind of inconvenience.
There are problems with winter. I still find myself missing the Midwest – and the people who populate it – quite a lot. Though these Southern folks can delight me as well.
Wow. You’re worse than I am.
I did my experiment, then went to check some files for Project A. I’d worked there yesterday afternoon, then received a follow up question that required my return. As I was walking back to my office, I saw the man I’d met yesterday as he moved slowly down the hall. Jeremy? I wondered, wishing I’d paid closer attention during the introductions. He was visiting from somewhere? Or starting to work here?
“Good morning.” I smiled at him.
“Hello.” He stated softly in return. “I really enjoyed working with you yesterday.” He stopped and rested against the wall so I did the same, taking a position across the hall.
“Likewise.” I said. “How are things going so far?” I was hoping he’d jog my memory as to his purpose in being here, but he instead described the injury that was so inhibiting his motion.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said, filled with sympathy. “I hope you feel better soon.”
He thanked me, then asked about my status here. Direct, I thought. I like direct. “You’re doing your PhD?” He asked gently and I wondered at his manner. Men of his age – likely somewhere in their 40s – tend to be a bit more aggressive and brisk in my experience. He must not be an MD, I decided, then chastised myself for generalizing personality types.
“I have my PhD from [school].” I said, smiling easily.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I apologize.” He said, instantly looking very contrite.
“No problem.” I smiled gently, confused by his response. I'm not important, and even if I were, I'm generally harmless. “I don’t mind at all – I don’t feel much different having it than I did getting it.”
“In what field?” He asked, and I told him.
“Oh,” he said, looking appropriately impressed and pausing for a moment. He just seemed so deferential. So soft-spoken and appreciative of my attention and sweet. He reminded me of me. I wanted to help him down the hall and take care of him – such a dear man. “I should have a question for you about that. I just can’t think of it…”
I found myself wishing I had a card with me. So if he ever needed help, I could rush to offer my assistance. Apparently the routine I use on others is very effective on me as well.
Um…what am I supposed to do?
“Oh, Katie is in her office.” I heard Boss say as he came down the hall. I clicked over to the grant from the MSN article on the Wonders of the World (which reminded me of my Kyoto pictures and hence the new graphics!). Boss must not have realized it was the Week of Work. And, to be fair, I’m not always at my desk even when I am on campus. I run around as much as possible, though I do like my new little home.
“This is Maria.” He introduced the girl standing behind him. She smiled and I returned her grin – she seemed friendly and sweet. I assumed she was a visiting scientist who would give me some technical details I didn’t care to learn. Or an interviewing post-doc who would speak briefly to me. When she didn’t offer this information, I moved my inquisitive stare to Boss.
“Maria is in the [related basic science field] department. She’s taken classes with A and B and done some programming on x and y. She’s looking for a research project for her PhD and I thought she might want to work with you since you’re going to be collecting data soon.”
“Oh.” I said, surprised and confused. “Of course.”
“So she can sit and talk to you and you can decide what to do next!” I smiled and nodded at him, pulling a chair over to my desk and trying to think on my feet as to what the hell I should do with a student. There was a time I was an excellent mentor – I had projects just waiting for someone to come along and help. But now? I’ve only met 2 grad students in my time here! I don’t know what to do with them!
Luckily, she went back to Boss’s office to get her bag and I had time to pull up a presentation I’d made, print out some summaries of this project and think for a minute.
“So…” I started when she sat and introduced herself again. “Give me some background. How long you’ve been here, what your interests are, how I can help you out.”
4 years. She’s not sure. She’s not sure there either. Basic science fields offer teaching assistantships much more than the technical biomedical research fields where funding is plentiful enough to support students who focus on research. Which is how I escaped having to teach at all so far in my career.
“OK.” I said, handing her some papers I printed with my business card stapled on top. “How about I tell you what I want to do and you can let me know if there’s anything interesting?” Then I went into a lengthy explanation on my work – the processing that will have to be done, the data we’ll acquire the ways we’ll analyze overall. She nodded along, likely overwhelmed with all the information. But I’m out of practice! I don’t know what to say!
“Look,” I finally said. “I haven’t worked with anyone in awhile, so I’m sorry – I’m not sure what to offer right now. I’d love to work with you – there’s plenty to do. And if you’re sort of interested so far…” I waited for her to nod. “then we’ll find a place for you to work. I’ll go through my papers and see what’s interesting. Then I'll send you some pdfs and keep you in the loop as we start collecting data.”
“Maybe offer some basic papers too.” She requested. I smiled – I’ve grown used to knowing the least amount of all the people in a room. It’s strange to be more knowledgeable than someone – anyone. But I think it will be good for me – to connect with someone, answer questions, be responsible to anyone other than myself.
Shudder, gag, wince.
I was quietly getting ready this morning when Sprout appeared in the door of the bathroom.
“Sprout, no!” I stated loudly when I turned to greet him and was instantly horrified. “Oh, what the hell was that?!” I said when he picked up the ball of fur and ran away. “Ick. Ick ick ick ick ick.”
I should note that Sprout has started to venture outside. After watching Chienne exercise her freedom by using her dog door, he realized that with a bit of oomph, he could nudge it open as well. He prances in and out with great regularity now.
“You should lock the dog door at night.” Mom advised. “He’s going to bring in some dead animal – or half-live animal – and give it to you.”
“No.” I said. “I don’t think he leaves the yard and there can’t be many animals in the yard!” This is not true, I know, but it makes me feel better. And it hasn’t been a problem thus far. No ick.
Until today.
I blocked the thought of the fur that was once an animal. But I was reminded when I entered my bedroom after finishing with my new blog graphics. I walked toward the bathroom when I saw something on the floor. I wasn’t sure what it was, so I peered at it while moving quickly closer.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” I whimpered as I recognized mouse carcass and turned to scamper from the room.
Sprout sprinted toward it – eager to recapture his toy – and I yelled at him to leave the grossness alone!
“OK.” I told myself as I stood in the hall so I couldn’t see it. Then I went to the kitchen, picked up a roll of paper towels, 2 plastic grocery bags and went back down the hall. I didn’t feel sufficiently protected by these items so I laid them in the doorway of the bedroom and cowered outside. “I so don’t want to do this.” I moaned.
Then I went out and got two heavy-duty garbage can liners – the thick black plastic crackling reassuringly. I put one inside the other – there could been a tear or tiny hole! – and realized I cold probably fit my entire body in one and was using 2 to dispose of this mouse.
Taking a deep breath and wishing desperately I was dating someone I could call and beg for help, I entered the room.
“Don’t look at it.” I warned. “Just going to throw these towels over there…and hope to God they land on the ick…” I glanced over. It was safely covered by paper towel.
“OK.” I took a deep breath, paused to gag, then threw the plastic grocery bags on top of it to be safe. Then came the two large garbage bags. It was safely covered, I decided, but I still didn’t know how to remove it. Under all that plastic and paper was still a dead mouse. I thought that I had gotten part of the bag/towel combo under the deceased creature and tried to wrap the outer black bag around the mound of material.
I picked it up gingerly and looked down to see the mouse lying on the floor.
So I screamed and ran from the room.
Peeking in from the hallway, I moaned again in disgust. “Do you want it in your house?” I asked myself. “Then you must go remove it!”
I took one step before retreating again, chanting, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
I thought back to Mom’s advice for removing a full mouse trap last year. To be fair, it’s that season. Sprout might have met his prey inside as easily as out. There’s a small gap between my garage door and the wall that allows mice a way in. I had 2 (both killed in traps) last year.
I went to get a dustpan and broom. I once again employed my “don’t look at it” strategy and covered it with a plastic bag. Then I put the broom on top of the bag to hold everything still, and slipped the dustpan underneath. Keeping my eyes closed, I dumped the dustpan in the garbage bag I had waiting and sighed with relief as I moved it outside. Then I waited for my stomach to settle.
I might sleep in the office or on the couch tonight. I’m not sure I’ll get much rest in my bedroom. I will, at least, have nightmares about the creature that I haven’t described to you in detail, though, sadly, I could have. I saw it. Shudder, gag, wince.
I should probably stop here – I tend to write these unconnected posts when there’s nothing big to say. But then setting up my stories takes so darn long, the posts become nearly endless! Sorry – I appreciate your patience in this difficult time (and that mouse made this an undeniably difficult time). Perhaps tomorrow I can tell a more interesting story about coffee with my new pastor.
“Do you realize,” I asked Friend in the same booth we used for our last visit to the same restaurant, waiting to enjoy more caramel pie, “that I will have been in the office every day this week? For the first time since starting this post-doc, I actually made it to campus five days in a row!”
“That’s…actually pretty sad.” She said dryly. I frowned when I considered that she’d had a long and trying day. I decided she deserved some extra help with the explanation.
“I think you’re interpreting this incorrectly.” I said. “I went to work for five days in a row. That’s impressive.”
“But it took you a year an a half to do it.” She said, mimicking my slow, explanatory tone. So I rolled my eyes at her.
“It’s sad that you chose to focus on the negative.” I scolded and she smiled.
“Good for you.” I think she finally offered. “For…going to work.”
“Thank you.” Then I wondered if I’d work from home today and ruin my Week of Work. I didn’t – I made it to work before dawn to attend an early experiment. Then I walked to the bus stop and smiled at the woman waiting.
I don’t know you. Let’s talk!
“Good morning.” I said, making sure my travel cup was open before I sipped my coffee. The woman offered a greeting and we settled into silence.
Then, for no apparent reason but feeling some strange need to do so, I said, “It’s warmer than I expected this morning.”
“There’s a cold front coming in.” She said, friendly and completely willing to talk to me while we waited. “It’s supposed to rain soon, then get really cold. Almost down to the 20s or 30s!”
“Wow.” I said, thinking I’d probably shamefully wear my coat as I did yesterday. I get cold! I don’t know why, but my body has decided it shouldn’t get below freezing and I’ll shiver even in 30 degree weather. Sad.
“I even heard it was supposed to snow on Tuesday.” She confided. “When my son first started driving, it snowed really hard. He was almost in an accident on his way to school, and…” She continued to tell me a story and I listened, making the appropriately sympathetic responses when necessary. Then I followed her up the steps of the bus and she proceeded to one of the back seats while I sat closer to the front.
Don’t worry – I made a new friend at the next stop.
Surprised at my eagerness to indulge in pre-7AM conversation with strangers, I aimed a vague smile at the woman who sat next to me just moments after I boarded the bus.
“There’s terrible weather coming through Oklahoma.” She stated and I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, trying to picture the United States map to decide how close Oklahoma was to my current locale. Not very, I thought. But maybe I’m confused.
“Do you have family there?” I asked, not sure what to say.
“I do, actually! A brother and his 3 kids. But I was worried that we’d start to see some of that terrible weather here.”
“Ah.” I said. “Ice makes driving a challenge.”
“Ice makes driving impossible!” She said, voice rising with her passionate statement. I smiled. For people down here, yes, ice does, in fact, mean they should stay inside their houses. Given that I’ve driven on ice multiple times, I know that you can do it. It’s just a bit difficult in some spots. (MapleMama, by the way, has some excellent tips for winter driving. My own tip? If you live in the south? Stay Home. Abandon all hope, snuggle in for a nap, and hope you’ve stocked up on necessities beforehand as the store shelves will be largely bare in the pre-winter-weather panic.)
I nodded, not eager to insult my neighbors, but agreeing with her assessment of the region’s driving skill. “It’s good to just stay home.” I offered, thinking that would be a safe statement.
“My husband’s father has Alzheimer’s.” She said. And I offered a sympathetic sound before she continued. “He and his sister check on him every day so they’ll have to get out of the house.” I nodded in understanding but remained quiet. “I told my husband that we should stay at his dad’s house though. He has gas heat and ours is electric. If we lose power – and you know we will – then at least we’d be warm over there! So I asked if his dad had food and he said, ‘of course he has food.’ Like it was a stupid question! So I reminded him that if power went out, the microwave wouldn’t work and the refrigerator wouldn’t stay cold either! Though if it’s that cold outside – they’re saying it could get down to the teens! The teens!! – we could just put the food out the back door to keep it cold.”
“Excellent point.” I said, amused and fascinated by her planning.
“I don’t know how people live up north.” She said with a shake of her head at their clear stupidity. “Like…[Upper Midwest state]? That’s just crazy!”
“I went to grad school there!” I said, smiling with fond memories of walking the mile to class in subzero temperatures with strong winds. “You get used to it.” I told her as she looked at me with a mixture of shock and horror. “Plus, you go numb almost immediately when it’s that cold, so it doesn’t hurt until you start to thaw.”
“It snowed every third day for a whole month when I was in college.” She said. “And it wouldn’t melt! There was this snowball that hung around in front of the union for that whole month! It didn’t melt! We didn’t ever leave campus at all – you just couldn’t drive in it!”
“You went to school down here?” I asked, smiling as I remembered wading through waist-high banks of snow that had been present for months, only vaguely remembering how the city looked without a coating of dingy, packed down ick. We lived – walked our dogs, went to work, shopped as normal (no stockpiling!) and just acclimated to our environments. I miss it, I sighed, then wondered how true that statement actually was.
“My car won’t get warm enough when it’s cold.” My new friend complained. “Everything feels dirty from all the salt and sludge. It hurts to go outside. You could fall down if there’s ice!” With that, I remembered lying on my back outside my lab one winter day. In the second before I scrambled to my feet – hoping nobody had seen my spectacular flop – I thought, “This is freaking ridiculous.” I had fallen on my hands and knees that morning – there was ice on the sidewalk between 2 huge banks of snow as I walked Chienne. She got excited and pulled me down. I fell forward and thought about how much falling down hurts. Then I landed on my back later that day, every muscle screaming with indignation, and wondered why in the world we’d live in a place that created this kind of inconvenience.
There are problems with winter. I still find myself missing the Midwest – and the people who populate it – quite a lot. Though these Southern folks can delight me as well.
Wow. You’re worse than I am.
I did my experiment, then went to check some files for Project A. I’d worked there yesterday afternoon, then received a follow up question that required my return. As I was walking back to my office, I saw the man I’d met yesterday as he moved slowly down the hall. Jeremy? I wondered, wishing I’d paid closer attention during the introductions. He was visiting from somewhere? Or starting to work here?
“Good morning.” I smiled at him.
“Hello.” He stated softly in return. “I really enjoyed working with you yesterday.” He stopped and rested against the wall so I did the same, taking a position across the hall.
“Likewise.” I said. “How are things going so far?” I was hoping he’d jog my memory as to his purpose in being here, but he instead described the injury that was so inhibiting his motion.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said, filled with sympathy. “I hope you feel better soon.”
He thanked me, then asked about my status here. Direct, I thought. I like direct. “You’re doing your PhD?” He asked gently and I wondered at his manner. Men of his age – likely somewhere in their 40s – tend to be a bit more aggressive and brisk in my experience. He must not be an MD, I decided, then chastised myself for generalizing personality types.
“I have my PhD from [school].” I said, smiling easily.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I apologize.” He said, instantly looking very contrite.
“No problem.” I smiled gently, confused by his response. I'm not important, and even if I were, I'm generally harmless. “I don’t mind at all – I don’t feel much different having it than I did getting it.”
“In what field?” He asked, and I told him.
“Oh,” he said, looking appropriately impressed and pausing for a moment. He just seemed so deferential. So soft-spoken and appreciative of my attention and sweet. He reminded me of me. I wanted to help him down the hall and take care of him – such a dear man. “I should have a question for you about that. I just can’t think of it…”
I found myself wishing I had a card with me. So if he ever needed help, I could rush to offer my assistance. Apparently the routine I use on others is very effective on me as well.
Um…what am I supposed to do?
“Oh, Katie is in her office.” I heard Boss say as he came down the hall. I clicked over to the grant from the MSN article on the Wonders of the World (which reminded me of my Kyoto pictures and hence the new graphics!). Boss must not have realized it was the Week of Work. And, to be fair, I’m not always at my desk even when I am on campus. I run around as much as possible, though I do like my new little home.
“This is Maria.” He introduced the girl standing behind him. She smiled and I returned her grin – she seemed friendly and sweet. I assumed she was a visiting scientist who would give me some technical details I didn’t care to learn. Or an interviewing post-doc who would speak briefly to me. When she didn’t offer this information, I moved my inquisitive stare to Boss.
“Maria is in the [related basic science field] department. She’s taken classes with A and B and done some programming on x and y. She’s looking for a research project for her PhD and I thought she might want to work with you since you’re going to be collecting data soon.”
“Oh.” I said, surprised and confused. “Of course.”
“So she can sit and talk to you and you can decide what to do next!” I smiled and nodded at him, pulling a chair over to my desk and trying to think on my feet as to what the hell I should do with a student. There was a time I was an excellent mentor – I had projects just waiting for someone to come along and help. But now? I’ve only met 2 grad students in my time here! I don’t know what to do with them!
Luckily, she went back to Boss’s office to get her bag and I had time to pull up a presentation I’d made, print out some summaries of this project and think for a minute.
“So…” I started when she sat and introduced herself again. “Give me some background. How long you’ve been here, what your interests are, how I can help you out.”
4 years. She’s not sure. She’s not sure there either. Basic science fields offer teaching assistantships much more than the technical biomedical research fields where funding is plentiful enough to support students who focus on research. Which is how I escaped having to teach at all so far in my career.
“OK.” I said, handing her some papers I printed with my business card stapled on top. “How about I tell you what I want to do and you can let me know if there’s anything interesting?” Then I went into a lengthy explanation on my work – the processing that will have to be done, the data we’ll acquire the ways we’ll analyze overall. She nodded along, likely overwhelmed with all the information. But I’m out of practice! I don’t know what to say!
“Look,” I finally said. “I haven’t worked with anyone in awhile, so I’m sorry – I’m not sure what to offer right now. I’d love to work with you – there’s plenty to do. And if you’re sort of interested so far…” I waited for her to nod. “then we’ll find a place for you to work. I’ll go through my papers and see what’s interesting. Then I'll send you some pdfs and keep you in the loop as we start collecting data.”
“Maybe offer some basic papers too.” She requested. I smiled – I’ve grown used to knowing the least amount of all the people in a room. It’s strange to be more knowledgeable than someone – anyone. But I think it will be good for me – to connect with someone, answer questions, be responsible to anyone other than myself.
Shudder, gag, wince.
I was quietly getting ready this morning when Sprout appeared in the door of the bathroom.
“Sprout, no!” I stated loudly when I turned to greet him and was instantly horrified. “Oh, what the hell was that?!” I said when he picked up the ball of fur and ran away. “Ick. Ick ick ick ick ick.”
I should note that Sprout has started to venture outside. After watching Chienne exercise her freedom by using her dog door, he realized that with a bit of oomph, he could nudge it open as well. He prances in and out with great regularity now.
“You should lock the dog door at night.” Mom advised. “He’s going to bring in some dead animal – or half-live animal – and give it to you.”
“No.” I said. “I don’t think he leaves the yard and there can’t be many animals in the yard!” This is not true, I know, but it makes me feel better. And it hasn’t been a problem thus far. No ick.
Until today.
I blocked the thought of the fur that was once an animal. But I was reminded when I entered my bedroom after finishing with my new blog graphics. I walked toward the bathroom when I saw something on the floor. I wasn’t sure what it was, so I peered at it while moving quickly closer.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” I whimpered as I recognized mouse carcass and turned to scamper from the room.
Sprout sprinted toward it – eager to recapture his toy – and I yelled at him to leave the grossness alone!
“OK.” I told myself as I stood in the hall so I couldn’t see it. Then I went to the kitchen, picked up a roll of paper towels, 2 plastic grocery bags and went back down the hall. I didn’t feel sufficiently protected by these items so I laid them in the doorway of the bedroom and cowered outside. “I so don’t want to do this.” I moaned.
Then I went out and got two heavy-duty garbage can liners – the thick black plastic crackling reassuringly. I put one inside the other – there could been a tear or tiny hole! – and realized I cold probably fit my entire body in one and was using 2 to dispose of this mouse.
Taking a deep breath and wishing desperately I was dating someone I could call and beg for help, I entered the room.
“Don’t look at it.” I warned. “Just going to throw these towels over there…and hope to God they land on the ick…” I glanced over. It was safely covered by paper towel.
“OK.” I took a deep breath, paused to gag, then threw the plastic grocery bags on top of it to be safe. Then came the two large garbage bags. It was safely covered, I decided, but I still didn’t know how to remove it. Under all that plastic and paper was still a dead mouse. I thought that I had gotten part of the bag/towel combo under the deceased creature and tried to wrap the outer black bag around the mound of material.
I picked it up gingerly and looked down to see the mouse lying on the floor.
So I screamed and ran from the room.
Peeking in from the hallway, I moaned again in disgust. “Do you want it in your house?” I asked myself. “Then you must go remove it!”
I took one step before retreating again, chanting, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”
I thought back to Mom’s advice for removing a full mouse trap last year. To be fair, it’s that season. Sprout might have met his prey inside as easily as out. There’s a small gap between my garage door and the wall that allows mice a way in. I had 2 (both killed in traps) last year.
I went to get a dustpan and broom. I once again employed my “don’t look at it” strategy and covered it with a plastic bag. Then I put the broom on top of the bag to hold everything still, and slipped the dustpan underneath. Keeping my eyes closed, I dumped the dustpan in the garbage bag I had waiting and sighed with relief as I moved it outside. Then I waited for my stomach to settle.
I might sleep in the office or on the couch tonight. I’m not sure I’ll get much rest in my bedroom. I will, at least, have nightmares about the creature that I haven’t described to you in detail, though, sadly, I could have. I saw it. Shudder, gag, wince.
I should probably stop here – I tend to write these unconnected posts when there’s nothing big to say. But then setting up my stories takes so darn long, the posts become nearly endless! Sorry – I appreciate your patience in this difficult time (and that mouse made this an undeniably difficult time). Perhaps tomorrow I can tell a more interesting story about coffee with my new pastor.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Trudging along – The Plan: Month 4
First, The Plan would like to introduce a couple of new friends. Lucy and The Contessa have introduced their own versions and I'm eager to see how they go. While I can't say I feel the intense affection I once did for The Plan, I have a certain respect and lingering awareness of it that I do think is helpful. Some of these updates, though, make me wince.
Problem 1. Heath
Nothing. Just the morning walks that are taking off some of that weight I put on at Christmas. I fit in all my new clothes (that are 2 sizes smaller than last year!), but am otherwise not impressed.
Oh, and tonight I shall have caramel pie. Because I need and deserve it.
I am returning to my doctor for a follow-up visit next week, more because I don't want to stop taking Celexa yet than out of any great concern. Dr. Counselor and I continue to make mild progress. The focus that's required to make great strides here just isn't coming to me.
The new goal - in light of my consistent failure here - is yogurt sometime during the day. If I don't want it in the morning, I'll bring it to work. If I don't eat at work, I'll take it home. I will not sleep without eating yogurt at some point in a day. This is my solemn vow. We'll go from there next month.
Problem 2. God
I met with my new pastor this morning and I adore her more than I can adequately express in a Plan update. Expect a full post later. She had some ideas on how I could reconnect with God on a personal level and suggested a Sunday School class for me that starts this Sunday. There aren't Bible Studies right now, but she has some ideas of some to set up.
I'd also like to read and listen to some of the books I've been collecting. I'm not sure why I'm dragging my feet here - it's frustrating.
Problem 3. Professional
The Plan has made great strides here more than elsewhere.
Project M – Funding (all $8K of it) was acquired for the pilot phase! I got an email from Dr. Icing that simply stated "Yahoo!" Which pretty much sums up how I feel about this one.
Project X – No progress. I don't think about it unless forced to do so.
Project P – Stalled again. It's one step forward and two steps back here, which is why I hesitate to devote more time to it. Doing reading and preparing my talk remain on my list of things to do.
Project F – Third revisions are in on the last thesis paper. Proofs are corrected for the other.
Project H – I'm dismayed to find that I've been calling little H Project X, which is not true. Phooey. Regardless, there's a great deal more work to do on this, though I still have to finish up what I did last weekend. I should do that tonight, along with some reading.
Project B – Abstract was submitted and it's off my desk. I don't plan to ask for it back.
Project A – Still going well, actually. It takes a good deal of time, but that's OK. I don't mind boring work to some extent.
Project C - A gift from Carrie, but I expect to do more work with it at some point. For now, it's not on my desk though.
Problem 4: Social
I'll count Sunday School here too because it's not sounding super-appealing for some reason. Which sounds like a job for The Plan! Provide motivation for something I should, yet don't want to, do!
Dave maxed out my social tendencies for a whole month, I think. Friend and I hang out quite a bit, though she might be abandoning me here shortly. Something about requiring a job that pays her. (I'm actually very concerned about this possibility for selfish reasons. I've grown used to having someone who can listen to me whine about my blog and how I rarely go to work for a full day. It will be a profound loss if she leaves, though I can sort of understand the need to pay for wireless internet and a cable modem if not rent and food.)
Oh, and Dawn is starting soon. I should take her to lunch, though it makes my stomach hurt that they replaced Winnie.
Problem 5. Family
Christmas was really good. I enjoyed being there and was semi-ready to come back south. We continue to talk more frequently and I send email nearly every night (when I don't forget). My parents are also arriving next Thursday for my birthday. I'm looking forward to seeing them, though I feel vaguely guilty that they feel obligated to make the trip since there isn't a man in my life ready to shower me with gifts and attention on my birthday. But I wish there was a man in my life to do those things too, actually.
Problem 6. Selfish
I am. It's sad. I can't find time to fit in tutoring, so I canceled it this week. There was also the break for the holidays, so I haven't seen them lately. It's shameful to end on such a note, so I will endeavor to keep those afternoons free of work so I can happily focus on my young friends.
I get a free audio-subscription to the New York Times as part of my new Gold membership plan at Audible (I love audible.) It helps keep me informed of world events, which is depressing but important.
I think the overriding aim at this point is to have more good days than bad. To approach problems from a position of strength rather than fear. This is surprisingly difficult for me right now, but I do think month 5 will bring some progress. Maybe.
Problem 1. Heath
Nothing. Just the morning walks that are taking off some of that weight I put on at Christmas. I fit in all my new clothes (that are 2 sizes smaller than last year!), but am otherwise not impressed.
Oh, and tonight I shall have caramel pie. Because I need and deserve it.
I am returning to my doctor for a follow-up visit next week, more because I don't want to stop taking Celexa yet than out of any great concern. Dr. Counselor and I continue to make mild progress. The focus that's required to make great strides here just isn't coming to me.
The new goal - in light of my consistent failure here - is yogurt sometime during the day. If I don't want it in the morning, I'll bring it to work. If I don't eat at work, I'll take it home. I will not sleep without eating yogurt at some point in a day. This is my solemn vow. We'll go from there next month.
Problem 2. God
I met with my new pastor this morning and I adore her more than I can adequately express in a Plan update. Expect a full post later. She had some ideas on how I could reconnect with God on a personal level and suggested a Sunday School class for me that starts this Sunday. There aren't Bible Studies right now, but she has some ideas of some to set up.
I'd also like to read and listen to some of the books I've been collecting. I'm not sure why I'm dragging my feet here - it's frustrating.
Problem 3. Professional
The Plan has made great strides here more than elsewhere.
Project M – Funding (all $8K of it) was acquired for the pilot phase! I got an email from Dr. Icing that simply stated "Yahoo!" Which pretty much sums up how I feel about this one.
Project X – No progress. I don't think about it unless forced to do so.
Project P – Stalled again. It's one step forward and two steps back here, which is why I hesitate to devote more time to it. Doing reading and preparing my talk remain on my list of things to do.
Project F – Third revisions are in on the last thesis paper. Proofs are corrected for the other.
Project H – I'm dismayed to find that I've been calling little H Project X, which is not true. Phooey. Regardless, there's a great deal more work to do on this, though I still have to finish up what I did last weekend. I should do that tonight, along with some reading.
Project B – Abstract was submitted and it's off my desk. I don't plan to ask for it back.
Project A – Still going well, actually. It takes a good deal of time, but that's OK. I don't mind boring work to some extent.
Project C - A gift from Carrie, but I expect to do more work with it at some point. For now, it's not on my desk though.
Problem 4: Social
I'll count Sunday School here too because it's not sounding super-appealing for some reason. Which sounds like a job for The Plan! Provide motivation for something I should, yet don't want to, do!
Dave maxed out my social tendencies for a whole month, I think. Friend and I hang out quite a bit, though she might be abandoning me here shortly. Something about requiring a job that pays her. (I'm actually very concerned about this possibility for selfish reasons. I've grown used to having someone who can listen to me whine about my blog and how I rarely go to work for a full day. It will be a profound loss if she leaves, though I can sort of understand the need to pay for wireless internet and a cable modem if not rent and food.)
Oh, and Dawn is starting soon. I should take her to lunch, though it makes my stomach hurt that they replaced Winnie.
Problem 5. Family
Christmas was really good. I enjoyed being there and was semi-ready to come back south. We continue to talk more frequently and I send email nearly every night (when I don't forget). My parents are also arriving next Thursday for my birthday. I'm looking forward to seeing them, though I feel vaguely guilty that they feel obligated to make the trip since there isn't a man in my life ready to shower me with gifts and attention on my birthday. But I wish there was a man in my life to do those things too, actually.
Problem 6. Selfish
I am. It's sad. I can't find time to fit in tutoring, so I canceled it this week. There was also the break for the holidays, so I haven't seen them lately. It's shameful to end on such a note, so I will endeavor to keep those afternoons free of work so I can happily focus on my young friends.
I get a free audio-subscription to the New York Times as part of my new Gold membership plan at Audible (I love audible.) It helps keep me informed of world events, which is depressing but important.
I think the overriding aim at this point is to have more good days than bad. To approach problems from a position of strength rather than fear. This is surprisingly difficult for me right now, but I do think month 5 will bring some progress. Maybe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
