Sunny, but cool. Aging and youth.

I remember when the red tractor was Dad’s. The new ones always go to him for some reason, leaving Mom with the older of the two lawnmowers we keep around. They have since bought a green one and the red one is relegated to the female mowing helper. I decided I would offer to help today since Mom’s feeling a bit off and the vibrations bother her knees. Plus, I love this weather. It’s in the lower 60s and beautifully sunny.

I bounced around on the red tractor in the extra lot on the right half of my parents 2.5 acre property. Some of my lines were squiggly - perhaps I wanted to hit that giant mushroom head on to hear the sound it made as it was sliced into pieces. Sometimes I was trying to make my way gracefully around the 5 trees on that side of the yard, though I always ended up ducking low and batting at branches that attempted to thwap me in the head. But I slowly made my way around circles with decreasing radii as the grass was clipped short in the yard.

Dad, meanwhile, raced around the lot filled with property. I was not to mow too close to his new garage so as not to mar the siding. I waved my hand at him and told him he could take care of all the little nooks created by the house, trees, fenced yard and garages. He did, meandering from his course a few times to catch spaces I missed in the ditch or close to our property line.

I was trying to help near the end, having finished with my section of yard, and glanced up to find that Dad was blocking my path. I frowned, then shook my head, turning my mower around and rumbling back toward the shed while the hood clanged gently against the body of the tractor when I’d hit a particularly impressive bump. I glanced over my shoulder to find Dad carefully mowing around a baby pine tree he and Little One put in the ground. Brother and I each planted one - they came free from school - near the front of the yard when we were young. I’m still impressed that they’ve grown so large over the years. But the tree Little One put in was small and Dad was protecting it from me as he carefully trimmed the grass around it.

I took a walk past those three trees this morning, offering a comment to my dog that she should be slow and gentle - as she was yesterday morning when we went - so as to not knock me down. It’s very cool here - we closed up the house to sleep last night, but I went without a sweatshirt this morning. The sunshine was bright and warm and the breeze was crisp and clean. It was lovely and quiet, even at 11:00.

We went to a cruise-in last night at Dad’s request. I didn’t feel well, nor did Mom, but we piled in the 1976 black pickup truck and drove to get dinner, then proceeded to park in a lot and sit. And sit. And sit some more.

“Danny doesn’t look good.” I offered of the man who visited yesterday afternoon. “He seems very slow.”

“He had a stroke.” Dad reminded me. “He can’t work anymore. Doesn’t remember much - I’m surprised he was able to find our house.”

I nodded and considered that it was sad that so many people have aged so dramatically while I’ve been in school. We drove home a few minutes later - Dad didn’t see anyone with whom he wanted to socialize. I sighed with gratitude at being allowed an escape from a restaurant parking lot for the evening. I dislike cruise-ins.

“How are you?” I asked a neighbor a couple of days ago after updating her on Mom’s upcoming treatments.

“Still alive.” She sighed then repeated her offer to come sit with Mom anytime. Neighbor's cancer - after many years - has returned and she doesn’t look well. I used to see her walking out to get her mail and paper. Now she drives the short distance out her drive and across the street. She once called for her cats after they’d been out all night. I don’t think there are any pets left now. The neighbor across the street died a month ago - I remember drinking lemonade on her back patio when I was little. The couple who lives next to the now-empty house is divorcing.

“I need my knee replaced, but now I’m afraid.” Mom’s friend offered on our way to lunch on Thursday. “My back has problems and I have bladder infections a couple times a year. Oh, and IBS - that’s awful too.” I shook my head in sympathy.

“How is my uncle?” I asked Aunt when we talked yesterday. I had been cleaning the bathroom and was panting a bit from scrubbing the bathtub.

“He says his back feels sick." Aunt says. "It depends on the day, but I think the surgery helped. He should be feeling better soon."

It’s a bit depressing.

Yet Little One’s third birthday party is tomorrow. Mom ordered a Dora cake just yesterday that we’ll pick up on the way. She called this morning to confirm her dessert and “three candles!” would arrive as scheduled. Mom handed the phone over to Dad after talking with her granddaughter for several minutes.

“She kept saying ‘I love you.’” Mom smiled. “Over and over and over.”

“I love you.” Dad said and I turned to look at him. “I love you too.” He said again. “I love you. I love you. I love you!” I could hear giggles emerge from the cell phone whose volume is always far too loud and smiled with my parents.

I’m worried about the coming week. I feel mildly guilty for asking Cousin to look in on my house, but I hadn’t expected to be gone this long. I’m concerned about Friend. I have a few things going on at work that I wish I could do.

But Jill scanned a document for me so I was able to get a paper uploaded to Good Journal that Often Rejects Me. I sent the pdf to Boss and Dr. Icing and after their approval, I can submit it. I have ideas for other work I can get done from here, though this break isn’t likely to help my career. That’s OK though - choices have consequences.

It’s a beautiful day today. I picked tomatoes from Mom’s garden after I finished mowing. I’m planning to nap soon. There’s a hummingbird that visits a flower right outside the front door sometimes. There are these lovely little flowers around the light post out front. It’s not all misery here. But I do think we have our share lately.

Multiple Choice

Please select the worst moment of today from the following choices.

1. 1:10PM. I find myself, despite all efforts not to do so, violently throwing up in my parents' bathroom. A migraine started when I was at lunch with Mom and some of her friends. I made it home, took two Excedrin and felt myself get warmer and warmer. I hate the act of vomitting, but I did so regardless. One of those things that's beyond my control. And I don't think I'll have Quiznos salad again, which is a shame since I used to enjoy them.
2. 3:32AM. Dad gently says my name and asks me to go sit with Mom. I push my glasses on my nose and walk gently down the hall after telling him to have a good day at work. She wept for nearly 30 minutes - the fear and pain and worry wearing her down. I soothed as best I could, being physically present until I coaxed her into taking a Darvocet. Then we both slept.
3. All darn day. Missing the nurse's call three times to find out if it was OK to take pain meds when she was suffering so. Her surgeon told her only to take one before therapy. I say that if she's that miserable, it's OK to take something to help. I plan to win this one, but need to wait until tomorrow.
4. 10:20AM. Actually talking to the family doctor - I neither like nor trust him - and realizing that he's as useless as I've always thought. No good suggestions or anything other than complete confidence in local doctors. I'm starting to consider bringing Mom home with me to current institution for care.

Please select the true statement from the following choices.

1. I am receiving no pressure to return to work from Boss. He will include Mom in his prayers and would like to be updated on her progress and my plans.
2. My ankle is considerably better. It's still a bit tight, but appears to have assumed a mostly normal shape. I can walk slowly, but with an almost imperceptible limp.
   
3. Mom replied to a nurse's question over whether she was pleased she had her knees done with an incredulous look and an "absolutely not."
4. I'm pleased Mom has good friends who are interested, caring and distracting. Had I not been miserably ill during the meal, I would have enjoyed the women even more.
   
5. Dad's doing very well with being comforting and gentle with her. He sat with her this morning before getting me. He gives her injections in her tummy (apparently Lovenox stings like crazy) and is really doing well with all of this. I'm pleased with him.
6. Tylenol PM does cure my migraines. I was able to keep it down then I slept for an hour and woke up feeling shaky, but OK.
   
7. All of the above.

Not a good day

Therapy was this morning at 8:30. Mom's appointment with her knee surgeon was to follow at 9:30. At 2PM, she turned to look at me in our third waiting room at the hospital and - with wide, fearful eyes - said, "That want to put a filter in my heart."

Her knees aren't going straight when she tries to walk. They stay bent at around 20 degrees and this isn't good. And while it isn't common, doctors are familiar with the problem and this one cited some combination of scar tissue and arthritis and insisted that she go back to the hospital for manipulation. Basically, they drug her and force her knees to bend and straighten.

"It's best if you can actually feel and hear the scar tissue tear." Her surgeon said as I looked upon him as if he were a specter of evil.

We waited some more and Mom was resolved to have the procedure - growing tired of the constant ache and inability to walk smoothly - though she was clearly worried.

"Tomorrow." She sighed. "I didn't know they'd do it so soon."

I patted her hand and rearranged my schedule in my head. I would cancel my ankle appointment, move my meeting with Dr. Icing and let Friend know I wouldn't be home until later next week. It would be fine. I can't take her weeping as she slumps over her legs at night. Something has to give. I supposed it might as well be scar tissue.

We were soon off to the hospital for tests. The first would check her legs for clots - DVT is a concern for post-surgical patients and her surgeon didn't want to loosen one and cause a pulmonary embolism during his manipulation. My head started to ache as I sat in the outer waiting room, wondering what could take so long to check two legs for clots.

"Katie?" The tech who disppeared with Mom awhile ago returned to fetch me and I followed her down the hall.

"They found something." Mom said when I sat next to her. "We have to wait while they talk to my surgeon, then they'll talk to us."

We sat in silence, alone in a different waiting room, for long minutes. After about 20 of them, I called the number suggested on the telephone located in the room. I politely asked them to update us on what was going on. We were waiting on the surgeon, they explained. After the radiologist talked to him, he would talk to us, then we could leave.

About 20 minutes later, said radiologist entered the room and explained that there two clots in her left calf. He stretched his thumb as far as it would go from his index finger and estimated the size of the smallest one. The larger, he said, was about twice as big. We peppered him with questions. He answered none and said the surgeon should be calling us from his office.

I called him, used my sharply impatient voice when the message woman got snippy with me, and became more polite when the nurse answered the phone with some sympathy for our day and this news. I handed the phone to Mom when the surgeon finally answered.

"I have to have injections again to thin my blood, then I see someone about putting a filter in my heart so when the clots get loose, they won't do damage."

"How?" I asked, blinking in surprise. This was all supposed to be very standard stuff. Nothing invasive at all - just forcing the knees to bend and stretch.

"I guess they cut me open." She said, hand on her chest.

We moved out to the lab waiting room so she could have blood taken before we departed.

"Maybe my time here is almost up." She said quietly and I shushed her. Then her name was called and she left me alone in the waiting room, clutching my laptop to my chest and gulping back tears as I begged God not to take my mommy.

"You're not dying." I said sensibly as we held hands on the walk through the parking deck to the car. "They wouldn't let you leave the hospital if you were going to leave for Heaven at any given second. The radiologist didn't seem concerned. If you're not meeting the heart guy until Monday afternoon, he's obviously not freaking out. You're going to be OK. This sucks - a lot, actually. But you're going to be fine."

I drove us home, my ankle hugely swollen from all the walking without my brace. We picked up the prescription for the injections, Mom talked to Brother and Dad and Aunt. Then I got here and did some research.

The filter - should she decide to get one - doesn't go in her heart. I think it goes in a vein in her abdomen. And they won't cut her open - they'll go in through her groin. Not good - I'm still worried and staying put at home until we know more - but she does not appear to be on her way from this world. She's scared and tired. I'm more sleepy than terrified at this point. But it's beyond me to leave when things are so unsettled here.

But - for tonight - we're all drowsy as we eat homemade soup and crispy crackers. Dad's in his recliner, manning the remote and Mom's nearly asleep on the couch. I just came in from the back patio as I spoke with Friend.

While the ending is a bit better than the middle, I'm still calling this one a sucky day.

Query Letter

In my continuing quest to appear as delusional as possible, I have decided to work on my query letter to agents and publishers with regard to that novel I wrote. It's not edited. Or really ready to send out. But when websites say I need a short description of the work that might make someone interested in seeing it, well, I felt compelled to write one. This is also the point where I start looking for a few more people to read what I've written and offer criticism and ideas.

Plus, I need help on my query letter. Please. Thank you. (What would make you want to read my book? Or is there nothing at all I could do to convince you?)

Poppy read romance novels. She had shelves and boxes and bags full of books describing love and passion, fluttered over the arrival of new characters and conflicts and scenes describing the undressing and exploration of new relationships. Having been well-versed in the general recipe for a good story, she wished for one of her own. It was simple to discard men thrown at her by friends or chance - they didn’t elicit the right feelings. So while she was disappointed from the hours spent searching and meeting the wrong men, Poppy was ever aware that the right one was coming.

Acknowledging that her life was more textbook then fiction - one would have to order her story online, she groused, since graduate study in the biomedical sciences, wonderful friends and sporadic dates that rarely ended in anything more than an awkward handshake didn’t attract a large enough audience to be stocked on bookshelves in any of the shops she frequented - she set about scripting her own novel. Writing a blog wasn’t, in retrospect, the smartest decision for a lifelong student. But words were irresistible and if reading them wasn’t effective, perhaps writing them would be.

Her plan - to write a journal online and attract her one true love - worked even faster than she hoped. Stewart visited her site and read multiple times each day, slowly started to leave perfect comments offering encouragement and sympathy and, at long last, flirtation.

“You,” Poppy said out loud, staring at her laptop and the dialogue that finally arrived from the right man, “shall be my hero.”

Stewart played the role well. It takes some time to reading romance novels, perhaps venturing into erotic fiction a bit, to realize that heroes are not so much tall, dark, handsome. They must, however, be compelling. Stewart could be older than was ideal, as brooding as he was charming, and as sharp as he was brilliant, yet Poppy doted on him. He wasn’t yet divorced from his adulterous wife, but a friend had advised Poppy to wait for someone with emotional baggage so that her own experience was more appealing. Guidance that seemed absurd at the time now seemed prophetic.

Addressing the need for conflict, Poppy threw in a bit of angst over her appearance. Stewart eased her worries with just the right words. She added a bit of uncharacteristic jealousy of his relationships with previous students from his English and Drama classes. He didn’t do such a good job of soothing, but she decided to ignore it regardless. She had her hero and refused to be swayed from her story. Instead, she searched for panties that puddled perfectly on the floor when removed by the right man. She laughed over miserable dates with the full expectation that they are located firmly in the past as she raced toward happiness with this new man. She pouted over a friend in an abusive relationship and sighed over her mentor as the older woman took steps to become a single parent. Love is out there! She told them passionately. It’s just a matter of waiting and planning for it!

Meeting Stewart in person convinced her she was right. Her trembling hope met his charismatic confidence and the pair meshed to create wonderful kisses and just-right touches. If she had to push a bit to share the bed in her guest room with him, or jump at his tentative invitation to join him at the beach in California, she would simply highlight the good parts of both trips and gloss over any unpleasantness. If Stewart began to ignore her for months on end when her life began to unravel, she vowed to wait for her happy ending, patient even when she railed against his disinterest and the cruelty of life in taking away those she loved.

Poppy didn’t get a romance novel.

Instead, she has a story of hope and love that twists into a plotline that describes plans gone awry. This is a book she’d be unlikely to read as the moments of sadness and miserable realizations are not all neatly tied up while she falls asleep in her lover’s arms. There are no wedding plans and sparse protestations of love. Yet through friends, a faithful canine companion and, eventually, anti-depressants, there is some realization that while life isn’t fair and doesn’t adhere to even the best laid plans, there is some happiness to be found.

It’s just that sometimes one must look on a different shelf.

In other publication news, I'm finally meeting with Dr. Icing, et al., on Friday to discuss my nearly-ready-for-submission paper. I'm currently writing one - and doing extensive lit searches - on the project I presented in DC. If I can get that one done, I think I'll call the post-doc good. It's not what I wanted, but I think I can make my peace with it.

I applied for a job yesterday and another today - both in industry. It seems that they're looking for people who do what I do. It's just a matter of having the right CV at the right time. I'm not sure I'm anything other than close. But we shall see.

A Blog Around the Clock lists submissions for Open Laboratory 2008. After the surprisingly strong response - via comments and email - for my post, Indefensible, I threw it into the mix. But I wanted to note that if anyone had written something they felt deserved consideration, there's still lots of time before the December deadline. That post has more details if you find it of interest.

Home, still.

So great is my longing for home that I somehow miss it even while I’m here. I rolled over and snuggled back into dreams when Dad rose before 4 and left for work. I limped down the hall a couple hours later, hoping that medial muscle will eventually loosen and allow me to walk normally. When Chienne waited patiently at the back doors, I went to open them and allowed the last sounds of crickets and the first chirps of birds inside along with the cold air of a Midwestern morning. I opened a few windows and doors so I could experience these mornings I miss so dearly.

The bus will soon rumble down the street. I boarded at 7:19 every morning for my first three years of high school. It was a long ride - nearly 40 minutes - that I often used to review for tests or stare out the window weaving daydreams. I find it much easier to wake now than I did then.

The peace soon shattered when Chienne needed out to bark at a dog, Sprout knocked down stools in his attempt to flee and Mom moved out of the bedroom with gentle questions over what the cat was doing. We now sit - the four of us - in the living room while I soak in the cold and Mom uses an afghan as protection against it.

She cried again last night, the pain seeming worse at night and the hope of its easing dying away. It’s constant, she said of the ache that has stretched to encompass her entire lower body. She walks and wishes she was sitting. Sits and wishes she was lying down. Rests on the couch and cries because nothing will work to make the pain stop. I held her hand and rubbed her legs and tried to soothe, all the while feeling useless. She’s lost 30 pounds since the surgery and though she tries to eat, she consumes little before pushing her plate toward Dad.

We cleaned and organized on Sunday, moving clutter to its proper place and trying to return the house to its former sense of order. We sit and talk, though I pause in my stories when she winces in pain, seeking a position that doesn’t tug at angry muscles. We hobble along together when we go out, both of us watching the other carefully so nobody trips and falls.

I’m not ready to go home yet. I was to leave today, but I find myself unable to do so. Rain was forecast for most of the drive, so I decided to postpone it - just until tomorrow. But it’s clear and lovely here and I’m still in pajamas, typing away while Mom has some cereal and the animals wander from door to door, listening to the creatures outside. There’s nothing pressing for me there, I think of work. I’m writing and revising papers here, so it’s not as if I’m completely neglecting my responsibilities. Plus, I so rarely make it home. Mom hates it when I leave. Just one more day.

Unfortunately, my uselessness extends even in my absence. Poor, dear Friend is struggling a bit with moving and work and her regal felines settling into their newest abode. Rocket Scientist, I believe she calls the smallest of the quartet, isn’t eating and is growing alarmingly small. I love that particular cat a lot, finding her the most loyal and gentle, having enjoyed the gentle pressure of her weight on my chest when I lie on Friend’s couch and rest a sore ankle or hurt feelings or aching head. I picked her up from the vet after she had tooth issues and wish I was home for a few hours today to help with these additional vet visits that I’m sure will stress both the cat and Friend. I could sit and pet her, or wait for various appointments that are keeping Friend from the lab - sitting is what I do, after all. But I am sitting several hours away and the guilty feeling nags at me while I’m here.

We saw Brother, et al. last night. Little One scampered around the table, stealing people’s noses and eating them. When we asked how we would smell, she would blow a puff of air and hand the nose back to its owner. When it came to Smallest One, asleep in her carrier, Little One would gently touch the tip of her tiny nose, but never tried to steal it. She stares into the carrier with this expression of awed joy - I hope the sisters will be good friends as Smallest One opens eyes that are deep, dark blue (and turning brown, I think!) a bit more often.

I held her for a few minutes after we finished dinner. I examined her tiny features, asked her if the slightly flaky skin on her little hands was normal for babies. I told her it would likely clear up on its own, then decided to discuss napping as it is apparently a favored hobby for both of us.

Little One offered hugs and kisses once Smallest One was handed back to her father and tucked securely in her carrier for the dash through the rain and a short ride to her house.

I currently sit in Dad’s recliner, Mom and I both on our laptops in the living room, next to the dollhouse my Grandpa built that holds 9 plastic Care Bears in the attic. Dad feels it unnecessary to learn their names. “Here’s Heart on His Belly Bear.” He said upon finding Tenderheart under a chair. “Rainbow on His Belly Bear is supervising.” He said, moving the legs into a stable position and putting the pink Cheer Bear on a piece of furniture to overlook the others. There’s Cupcake on His Belly Bear, Clover on His Belly Bear, Sunshine on His Belly Bear. Oh, and Thundercloud. “That’s his Indian name.” Dad explained after proclaiming Grumpy Bear his favorite.

I find I’m torn as to my favorite - not knowing whether I should be staying or going. For today, I will be home. With my mom. Tomorrow I’ll drive back to my life. And hope that the job will offer some interview so a day’s drive won’t separate my home from hers.

Non-deliverable

The word we were looking for was "non-deliverable." That's right. Non-deliverable. That's what I remembered - and I even said it out loud to Friend, I think - but it didn't make sense.

Wikipedia tells me it's a project management term describing "a tangible or intangible object produced as a result of project execution." Therefore, research - in this particular job - is a non-deliverable.

Non-deliverable.

It seems my sense of victory would be sweeter.

As an update of sorts, I am still at home where it is by turns very loud (Dad's home and watching TV) or lovely and peaceful (Dad's gone and the TV is off). We bought a new washer (Dad didn't fix the old one) and had some lunch. My ankle still hurts, but if I focus really hard, I can almost walk properly. I'm writing a paper that is unlikely to be accepted - the data isn't quite there, I don't think. But I want a spot in this particular journal and the timing is right. So we'll see how it goes, I suppose. Otherwise, I plan to return to my house on Tuesday, I think. I'm very pleased that trip is over. I look forward to the day when I can say the same of my ankle injury.

But I have a word that I really do think was right. Non-deliverable.

Dr. GiganticBoot Goes to Washington

The problem with the meeting, I've decided, was ego. The people in charge were too interested in appearing important - showing up late, shaking hands, making sure everyone knew how smart and special they were - to actually organize and work in order to plan and execute a conference. It was slapped together and haphazard, yet I've never seen so many beautiful suits in one room. People would come and go, not necessarily because the program was awful. In fact, the speaker list was rather impressive. But most of the men were too brilliant to pare down their remarks to 15 minutes. Therefore, in nearly double their allotted time, they were able to say basically nothing except how important this meeting was and how ground-breaking they found their own work.

After I napped yesterday afternoon, I tucked the necessary items in my camera case and set off to Union Station in order to catch a trolley that would show me the city at night. I procured souvenirs for my nieces and wandered the lovely building snapping pictures as other people shopped and ate until my ankle - strapped securely in it's giant brace - protested. Then I waited until it was time to depart for the tour.

I shall preface these remarks by saying that I love America. While I have been deeply saddened and, I'll admit, embarrassed about some of our decisions throughout history and into the present day, I'm very American and rather enjoy being so. Grandpa fought in WWII and Dad was drafted and served in Vietnam. I pray for our troops each night. We're patriotic, though not rabidly so.

Yet I felt - as I toured DC - much as I did when I first looked upon the strip in Vegas. That is to say that my pragmatic Midwestern head got all confused, looked around at the huge structures all lit up and frowned. While Vegas is clearly over-the-top neon in the desert and Washington was elegant history in New England, I still didn't get it. I kept wondering how much these things cost to build and wondered why the hell someone put them there.

"Did they tell you why the crime rate is so high?" Dad asked at lunch after he, Mom and Little One picked me up at the airport this afternoon.

"No." I said of my tour, then paused. "I will say this though. If I were poor - didn't have enough to eat or air conditioning in the summer and heat in the winter, enough clothing, a good job, hope for the future, it would piss me off to look at all those monuments and memorials. I just don't understand putting all those resources into something that I couldn't even identify before taking the $30 tour. I didn't know the White House from the Capitol Building offhand! There was a roundy-topped building that I never would have guessed was the Jefferson Memorial. And when we stopped at the Lincoln Memorial, I was too tired to climb the stairs, but I don't think there's anything in there! It's a big, huge, gorgeous building with a giant statue inside. So I asked my tour buddy about it. And she said she thought the Gettysburg Address was carved on one of the walls. And I wanted to ask what the point was - what that money could have done for regular people with regular lives."

"Like the handles on the Longaberger Basket building." Mom said with a smile.

"I guess." I conceded and ducked my head. "It just seemed excessive to me. A big 'look how important we are and were and will be!' And when someone is that impressed with himself, I immediately decide he's not worthy of much of my attention at all."

Yet I dutifully took pictures that turned out to be unimpressive and blurry. I was tremendously glad when the tour was over and I was able to remove the brace and ice my poor ankle. As I consider it more, there are some things that strike me as important. Museums, learning environments, historical archives. I don't begrudge people their stories and memories of loved ones lost in wars. The only powerful moment I spent last night was staring at the Vietnam Memorial. It was lit gently from a few lights evenly placed in the brick walk.

I aimed my camera toward it and allowed the flash to illuminate the names I wasn't able to read in the meager light. I stepped closer to list a few in a soft whisper, wondering if they - like Dad - had gone because they had to do so. If they regretted the lives they took. What kinds of plans they had when they returned home. What became of the people they were fighting for and against. I noticed the smudges on the black surface and recognized them as fingerprints. Perhaps people had touched names they knew or, like me, gently rested a finger against one at random in some gesture of sorrow or respect.

The distinction is clear for me. Some memorials felt right. Others elicited the opposite response. I think getting credit for good work is important. Yet too much credit - or the drive for accolades - seems counter-productive to the job you've set out to do.

"Think of all that money." Dad said when he clicked through the pictures I downloaded to my laptop. "Electricity to light them up at night, staff to secure and maintain them, water for the plants, then people to weed and mow." He paused, continued to click and handed my laptop back with a frown. "Maybe I'd be pissed off too."

Neither of us is naive enough to think that the crime rate in DC would drop dramatically if the Washington Monument were a bit smaller or the Lincoln Statue a bit less impressive. Nor am I saying all of that history and architecture is unimportant or inappropriate. But I think money and power and ego were all tied together in a web that left me more disturbed than proud. It was not unlike the feeling I got when the president of that society shook my hand before my talk, then raced out of the room before I took the podium.

The goals - whether we're talking national policy or conference objectives - were worthy and I'm more than willing to throw my support behind them. Yet we sometimes get lost when putting them into play. And this - like much of my miserable trip to what really did seem a lovely city - leaves me disappointed.

Talk, check.

I recall carefully placing my boot on the single step that led to the stage. I remember reaching to adjust the microphone and feeling grateful the chair opened my presentation on his laptop. Then, less than 15 minutes later, it was over. I have some recollection of making eye contact with various people in the sparse audience. I think I spoke quickly since we were running nearly an hour behind after starting - once again - very late this morning. But I think I said what I wanted to say - the benefit of memorization is that my consciousness is focused on words I've rehearsed and the nervous parts of me get forgotten in the focus. So I guess it was fine. I know it is over.

I couldn't sit through more talks though. So I returned to my room to order lunch - I've never had so much room service in my life. It's just that giving senior people 15 minute time slots is murder on your schedule. These guys talk. And talk and talk and talk. And when nobody can be bothered to open the morning session, it just gets out of control. So I express my displeasure with the whole situation by being absent. I shall nap and fight my headache and perhaps muster a bit of energy to sightsee. It's disappointing. But I will survive.

Things are going better at home. Mom sounded OK, though tired. Little One wanted to come over again, so she's spending the day with Mom. Brother is now very ill, but his wife refuses to do anything at all. She couldn't even walk down 3 stairs to unlock the door for Mom this morning. Nor can she heat up food for herself during the day - she simply waits until Brother returns from work so he can wait on her. Twit. That's disappointing too.

Other than random complaints though, all appears to be well. I do hope I make it back to DC under better circumstances. The city seems worthy than more of wrinkly-nosed memories.

I applaud only out of obligation.

When I hobbled downstairs to check in last night, finding the conference rooms with no problem, I was told to return at "half past seven" this morning. I slept well, though the sirens woke me often. But I would roll into a different pile of pillows and snuggle myself back to sleep.

I looked at the clock around 6:30 and slowly got ready. Wearing my pretty flowered skirt and pretty pink top, I made my way down to the conference area and got my badge. I then remembered to ask about posters and the same woman told me to go ahead and put it up. So back to my room I went, wincing at the boot as it tugged on my ankle even as it stabilized it. I got back downstairs with my poster, then asked for a program so I'd know where to place it.

"Wherever." The registration woman said in her lyrical accent, and I frowned. Perhaps I hadn't made myself clear.

"Are there numbers? So the posters know where to go?" I asked. She shook her head and waved her hand toward the boards. I picked one at random and put my poster - which is really lovely - up with six thumbtacks. I had been concerned when my poster and talk had been scheduled at the exact same time. Now that the posters had no order, I was befuddled.

Yet I grabbed some coffee and searched fruitlessly for water, then hobbled toward the large room that would house the talks. I brightened when I saw pitchers of water at each table draped in white cloth. There were tiny candies in shiny wrappers on a small plate between the two halves of each surface. I selected a seat near the door - no reason to walk farther than necessary - and sat. I poured some water, sipped my coffee and found there was free wireless in the room. Things were looking up.

"Do you have a program?" The man in front of me asked at 8:20. I glanced up from my laptop and shook my head.

"I think they're not ready yet." I told him. "But we were supposed to start at 8." We talked for a few moments before I remembered the copy of the schedule I'd been emailed. I handed over the laptop, wincing when I recalled my book was on the desktop as well as my talk and some papers I'd been reading.

When it neared 9, the president of this society again got on stage, fiddled with his laptop and read the welcome letter that he put on the screen. He apologized for the late start, but continued to read - word for word - what we could see displayed. I don't like it when people read to me. I grew vaguely bothered.

When he invited the first speakers to join him at the front, he started his presentation but his laptop refused to sync with the projector. I scowled with irritation as more time was wasted as they attempted - and failed - to fix that problem. The speaker who had been absent arrived and tried to help. So the first two speakers rushed through slides and showed their notes pages since Vista stubbornly refused to display the slideshows. The problem is that they could have just skipped their talks completely. A) 15 minutes is never adequate time to get through 45 slides. Don't be a moron. and B) If you're just going to flip through everything, noting we're late and you don't have time, just save us the trouble and keep the presentation closed. Honestly.

We took an unscheduled break to fix that problem, then returned for more talks. They went reasonably well and programs were handed out shortly before 10. FedEx had arrived, I thought, and flipped through the document that contained no mention of posters and no abstracts for talks.

Speakers finally gave up on Vista and started carting their laptops with them to the podium. This normally bugs me, but it was considerably faster than trying to coax information from the Windows OS.

But between a ruined schedule, speakers failing to show up or giving talks that had to have been written for a different purpose, I'm decidedly unimpressed. Also, when you shorten breaks and urge people to quickly return to the meeting room, it seems you would screw over your exhibitors. That's not great either. But I felt OK that my ankle and head hurt and I left early to nap.

My talk is ready and my remarks are mostly memorized. I'll practice a couple more times, then call it good. Though I could have joined the ranks of other speakers and skipped this altogether, I think. Disappointing. As is the fact that I have yet to leave the hotel. I've never tried to travel while injured and it sucks. A lot. Perhaps my mood is derived from that in addition to Mom not feeling well at home, Little One continuing to be sick and Chienne not being particularly sympathetic to either condition.

But at least room service is good! And I get to go home on Saturday morning.

Travel log

3:30AM
Hear Dad waking to go to work. Chienne is very excited. She soon joins me in the tiny bed in ToyRoom2. Mom sleeps behind closed doors in ToyRoom1.

3:45AM
Mom wakes and emerges. Chienne is very excited. Yell at dog to leave Mom alone. Decide to get up.

3:46AM
Evaluate health status as I head down the hall. Airport nervousness is not bad - I get quite freaked out sometimes, so this level of anxiety is fine. Head hurts. Badly. Ankle is OK, but not pleased about being drug around the country in a brace.

4:05AM
Dressed, packed, basically ready. Have taken 2 Advil, waited 15 minutes, then took an Excedrin. Not feeling well at all. Decide throat hurts and I am likely starting with some kind of evil virus as well.

4:20AM
Leave house with Mom so she can drop me at the terminal. Drive to airport.

4:51AM
Check in with American. Expect sympathy for ankle - receive none. Start to miss the South a bit. But I am granted permission to board early and we actually have a ramp thingie to connect with the plane. I often have to climb steps and may do so in Chicago anyway. Nice flight attendant does ask if I'd like a wheelchair in Chicago. I decline, hoping for a ride on one of those cool cart things. Acknowledge I'll likely walk and she says I'm connecting from G to H, I think. Since those are close alphabetically, I decide to hope they'll also be reasonable in terms of distance.

4:58AM
Join the quickly growing line to clear security. The sign says they'll return at 5AM and are now closed. Watch the various security people through the glass doors. Finally receive sympathy for my ankle! From a Southern woman standing in front of me in line. Midwestern people - in my experience and being one of them - aren't mean. They're just not so effusive as my friends in the South.

5:02AM
I am treated to my first ever set of shouted instructions from the TSA guy. Liquids in baggie. Computers out of bags. No breaking the rules! Start to shuffle forward but abruptly stop as a woman digs in her bag. "Have your IDs out and ready!" TSA guy calls to the group then sighs at the woman who wasn't ready.

5:07AM
This is a small airport, so the lines aren't long. I reach the TSA guy, he writes on my boarding pass, then I tentatively ask if I need to remove my brace. He glances around his podium, gives a quick expression of mild sympathy, then nods.

5:08AM
I make it through security without incident after removing my laptop, placing my poster tube on the table, tucking my left shoe on my bag and removing the bulky boot.

5:09AM
Hobble to chair to replace boot. It hurts already. But the head is better.

5:13AM
Open laptop to update internet on my progress. I wish I wasn't traveling today.

6:05AM
Am allowed to preboard and find my seat near the rear of the plane. I undo a couple of straps and sigh as the pressure is relieved on my sore ankle.

6:20AM
The sky is tinged pink as the sun rises. There is a flat blanket of clouds just below the plane with sparse puffs rising just a bit higher. The flight is smooth and quiet and short.

7:00AM
I'm landing at O'Hare when many of you are still sleeping. I scowl at this thought.

7:05AM
The plane clears and I wait patiently before securing my boot, retrieving my poster and hobbling off.

7:20AM
Realize that while G and H are alphabetically close, O'Hare must be ignorant of this fact. Keep hobbling.

7:45AM
OK, it hurts. And I'm moving very slowly. Stop to look at books.

7:55AM
My whole leg aches, I didn't find a single thing I was willing to read and I decide to move faster to see if that works.

7:55 and 10 seconds AM
That didn't work well at all. Scowl and return to turtle-pace. Watch people stream past me.

8:00AM
Have to dodge someone who is coming toward me and decides to go to my right side. Decide he looks sort of British and forgive him for not going left as I expected. I like British people.

8:05AM
Decide to look at books again since I realize I will not be wandering around sightseeing as was my plan. Feel moderately disappointed about this but forget about it as my ankle throbs insistently. Find no books. Buy People magazine. Buy bagel and soda to ease stomach troubles from pain pills.

8:15AM
Sit down at gate, then hop up to preboard again. Turtle-pace means I don't wait very long.

8:20AM
Wave off the apology of the woman with a toddler who sits in front of me. Little Sophie was very cute and did - I thought - quite well on the plane.

8:50AM
Take off on time. Enjoy a very pleasant flight since I don't mind children's songs being sung around me.

9:10AM
Finish People magazine - tuck into pocket in front of me for the next flyer.

9:15AM
Feel grateful for the empty middle seat as I contort myself to release the giant boot completely. Sigh with relief.

10:25AM/11:25AM (Time change!)
Land. Wait for plane to clear as I secure my boot and retrieve my poster again. Sigh and hobble toward baggage claim.

11:32AM
Realize it's taking a long time to get to baggage claim. Arrive and note the bags are already there.

11:33AM
Pick up my suitcase, realize my friendly white ribbon is missing, check the tag to be sure it's mine. Hobble off with carry-on, poster tube and suitcase in tow. I'm backtracking to find the taxis.

11:40AM
Finally make my way to the line and carefully step off the curb and into the car. Fasten seatbelt.

11:43AM
Glance around at the big monument and ponder whether the big dome with the figure on top is the White House or some congressional building.

11:43 and seconds AM:
See that Pennsylvania Ave. is heading toward said building and call it the White House. I think.

11:44AM
Acknowledge - after pausing to grimace in pain - that I probably shouldn't be an American.

11:50AM
Arrive at hotel. Hobble toward door. Beg for early check in saying "I fell down stairs." It sounds better than "I tripped and missed a step."

11:51AM
Feel smug and grateful as they find me a room. Decide I want a bed, pillows for my ankle and a shower. Then room service.

11:55AM
Take needs-remodeled elevator and trudge down the hall to my room. Wrinkle my nose at the temperature and look for the thermostat.

11:56AM
Still looking. Starting to sweat.

11:57AM
If I were a temperature control, where would I be?

11:58AM
Nearly rip off the front of the item that looks most like an air conditioner in the room. Fail.

11:59AM
Call front desk in defeat. Flip open part of the vent as instructed, turn air on high, go wash face. Note Bath and Body Works products in bathroom. Approve.

12:05PM
Sigh with relief as the room cools. Unpack my few outfits and many pajamas. Apparently I think the hotel will be like home and I will spend much of my time in sleepy clothes. Decide I'm probably right.

12:10PM
Can't get anyone to answer at room service. Frown because now I want crab cakes and they have them and nobody will bring me one.

12:15PM
Realize I have no idea where to register or what to do. Check websites and realize the conference is downstairs (good news) and should begin tomorrow morning (also OK). Resolve that I will head down tonight and see if anyone is around. If I'm not napping.

12:40PM
Call room service again. Order food. Eagerly await food.

12:42PM
Realize there is a searing pain in the top of my foot. Hope that means it is still healing, but make a note to see someone when I return home.

Abnormally concise

I published that without saying anything - I'm not that concise.

I drove and made it home with moderate pain. The ankle is OK, but the muscles in my legs protested the stretches.

Walking is difficult. I hobble and it hurts. This means the gigantic boot will - against my fervent hopes - be traveling with me.

Mom just went to bed after crying. I hate that her knees still bother her so much. I'm growing to hate her surgeon.

I met Smallest One. She is small. And sleepy. And absolutely perfect.

Little One is sick, but getting better. We joined them for dinner and I cuddled and talked and played and wondered if I really want kids or not. Seems like a lot of work on a day where I was achy and tired and wanted to rest.

My flight is at 6:15 tomorrow morning. So now I must sleep.

Oh, and my word ceased to become important to me, though I still have no idea what it is. Nice when that works out, yes?

Post-phone-interview

I closed my CV when I opened a Word document so I could compose this post. It is 7 pages of neatly formatted Arial font documenting my life for the past six years. Bullet points mention various projects on which I’ve worked. There are many because I grow bored easily and enjoy collaborations. I could - and have, I suppose - tell stories about every single publication located near the end of the document. Given that I feel it is in written communication where I have learned the most in this post-doc, it is that section that pleases me most.

But. I appear to be thinking of leaving science.

“How much time do you spend on research, publications and literature?” I asked during my lengthy phone interview.

He said a word I can’t now recall - and I didn’t write it down - and it bugs me that I can’t write a simple word here rather than explain that my memory is apparently shot as I age and I can’t remember the stupid word. (I even tried to google it. Does anyone know the word? Please? Where something isn't rewarded, but isn't discouraged. It is [insert correct word here]. Perhaps it begins with in- or non-? Please?)

“Oh.” I replied as I tend to do when something requires a moment of thought. Next to where I’d written “publishing” on lined notebook paper in blue ink, I drew a small X. I wrote “research” underneath and made another X.

“It’s not that we’re against it.” He tried to explain, obviously seeing that he’d given me pause. Perhaps he was surprised at my reaction since his first question involved why - after apparently doing quite well - I’d want to leave academic research. I had reasons and lists and talking points - all of them sincere and true and valid - about the impact of my work, stability of funding, the vision of research at my current institution clashing a bit with my own.

“I want to do something important.” I told him. “And my view of what is important is what impacts patient care in a positive way. I feel like - for me - industry might be the way to do that.”

I also want to be closer to my family, though I left that unsaid. I need to take steps to make that happen - for me and for them - and am absolutely ready to do so. That’s the priority, honestly.

Yet I spoke of projects and collaborations and publications with my interviewer for nearly an hour. What I’ve done and what I still hope to do, software packages that are important and features I wish were included in the technology. I think of days where I want to do nothing more than manipulate data and see histograms and statistics that offer tiny hints at how a particular system behaves. I love doing lit searches when I finally find something that’s just perfect in describing a method or some results that coincide with my own. I even like writing papers, basking in the knowledge that I know where this sentence goes and need to make sure this thought it placed near the beginning because it is the key piece of information.

I have a page and a half of notes on what the job does involve. And, basically, I’d sit at a desk - perhaps in a room with other people or perhaps in my own tiny cubicle - with a computer and work. Someone would send me problems and I would try to fix them. After enough time had passed, I would go home. Perhaps - while I was at the big building in the city closer to home - I would attend some meetings, go to lunch with my new friends, answer some email.

It’s not that I would be bored, necessarily. The job is focused on something I don’t know how to do. They seem to think they can teach me. I tend to agree and upon closer consideration, the huge hole in my background is in this specific area. I’d like to become good at this particular skill. And I can think of few better ways to really learn it than to work with people who do it constantly. Then - after two or three years - perhaps I could seek a promotion and do something different. There are several jobs in the company that I think would better suit me, yet aren’t currently available. Or I could depart from industry and reenter the academic world. Many people do and it’s not like working for Industry Giant would be seen as negative. I think.

I would get a 50-60 hour a week job. Not the constant strain of thinking of new problems, resting from working constantly or worrying over where my name will appear in the author list. I wouldn’t have to beg for patients or resources to do my job. I’m frustrated here. And even as certain feelings tug at me - people I’d miss, facets of this lifestyle that I love - I have a feeling that if I’m invited to interview and extended an offer, I’ll likely start the arduous task of finishing up, packing my things and heading north.

My current life - projects and papers and scattering highlighted papers throughout my house - would become a hobby. I’d have to rely on established collaborations to keep my hand in. And at some point, it would be necessary to decide whether I actually need to keep tabs on research at all. Perhaps it will grow too time consuming as I need to personally subscribe to journals rather than logging in at the pretty library site and taking whatever I need.

It seems an important step to decide how highly I value this lifestyle - the flexibility paired with insane stress, the headaches of frustration and euphoria of triumph. So the idea of being part of the team with a common goal appeals to me. I love the idea of having a house somewhere with deep snowfalls and cozy sweaters. Of feeling at home rather than wondering why I’d been transplanted in an environment that - while lovely - isn’t right for me.

I’m getting ahead of myself though. I have yet to hear from the group manager. I’ve no idea if I’ll be invited to interview in person, let alone receive an offer comfortable enough to maintain my current lifestyle in a region with a higher cost of living. So I wonder and worry while I continue to script my talk to be given next week and watch my ankle continue to deflate.

Do let me know if you can think of that word though. It's just another piece of the puzzle that bugs me.

Animated

I made some friends last night when I went to dinner with Friend and her parents.

"Are you OK?" One small girl asked, and I frowned for a moment before understanding.

"I just hurt my foot." I told her. "That's very nice of you to ask, but I'm fine."

She nodded solemnly as we skirted around each other in the rest room. I went to wash my hands when someone poked my elbow a couple of times. I looked down at an even smaller girl, thumb in mouth, who blinked up at me and pointed at my brace.

"Oh." I smiled down at her. "I missed a step and hurt my ankle. But it's OK. This is just to help it get better." She looked down at the large device again then nodded.

"Hi." The largest of the trio said and I turned to greet her while drying my hands.

"Hello." I said.

"You hurt your foot." She informed me, not unkindly, and I nodded. "But you have pretty shoes." I smiled and thanked her, then hobbled back to the table.

"I have pretty shoes." I informed Friend before we came back to my house so she could sleep in a real bed while her parents use hers. I frowned when she asked which shoe was pretty and decided they likely meant my brown flat with the satin bow rather than my giant brace with lots of velcro.

I want the ankle to finish healing. It continues to hurt, though it is considerably better and semi-functional.

I mowed the lawn this morning. Specifically, I mowed the two strips of weeds along my driveway in our depressing, drought-ridden landscape of dead and dying plants. Somehow some tall grasses have survived and after making sure Friend was awake and preparing to rejoin her parents in packing and moving, I put on my brace and hobbled outside. As I shoved and yanked the mower around - taking for-freaking-ever despite the small job, I had Know What Boys Like in my head. While I wondered why that song and why I was quite disturbed, I shook the bits of grass off my brace, hobbled inside and realized that awful old man on Family Guy sang that song.

He totally ruins the show for me, leaving me tempted to turn it off. But I do like Family Guy.

I walked in to find Friend weeping.

"Is it your tooth?" I asked with concern. She shook her head and I continued to guess. "Your knee? Your hip? Your shoulder? Head?" She smiled and shook her head. "Emotions?" I finally decided gently. (I find Friend, by the way, tremendously strong and insightful and lovely. Even if she hadn't been taking care of me for the past week, I would feel tremendously privileged to know her.)

"Now I have that hymn in my head." She sighed moments later, wiping her eyes while I looked on in concern.

"He lives in a pineapple under the sea." I called down the hall when she went to get ready. "Absorbent and yellow and porous is he! If nautical nonsense be something you wish, then drop to the deck and flop like a fish!" As I started to clap and say SpongeBob SquarePants over and over, Chienne barked at me. She wasn't singing along so much as demanding I stop. So I did.

I have done precious little overall today. Picked up a few things - including the care bears - napped, watched some college football, did a bit of editing on the first part of my novel. It's boring.

In fact, for something more interesting, you'd likely be better off watching cartoons. Or browsing someecards. I'm going to begin packing for my trip and finish cleaning.

I'm so bored.

News

"Tell her." I heard Mom say after I missed a call - being in bed when the phone rang in the living room - and called her back.

Little One's voice came through, though I smiled upon guessing what she was to tell me.

"I have a new sister!" She said in her sweet voice.

"Well." I said, blinking against tears when remembering how small and lovely she was after being born. I was terrified of her, frankly, and would only hold her when I was safely seated and someone would place her tiny body in my arms where I would tuck her close and rock in the chair. "Good for you! Congratulations!"

"Tell her you'll see her tomorrow." Mom instructed.

"I'll see you tomorrow!" She said and I smiled.

"No," her grandmother correctly gently. "Aunt Katie will be home in a few days. We'll go meet your little sister tomorrow."

After talking to Mom for a moment, I picked up the computer to make a note of how I learned of Smallest One's arrival. She and her mother are doing well, though Brother has yet to inform us of her weight and height. August 30, though. Seems a good day for a birthday.

Now I update (not in numerical order)

Awwww (6) DaybyDay wrote a post. It was for me. I was filled with affection and appreciation because of the gesture - I thought it was sweet and lovely and wonderful. And given that I'm currently trying to figure out what to do with myself from here (if my ankle survives, of course), I found it interesting and useful.

Sigh (1) Industry Giant called. We talked for 30 minutes and I hung up, realized I was sweating and sighed with exhaustion. Then I tried to prepare myself because he was calling to finish up later on. After about an hour of conversation, he finally called it good and told me he'd pass the information along to his manager. So I'm waiting again and am not completely convinced this is the job for me. But I'm too tired for in-depth analysis.

yay, tentatively (8) I worked on my talk while waiting for both parts of the interview. It's not bad at all. I just need to talk through it more and decide where I'm struggling. So that's coming along.

Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow (2) Ankle continues to hurt. I believe it is dying. It pretends to be reasonably functional then throbs like crazy. This pattern is not cool. Also, the bruising is extensive and hideous.

Good (3) Mom called the nurse at her knee surgeon's office. They don't know details of this procedure he proposed, but Mom seems driven to work hard in therapy and avoid going back to the hospital.

Also good (4) She also sounds stronger and more stable. Stupid doctor shouldn't have made her feel badly about herself and I will attack if necessary at her next appointment. (I have a giant boot.) But for now, all is well.

Ew. Still. (7) Dog's ear is still puffy. But she seems fine. She does, however, miss her favorite friend. She pines when Friend is away - waits in the office, cries at the door and is beside herself with painful (for Friend, who must fend off lunges and kisses) joy when Friend comes back.

Nooooo. Still. (5) I didn't go to work today, so I still have to deal with Henry tomorrow. Luckily, I still have my boot.

Now I should shower and rest. And prepare to complain more later.

Edited to add: We all knew this day would come, though I tried to shield you from it for as long as possible. But I must display the horror of my bruises and the continued swelling of the ankle that refused to heal. I'm sorry. But look how icky! Don't you feel awful for me? I feel awful for myself.

Now I whine

Nooooo (1) Industry Giant person didn't call. Now I have to do the waiting thing all day tomorrow again. And I get nervous! It's not fair!

Nooooo (2) My ankle still hurts. I'm tired of this! I want it to function again! And this sort-of/kind-of thing that it's doing (wherein it doesn't hurt, then I try to walk normally and it threatens to collapse) isn't cool!

Nooooo (3) Mom went to see the knee moron (oops - doctor) and he wants to put her under again, force them flat then inject cortizone. She doesn't want to do that, but said he left before she could ask any questions.

Nooooo (4) Since she was sad she went alone, I apparently am going to delay my return after the conference to go to the next appointment with her. This is why it's too hard to live far away!

Nooooo (5) Boss gave my grant (that we finally agreed not to resubmit, I thought) to Henry. Now they went to meet tomorrow. For what?! Henry is annoyingly critical and in my current mood, I'm likely to just yell at him or kick him with my gigantic boot.

Nooooo (6) There's nothing on TV. And books bore me. And you people won't write on your blogs!

Nooooo (7) Chienne has another aural hematoma. She's had a drain before and hated it with a passion, so I'm going to try to let this resolve on its own. But I hate that her ear is all puffy. Though she doesn't seem to mind much at all.

Nooooo (8) I've looked at the program for the upcoming conference and I'm outclassed. By a lot. This talk should be awesome and I think it's just good.
That's all I can think of for now. I'll probably update later.

Interview 1

My first interview out of grad school was at Industry Giant. Their headquarters - or rather the one that was relevant to my field of study - was located within easy driving distance from my graduate city. So I applied and when someone called within days, I nervously agreed to head a bit east and deliver my first interview talk.

It went well, I thought of the 45 minute presentation delivered in a small conference room with about 10 people in attendance. They asked easy questions, then started to speak with me individually according to the schedule I'd been given.

I remember how nervous I was, trying frantically to stay professional and focused. I crashed at lunch though. The exhaustion hit me and I went under without a fight. I wasn't able to answer the questions lobbed at me from across the table. I felt under-qualified and stupid and immature.

"You'll call us before you take any other job." The director ordered before I shook his hand and left later that afternoon. But I knew my performance had been sub-par - I interviewed much better at other places, learning to drink coffee early and fight the inevitable desire for rest really hard. I took my current position after much deliberation and out of a desperate desire to leave grad school. I didn't hear from Industry Giant and after two calls that went unanswered, I decided to write them off with my best wishes.

The hell of it is that I wanted that job. I would have been good at it, the location was optimal in terms of being near my family, and they actually have winter there. So I sighed and wished things had gone differently.

The job I mentioned earlier - the one I really want - is again at Industry Giant. So I sent my CV last week along with a delightful email and was disappointed when I didn't hear anything. That's fine though, I thought. I'm not quite ready to leave here. I haven't interviewed in a long time and would likely flub up this first one.

Of course, someone sent email this morning asking after my availability for a phone interview today or tomorrow.

"Oh, crap." I whispered, stomach clenching. All those job-seeking worries hit me hard and their familiarity was stunning. I remember exactly how this goes. The process is hard, at least for me. I get very nervous and fight headaches and tummy troubles. I try frantically to over-prepare but the first one is always messy. That's why I lined up interviews back to back as much as possible. I needed the practice and once I got going, things tended to smooth out. So Industry Giant is once again getting an unpracticed, unpolished version of me. But this time I have no doubts about industry vs. academia. If I can get them to offer me something, I'll take it.

Now I need to review notes on how to interview. Wish me luck.

Practicing nostalgia

Whatever will I blog about today, I thought as I woke up from nap number 2 and moaned from a mixture of discomfort and pure boredom. I can't focus on work, nor do I have the USB drive that contains the projects I'd want to consider. I don't want to read my book and after trying two other stories, decided I don't want to read much of anything. I want, of course, to bounce on my trampoline or take a walk. But I can't. Because I'm injured.

Instead, I decided to practice an older version of my talk. Luckily, I had an audience for the event.

They said I was very good - that my speaking skills had improved considerably since we last played school when I was a bit younger. I used to lecture them on the alphabet or work on addition skills with flashcards my parents purchased. I would scold my students who refused to be attentive and focused, and praise the ones who tried particularly hard. I obviously loved Tenderheart most of all, so he always sat in the front. I didn't really consider it today, but subconsciously placed his brown body aside as I arranged everyone else, then nestled him into the carpet in the first row.

For those of you concerned over my mental state, I shall explain. I was petting Sprout while complaining of my physical malady when he sprinted down the hall upon hearing the phone ring.

"Hi, Mom." I answered, seeing her name on the outside of my new phone that has exquisite voice quality. I had to threaten to leave Verizon by canceling my contract before they offered me this phone for $50. They had wanted me to pay retail and I grew annoyed.

"It's Dad." The gruff voice answered me and I told him he should use his own phone. "Hey," he said, "do you remember those little Care Bears you had? The plastic ones?"

I scrunched my face in thought, could vaguely recall a cloud-car that held the multi-colored figures, and said I did remember them.

"Well, I was asking Little One what she wanted for her birthday and she said Care Bears."

"I know. Mom told me. I have two of them for her - a yellow one and a turquoise one. With stars and rainbows on their tummies."

"Well, I told her that she already had some of them and she said she wanted some to play with. In her dollhouse. So I stopped at the store today and asked for them - because I remembered playing with yours when you were little, but they said they didn't have them. Your mom looked online and couldn't find them either. But she thought she packed yours with the big Care Bears and I wondered if you'd seen them."

"They're in the attic." I reported. "I haven't opened that bag since I moved. But I could go look."

"No." He refused, sounding disappointed. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"I'll put on my stabilizing boot and go look. But there's no light up there so I need to go before it gets dark outside."

So I strapped my grotesque foot into my gigantic boot, velcroing everything together, then made my way up the narrow staircase that leads to the unfinished attic. It was hot - the area isn't climate controlled and I wrinkled my nose at the temperature up there. But I continued on, clinging to beams and trying to place my feet properly so I didn't fall down and hurt myself even more. I found the black garbage bag, then a smaller one next to it, that contained my precious collection of stuffed bears. I tossed them across the room, made my way carefully across the boards on the floor, then walked painstakingly down the stairs.

Breathing quickly with effort and a bit of delayed fear over falling, I flopped on my ottoman and began tossing softly colored bodies across the floor. When I reached the bottom, I called Dad back.

"I found them!" I exclaimed. "There's Cheer Bear and Birthday Bear and Funshine Bear." I recited from memory. "Grumpy Bear and Wish Bear. Share Bear and Loves-A-Lot Bear. Is that right? I never loved the pink bears all that much. Good Luck Bear and Tenderheart! I have nine of them." I placed them neatly on my coffee table and told him I'd bring them for Little One.

He was pleased and handed the phone to Mom when she reminded him he hadn't looked at the pictures of my ankle I'd sent. We talked for several minutes - she's in pain and discouraged and tired of dealing with her knees, poor thing. Then we hung up and I looked at the stuffed animals littering the floor. Then I smiled and decided to arrange them on one side of the room.

I remembered doing the same thing when I was little. Pushing them firmly into place so they'd sit up. Their darn heads are so big that they're prone to toppling over. I retrieved the two new bears I purchased for Little One's upcoming birthday so they could join the party. I allowed Sleepy Bear to rest during my presentation - it's good to realize some people will be bored. I put the Cousins around the schefflara because they were particularly stubborn about being upright. But I smiled and touched heart-shaped noses, simultaneously wishing I was little again and being glad that's all over.

They're currently making me quite happy. And anticipating Friend's expression when she sees them brings no small amount of joy either. I told Mom they're all facing the loveseat where Friend sits now that I have claimed the couch in the name of injured ankles.

"Remember what they'd do when they encountered someone sad or angry or mean?" I asked Mom after I called to tell her to look at Care Bear pictures I'd sent.

"The Care Bear Stare!" We said together.

Friend doesn't stand a chance.

Ankle update

The foot is very swollen - it's ugly and puffy and gross. But people at work were impressed and sympathetic. Which is good, I suppose.

"Ken?" I asked. "If I take off my uncomfortable boot, would you mind getting my ice pack out of the freezer?"

"Friend?" I wrote later. "I'm kind of queasy and didn't bring any lunch. Are you going to eat? Would you get me something too? Oh, and bring it here to me? Please and thank you."

When Boss looked on in concern, Jill said, "Well, bless your heart. What can we do?"

I told them Friend had driven me in, but I would likely work from home a couple days this week. They said that was fine, but I could call if I wanted a ride anywhere. I thought that was nice.

After Friend had brought lunch and stayed to keep me company (while I printed out nearly 200 pages of part 2 of my book - some of that text has to go.), I started to count minutes until I could have more Advil. I couldn't tuck my feet under my chair - as is my habit - and I grew uncomfortable, shifting from side to side and feeling my back and shoulders ache. I did get quite a bit done. I was uncomfortable so I worked steadily for distraction more than anything else. I solved a long-standing software problem, tackled a hypothesis that seemed too complex for my mental state (though I did finish it), then finally sent Friend an email saying that I wasn't doing well at all.

"[Department]. This is Katie." I chirped when my phone rang.

"Not feeling great?" Friend asked and I sagged and allowed my voice to reflect my misery.

"I'm OK." I said, hoping my discomfort was evident in my tone. "But I'm starting to hurt. And 6:00 seems very far away. But I'll be OK."

"We could leave earlier. Maybe 30 minutes?" I accepted gratefully but told her to take her time.

"Ken?" I said when he came back - it was almost like he was avoiding me or something. "Would you get me some water? In my mug? So I can take more pills?"

He returned with ice water and offered to fetch some fruit and cookies from the break room. I thanked him, but refused, then tried to finish the task I was tackling.

When Friend came, I quickly struggled into my boot and stood to leave. I forgot the USB drive that helpfully contained much of the data I need to work from home. Poor, long-suffering Friend said she would retrieve it tomorrow. But she will be rid of me for a couple of days. I have food, the ability to walk around my small home and, hopefully, enough distractions so that I don't go insane from boredom. If you people could write posts on your blogs or send me interesting email, that would help considerably. My terribly bruised ankle, ugly swollen foot and very awkward way of walking would appreciate the help.

ER. Fine.

"I think they're leaving the car there." I noted of the large blue vehicle that had parked right in the way of the ER driveway. "So you could just pull around."

"There's no room." Friend said, having coped admirably with my constant chatter then oppressive silence after I sighed and said that I couldn't walk (though I could hop) and if she thought a trip to the hospital was in order, I would go. She waited until the valet waved her around and I scowled.

"I told you there was room." I muttered. "If you'd have just pulled around like I said, it would have been fine. But no. Nobody ever listens to what I say."

"Um." I said later, having been placed on a cart/wheelchair device that Friend had to push into the door and past security. "I appear to be in the doorway. Friend! The doors are closing on me! You need to move me!" I batted at the glass doors as they clunked at my chair a few times.

She said something about positioning me so they'd close on my head but moved me forward. "This thing is like a lawnmower." She commented as I waved my hand regally to where a woman waited to take my information so that I could be moved in that direction. "If you don't push these things down, you can't go anywhere." We jerked to an abrupt stop and I steadied myself on the desk to my side, wishing my shoe didn't feel quite so tight.

I altered my tone completely when I addressed the woman at the desk. "Hello." I said sweetly. "I hurt my ankle. I think it's fine, but she" I motioned behind me to an ever-patient Friend, "said I should come. But I think it's fine."

"Left or right?" The woman asked.

"Right." I answered, then thanked her when Friend moved me toward the waiting room. The ride was less than smooth. She apparently kept trying to push with her left knee which was recently dislocated. We're kind of falling apart down here.

We were soon greeted by the triage nurse, who told Friend she could come along or wait in the chairs.

"She's coming." I said, glancing over my shoulder in momentary panic. I didn't want to be alone.

She followed along and I relaxed and turned into obedient and lovely Katie while the nurse asked questions. She filled in forms and praised the ice pack I wore. She clucked over the injury and backed up when Friend mentioned I actually fell yesterday and wouldn't come.

"Oh." I said, frowning. "Yes. That's true."

The lovely triage nurse moved me toward the exam rooms after selecting the proper one on her computer. I looked around, curious but tense, and smiled at Donna, who was to be my nurse.

"Bless your heart." She said as I stepped out of the chair and onto the soft cart/bed covered in a sheet and with a single pillow. "Can I get you girls anything to drink?"

I asked for water and Friend - having had no coffee since waking at 10 - had a Coke. Donna returned quickly with both, removed my sock and shook her head over the swelling. "You were right to ice it." She said. "The doctors have been very quick today so someone will be in soon. Can I get you anything for the pain?"

I again mentioned it was only a 2 on a scale of 1-10 and said I'd be fine. She nodded kindly and told me to let her know if I needed her. I thanked her and she left. A woman arrived almost immediately to see if I would complete a survey for her research. I nodded and confided that I did research there too, thinking it was odd to be treated at my own institution but I was rather impressed so far. She didn't make it through the consent form before a faculty member entered.

She left us alone while he looked, prodding gently up to my knee, checking muscles and asking if there was pain.

"No." I answered. "No. Not there either. No."

"Good." He decided, then touched around the swelling.

"It's not hurting." I told him because it wasn't. The pressure he used wasn't causing discomfort and I appreciated his care. He decided he wanted x-rays of the ankle and foot since the swelling was so extensive and I nodded.

Survey woman came and went again. As soon as she left, an intern entered and asked the same questions I'd answered several times already. He listened to me breathe and looked at the ankle.

"I won't manipulate it." He said, but continued to stare.

"It didn't hurt when the doctor touched it." I said, not bothered by the attention. It did look ugly - dark purple bruises on the inside, swelling that had puffed both medially and laterally. "You can prod at it if you'd like."

He nodded and started to push, checking the same muscles the doctor had tried, but pressing too hard. I frowned, and jumped as he started to hurt the ankle with what I decided was excessive pressure. I was saved, however, by the kind x-ray tech who brought the machine to me.

Friend went to stand in the hall while I had to flex my foot while the tech moved the box and took the pictures. We did three ankle and 3 of the foot and he was very gentle. I thanked him and he went away, leaving Friend to return. We talked for a few minutes and I dug some papers out of the bag that contained my laptop, power cord, a file of journal articles, a book, a memory stick so I could send Friend to print my book if I got bored, some Advil, and ice pack, my broken phone, lipgloss, pens and pencils, checkbook and wallet. I came prepared, but things were moving surprisingly quickly.

I had just started to type an idea from an article into the discussion section when Intern returned.

"I didn't get to finish examining it." He explained and I nodded.

"OK, it's hurting when you press that hard." I told him. He left soon enough and we began the wait that I had expected all along. Intern checked in to say that nothing was broken, but they were waiting for the official opinion when Radiology read the films. I nodded. He came back again to ask if I wanted a full leg brace and crutches or a boot. I chose the latter.

"Could I have picked neither?" I asked Friend when he left. She didn't think that was one of the options. "It's not going to help. I still won't be able to walk." I pouted.

"The point is that those things make it easier and safer to walk." She said mildly and I blinked, then nodded.

Donna returned with a large boot-like device that she velcro-ed me into. "Is it uncomfortable," I asked, "because it's pushing my foot when it wants to be flatter?"

"Yes." She said sympathetically. "Bless your heart."

"It's cumbersome." I offered as she continued to secure straps. She nodded and clipped the ends of the longest straps. "Thank you." I said when she was done. "You've been wonderful."

"I have my moments." She smiled and moved back out to the hall.

We waited some more and I grew uncomfortable as the brace pushed at my swollen ankle and insisted on a position I was growing to hate.

"It hurts." I told Friend and she nodded.

"You might ask the nurse how to fix that." She suggested. "Or loosen the strap that's too tight."

We finally got discharge paperwork - a little more than 2 hours after we arrived - and Donna told me about the boot, the sports medicine follow up appointment. She gave me 4 Vicodin and a prescription for 800 mg ibuprofen. I also got a note from the doctor in case I wanted to take time off this week, then she escorted me to where I handed over my co-pay. I think I also pay some percentage, but I assume they send that bill.

We moved out to get the car and my ankle is much more stable in the boot. It hurt, but I could walk much easier. I arranged myself in the passenger seat and later made my way down those evil steps to Friend's apartment. I called her a name when she reminded me to actually use the final step and said I was glad she'd offered to go grocery shopping for me and had to face that errand.

She settled me on the couch and her felines (3 of the 4) arrived for pets. She handed me the remote and water to take a pill and I reclined, the three cats arraging themselves atop me and watched SpongeBob while she ran to Krogers. She returned and we moved back to the car, stopping at Krispy Kreme for donuts then moved toward home.

"The Vicodin are making me loopy." I commented. "I'm overwhelmed with this appreciation for you. You're so nice. And wonderful. You took me to the hospital and went grocery shopping and got me donuts. I like you a lot. You're smart and wonderful and very nice."

"OK." She said. "I'm sure I'll get back to being mean soon enough."

"No." I said. "You're not mean! You're good and kind and nice."

"Uh huh." She noted as I continued to compliment her.

"Should we get Arby's or something from home?" I asked as I realized I was still hungry after the glazed donut I had already.

"What do you want?"

"I don't know." I said, feeling immediately confused. So I started to sing the SpongeBob song, but realized I didn't know many of the words. "I think I want Arby's." I finally decided.

"Then we'll drive through." She nodded and I again told her she was the best, most wonderful friend ever.

"You get me Arby's and drive me around and wait with me in the emergency room." I said, filled with love.

"OK." She said again, handing me the food and driving toward my house.

I got home, had lunch, then slept. I still feel a bit funny, but taking off the boot helped the ankle pain a lot. It's now wrapped (courtesy of Friend) and we're going to get a new phone for me in the morning. I took Advil instead of more loopiness-inducing drugs and while I'm uncomfortable (a 3 on a scale of 1-10, 1 being no pain at all and 10 being the worst pain I can imagine.), I'm hanging in.

I was right - it would have healed itself. But the ER was impressive and, while it's going to be expensive, I think, I now know there's no evidence of lasting damage at this time. If I still struggle after the swelling goes down (7-10 days, they think), I'm to see someone else. But, for now, I'm injured but OK.

ER? No.

I was carrying a large stack of flattened boxes down the concrete stairs to Friend's apartment door. I apparently didn't peek around the boxes well enough because I missed the last step and I came tumbling down amidst a large flurry of cardboard. I find this rather unfortunate.

First, it hurt. Friend's neighbor came out of her apartment and said, "Oh, no. Are you OK?"

"Um," I said, for I make no sound upon injuring myself, "I don't know. I think so. I can get out of your way though." And I politely tried to drag my body out of the way of the stairs.

"No, you're fine there. But can I help you? Or call someone?"

"I think I'm OK." I said. "My friend should be along soon and once I settle for a minute, I think I can get up." Then I realized that last statement - if the screaming pain in my right ankle was any indication - might be very false.

But I did pull myself to my feet, took a moment to bitterly regret that I'd tucked my large soda in my purse to leave both hands free for boxes, then unlocked Friend's door and went inside.

"What happened?" She asked. "Are you hurt?"

"Um, yes. I think so." I offered. I was pouring liquid out of my purse and sighed when seeing my cell phone floating in the dark cola. "Hell." I said, and hoped it would function when it dried. It does not.

I made my way over to the sofa and sat, placing my ankle up on a TV tray and realizing it wasn't hurting all that much at all.

"You could look at it." I told her, confident in her medical ability.

"Oh." She said, when I removed my sock. "That's the wrong shape. Well, let me see the other ankle." I propped it up next to the hurting one. "Oh, no." She said. "Definitely not the right shape. What's the plan?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, frowning at the huge, swollen lump on the outside of my right leg.

"Are we doing to the hospital now?"

"No. I don't go to hospitals. What do you think is wrong with it?" I continued to stare, wiggling my toes to prove I was perfectly fine.

"If my foot looked like that, I'd go to the hospital to let them x-ray it and tell me what was wrong." She advised.

"No." I said again. "I don't do that. It will get better."

So I told her to go pack boxes while I placed the ice she gave me around it. I wrote down title and author for stacks of books she gave me that she wants to be rid of. Then I laid down and winced when I realized the Advil wasn't quite killing the pain.

"I want to go home." I called down the hall where she was packing.

"You want to go the hospital?" She clarified.

"No." I repeated. "I want to go home. But you'll have to drive - I don't know that I can. Oh, and can you also go in CVS and buy me ice packs? And a new Ace bandage?"

She shook her head at my foolishness, but agreed.

"The human body is quite resilient." I told her as we made our way out to my house.

"Yes." She said mildly. "When it's young and not terribly injured."

"I'll have you know it's not even hurting now." I informed her, offended. "And I'm younger than you are! By like 6 years!" 34-28=6, I told myself with a nod, pleased I was right. Then I sent mental energy to my ankle insisting that it make itself well.

"I guess we can go to the hospital tomorrow." I sighed after making my way painfully down my short hallway.

"Go to the hospital tonight?" She clarified and I shook my head.

"I don't want to go now. I must give it time to heal itself. But I would like to walk again at some point. So I'll let them poke and wrench at it if it's not any better tomorrow."

So I am now rather comfortably settled on the couch with my feet on an ottoman. I moved my laptop charger over from its usual spot by the loveseat and asked Friend for some water and the baklava we got to go after our Greek lunch. My ankle is swollen terribly, but it doesn't hurt when I keep it still. So I'm going to try to get up again soon. Just to see if my youthful body has magically been made better from when I fell down and bruised the entire side of my ankle.

"Definitely not the right color or shape." Friend pronounced when I asked her to wrap it for me.

I think it'll be fine. Or I'll let you know how my trip to the ER goes. One or the other.