Compare & Contrast

There are any number of conferences with varying degrees of relevance and quality. It is a now time for The Meeting, a lengthy ordeal - seven days jammed full of sessions and meetings, lunches and dinners and special events. I tend to go, having only missed a single opportunity while completing my graduate and postdoctoral work.

But, if you reference last year's meeting, you'll note that I spent very little time learning. I chose to mope instead. I would never find a job! I was so sad! I must comfort myself with lengthy naps in a lovely hotel. Massages. Long baths that left me splashing happily until I remembered I was likely to be unemployed in the near future. I would dutifully slump in the sudsy water, cheered by the bubbles despite myself.

So ingrained is that habit that I arrived last night, skin soaking in the humidity and hair frizzing alarmingly, I tossed my suitcase on a bench and flopped on my bed. I arched into a delicious stretch, muscles aching from 8+ hours on airplanes and opened one eye to glance at the clock as I relaxed into the fluffy bedding. I sighed, tempted to curl into a nap rather than dress for one of the three activities for which I had invitations. It doesn't seem like something I'd do, I thought, closing my eye again.

Motivated only by guilt, I quickly pulled off traveling clothes and shimmied into a dress. Briefly admiring the color, I forced myself to don heels and make-up, tucked my hair into some vague semblance of a style and set off to find one of the gatherings. I walked, heels clicking oddly against a background of flip flops. Smiling at people in swimsuits and beachwear as they ate ice cream or wandered off to find some suitably fruity beverage, I checked my cell phone for the room number again and frowned at signs as I tried to navigate the area.

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it - people know who I am and stopped to chat. I drank free cocktails and nibbled complimentary treats, reminding myself to mingle after I'd lingered with one group too long. After a couple of hours, I declared myself exhausted and retreated to my room.

I started the day with a walk and am taking a break to eat a container of fresh pineapple. I took care of five items on my list of things to do before 9AM (local). But, sitting in a huge ballroom telling myself to focus instead of wishing I was napping, I realized conferencing isn't all that different than it always has been.

Spoiling

"I'm getting it!" I told Mom when she leaned forward from the backseat to motion wildly toward the open parking spot downtown. "Good gracious, you people are driving me nuts," I muttered and turned to see my parents sending matching grins in my direction. I laughed at them as I opened the door, walking up to the second Hallmark store we'd visited in the last 15 minutes.

"Excuse me," I sheepishly interrupted the women at the counter of the first shop. I glanced around at the figurines, scented candles and aisles of greeting cards before facing them again. "Do you stock any of the Webkinz Juniors?" They replied that they didn't, though both were interested in buying one upon their arrival.

The taller of the two, dressed in a pink turtleneck and quilted pastel cardigan, began calling other shops in the area, triumphantly announcing she'd found a location that had the plush toys. "I want one for Little One," Mom told me earnestly. So, with a nod of acceptance, we set off to find a tiny shop stuffed full of toys. After pulling neatly into a parking spot, we headed straight for the desired display, selecting a Pink Puppy that would allow my eldest niece access to the site with games aimed at ages 3-6. I petted her head softly, wondering what name would be bestowed upon her.

"Beary, Tigey, Dolfie, Goldie," Mom recited of the last four Webkinz Little One obtained. "Guess what animals they are," she invited and we giggled. I can't judge though - I purchased the goldfish after admiring its pretty fins at the airport on some trip or another and said I thought Goldie was a fine name.

"What'd you get?" Dad asked, reaching for the bag after we returned to the car. He'd taken a single look at the tiny storefront and colorful array of its offerings before deciding he'd wait in the Jeep.

"She needed a bird too," Mom told him when he pulled out a small cardinal in addition to the larger dog. "They have treetop rooms." I blinked at him in surprise when he nodded with understanding rather than scoffed in response.

"She wants to see the treetop rooms," he told me and I patted his arm fondly while giving my own nod of understanding. He approved the toy we selected for Smallest One and tucked everything back in the bag before handing it to Mom.

About an hour later, I glanced over Mom's shoulder when she called to ask a computer question. She was in my office, perusing handheld video games and offered that Little One had asked for one. A girl in daycare brings hers and Little One's cousin taunts her with his. I narrowed my eyes at the latter and helped click the proper buttons to bundle a package - selecting a pink system, pink accessories package and My Little Pony game.

"Your dad is going to kill me," Mom fretted, glancing across my staircase to where Dad sat in my living room, watching cars drive very fast for short distances. He used to do that - I remember standing with my hand in Mom's at the drag races, watching Dad drive the car we'd load up and tow home. They promised me a Care Bear if he won, and I still recall standing between them as we approached the display at Sears. The bears, colorful as the display we'd seen earlier at Hallmark, had their boxes arranged in a tower and I quickly pointed to the one I wanted. (I'd given the matter careful thought on the way to the store.) I go in sometimes and look at the bears as they smile from shelves on one of my guest rooms - it's oddly comforting.

"I'll get it," I decided easily of the game and waved off her protests. "I can afford it," I insisted, "and I want her to have it." I tapped the keys as I entered my information, having the items shipped here so Mom and Dad could take it with them when they went home.

I puzzled a bit more over what to do for Smallest One. I've not seen her for a couple of months but I hear she's much wilder than her older sister. She's bright and funny, demanding and energetic and a bit rough. Evaluating the durability of the Leapster systems, I decided on one I thought she wouldn't immediately break, told myself she'd at least enjoy pushing the buttons and told amazon to send that too.

Pleased with myself, I rested my head on Mom's shoulder while we all watched motorcycles go very fast for very short distances. "I wish I had pie," I sighed. "Coconut cream."

After they set off to find me some, promising to return soon, I grinned and wrote a blog post. I'm inheriting all sorts of crap - going through family history at medical appointments is ridiculous. Heart disease on both sides, cancer on Dad's. Migraines and various respiratory problems on Mom's. Depression is officially maternal, though I think it comes from both branches. I don't see well - that's from Dad. He also shares my struggles to fall asleep easily. My appearance is all Mom - eyes, hair, facial features.

But I also love intensely and give generously to those I consider mine. Given recent medical concerns, it's wonderful to remember I've inherited a number of traits I'd never trade. And now, as I watch cars drive in circles and await their return even as I prepare for my own departure tomorrow morning, I'm happy.

It's almost as good as getting a Care Bear.

Slow Ascension

It should have been lovely.

The morning was warm and still, silence disturbed only the rustle of brown leaves on the ground and gentle songs by fluttering birds. I stood on a small deck, thinking it seemed an odd place to build such a structure though it was often occupied by someone pausing to watch the water. The sun, continuing its steady rise, cast long shadows of trees over the river whose flow was slow enough to offer faithful reflections of the trees lining the shores.

I captured my own shadow while tucked into a corner, resting lightly against the warm wood and breathing in the earthy scent of spring. I stumbled a bit when Chienne grew bored, tugging insistently at the leash and turning to glance at me in encouragingly. I smiled at her, feeling it less of a burden to allow my lips to curve and slowly moved off the deck and back to the path. I took deep, soothing breaths as we eventually turned toward home, trying to remain calm as I packed my bag and climbed in the car.

People are nearly unbearable when I grow depressed. They create pressure and expectations, have judgments and criticisms. And I'm somehow incapable of tolerating their presence. "I can't," I wrote to Mom after I avoided her call one night. "Give me some time to settle and then I'll talk."

Powering down my cell phone - the first time in Industry that I've done so - made the incessant vibrations cease a day or two ago. I couldn't speak to a room full of people. I blinked at the realization midweek, feeling quivers of panic overtake me. They'd find me, I decided irrationally, going so far as looking for a place to huddle, hidden from people who might seek my attention. I tried to soothe myself, taking a sip of water before focusing on breathing patterns. Failing, I scurried from the office, breathless by the time I reached the safety of my car.

Climbing, for me, is graceless. I do what's necessary to exist, spending time staring at walls or into a television screen. I increased the dose of my antidepressants, swallowing them faithfully each night before I said prayers, asking for something to help me up. Pulled by gentle comments and increasingly concerned emails from friends at work, I wobbled a bit as I tried to adjust to being around people again after a couple of days spent mostly at home.

The interesting component is that it does get easier. It's still difficult to peer through the tangled worries and fears, especially since it seems so very dark when I'm in those moods. But the knowledge that it will get easier - just as it has before - offers some comfort. There is also less guilt and self-loathing. When I say I'm ill, it feels true. Allowances must be made so I can recover.

"Stop," Youngest demanded when she walked in my office this morning to find me looking at the newest set of fibroid data I have. "You're fine," she insisted and I blinked at her.

"You always sound so happy, Katie," Newest later called from her office as I giggled over something Best told me. I blinked at that too, poking my head around the corner after he left to say hello. "I miss you when you're not here," she told me. "Nobody else laughs as much."

"People are funny," I replied after thinking for a moment. I continued to ponder it as I worked through the day, bracing myself when I had to face more than a couple of people at once and working steadily until it was time to go home. I don't think I've yet figured it out - how to maintain balance and avoid the downhill slopes and subsequent climbing. But I do think - for this time - I'm emerging from the depths.

Slope

If psyches were objects, mine would be looking a bit worse for wear. It's as if the darkest of thoughts and frightening of worries had been forced into a corner and tucked behind something pretty. Safely contained, I'm able to function. I roll out of bed and arrive at work, making any number of decisions and talking to all kinds of people. I can battle the random escaped thought - there are several beautiful, strong, capable women at work who have remained single at ages greater than my own. People - men and women - seem to enjoy my company and not find me unbearably neurotic.

I knew I was vulnerable. I acknowledged that the 40 minutes I anticipated spending at the doctors was likely to destroy the shaky control I had over the worst of my insecurities and, once free, I'd suffocate under them for a while. I find myself astonished that I'm incapable of telling you of the events that led me here. There were a rather interesting series of choices I made, each of which was brought into sharp focus by a specific moment - a question or expression or event - yesterday.

By the end, the urge to hide was unbearable. Hurrying to my car, five business cards containing names of referrals clutched in a trembling hand, I sighed with a measure of relief once enclosed in the vehicle. There were physical sensations - the growing headache at my temples, the heaviness in my chest - paired with the familiar emotions. Pathetic and afraid, I told myself today would be better. That I would answer my phone again. I would leave the house and go to work.

Upon waking, I knew I would not. Even answering the simplest of questions on phone calls I couldn't avoid was agony. I couldn't lose myself in work, the pressure of a depression I'd done little to prevent a sharp distraction. I spent most of the day in bed, listlessly watching pictures move across the television screen while huddled in a nest of soft pillows and fluffy blankets. I closed the blinds, loathe to let anyone see in and, for once, not even caring to see out.

Tomorrow, I promised when yet another friend called to check on me, I'll come in. I will try to talk to her. I forced myself to pick up the phone and speak to my parents, but failed at making my voice sound normal. I clipped a leash on Chienne's collar and squared my shoulders before stepping outside in the sunshine I'd wanted to avoid. I did feel better in the fresh air, nodding at neighbors until they started to grate on my nerves. Lured by the glimmer of light on water, I walked down a hill and through the park, ducking under and around branches as we made our way to the river.

Inclines are tough, I decided, having walked down several of them to stand and watch the water. I have simply let myself slip downward, unwilling or unable to dig in my heels or search for a place to grip as my mood grew increasingly poor. Now, finding myself in a bit of a hole, I'm stuck with the task of climbing out.

I stood there until I shivered, glancing at the sun as it dipped lower in the sky. Chienne had grown bored so I wandered over and untangled her leash before starting the slow climb toward home.

No comment.

"It's OK," Pretty Hair offered, tucking a perfect lock behind her ear when she bent over to speak to me quietly.

"I know," I replied. My expression must have given me away for she perched on a chair to give me a gentle pep talk. "I'm fine," I assured her and exhaled with relief when she left.

I declined a colleague's offer to go with me, promising I'd call if I changed my mind. Looking around to make sure nobody else was coming, I returned to paging back and forth through my images, fibroid lurking at the bottom edge, near the base of my spine.

I swallowed a sick feeling of dread when I looked at them with the doctor. She was kind and gentle, regarding me with enough sympathy to elicit tears when asking if I was married or in a relationship or thought I'd have children someday.

I'm very near a state of despair over this. Stop, I order myself firmly, but I think of the mass of tissue and how it probably doesn't matter because I'm unlikely to find someone who loves me and I can't breathe. I swallowed hard, fighting back nausea, as I lay on the table, paper crinkling beneath me when I winced and shifted. I hurried my mother off the phone, telling her I didn't know anything more and I'd be fine and I didn't want to discuss it.

I've returned home to huddle in quiet safety, grateful for the gentle rain and gray clouds that offer a suitable environment for moping. I'll speak of other things, I decided as I understood I can't seem to get perspective on this for some ridiculous reason. But, for today, there isn't anything else.

Hibernending

Over past months, weeks have passed between trips to my mailbox. I could offer excuses - the orientation of my house offers convenient entry on one side whereas the mail is deposited all the way on the side street and would take a whole three minutes to go outside to get - but, in truth, I was tired and it was cold. There were some days when, in hopes that a package had been delivered, I would drive the tenth of a mile from my garage to the mailbox to fetch the papers stuffed inside.

We huddle inside for a majority of the bitter winters, avoiding frostbitten fingers and numb noses by hurrying from heated vehicles to warm buildings before shedding layers of protective gear into colorful, puffy piles. It is, therefore, a joyful occurrence when I can see that a package was delivered yesterday and think that it must have been after 11AM since that's when I was last outside to check. I wake easily of late, sun streaming in the patio doors at the foot of my bed and leaving me to stretch out of dreams in a warm glow. Chienne and I have reinstated walks - she sits and stares at me when I don't ready myself early enough.

We wave at neighbors and greet the others who walk and bike the paths through the forest nearby. Feeling rather fortunate that I can walk from home rather than parking in the convenient lots, we spend time along the edge of the river before selecting a new route and weaving through bare trees and over soft earth.

The bravest of the trees, either immune to or unafraid of the lingering threats of frost, boast buds at the tips of their branches. I tend to stare upwards, admiring the graceful branches against a bright blue sky, while Chienne's nose is rarely far from the ground, rooting through soft grasses and nearly touching mossy paths as she explores emerging scents. Neither of us are particularly concerned with what's ahead, content to feel the warmth of the sun contrast the mildly cool breeze.

Though we were not alone on the paths, the park was mostly quiet. We stayed on the pavement, traversing the route an order of magnitude slower than the bikes that often share the space, but never startled by a quick "passing on the left" warning. I sometimes envy those speeding past, much as I do the joggers in their fitted clothing and steady breathing patterns. I glance down at my loose clothing, often with a bag of poo in one hand, and shrug. Slow paces allow me to snap photos and have Chienne prance happily at my side. I pause at forks in the paths, peering down each option before selecting the most promising. I move closer to the pile of mulch in the park, breathing in the complex aroma of earth and pine and wood chips.

It's Easter so I spent moments in prayer and reflection. I allowed guilt to tug at me for not going to worship, but continued to walk. I threw up at church one Easter, overwhelmed by my acolyte robe and all the people and the stuffy sanctuary. I'm typically distracted by all the rustling chiffon as the girls twirl and tug at their pastel dresses. The hymns are always rich and full, I remembered wistfully, supported by a church-full of voices, some unpracticed but strong nonetheless. Quiet prayers count, I told myself gently, arms swinging at my sides rather than clasped before me. Head up and eyes busy rather than, respective, down and closed. But my mind focused and, for a moment, I felt peaceful.

I returned home, muscles pleasantly warm and tired, and tugged the mail from its box. I toed off my shoes while unclipping Chienne's leash, both of us searching for water. I undressed to shower while she joined Sprout in a sunny spot on the floor. Pulling the camera from my sweatshirt pocket, I downloaded pictures once I was clean and dressed in different pajamas. I'm debating the remainder of my plans. I can stay awake and go to brunch then work. Or I can send my regrets and curl into a nap amidst preparing for a week ahead. I can open the books that have, in fact, arrived and sort the papers that were tucked beside the box. And I can look out the door as people emerge from their houses, similarly appreciative of the end of hibernation season before the summer version begins.

The coast, the desert and the three day trip

We flew west with Rudy, the raccoon. Jake, the white tailed deer, had a mechanical problem and left us waiting in a mountain city while they worked on him. While Frontier (a whole different animal!) checked to see if they had the right part, we shifted our weight, looked in our bags and looked expectantly at the gate agent.

"I wonder what part it is," Best offered. Adam and I shrugged.

"It'd be funny if we went out and there was a United tail on the plane." Adam replied after a moment.

"But there'd be no animal on it," I protested, rather fond of the wildlife photos (and television offerings, actually - well done, Frontier).

Adam grinned. "We'll go out and there'll be a marketing person up there with a can of black spray paint," he predicted. "Draw a circle, a couple of triangle ears and some whiskers and rename this plane Alley, the cat." And we laughed before being called to board (Jake remained the graceful figure on the tail and wingtips) as we continued farther west for a few days.

Had this been my first and not my (I've lost count) corporate travel experience, I would have been utterly enamored of business trips. We were in three lovely cities, housed in rooms that were luxuriously spacious (kitchenettes, separate living space, king sized beds and the requisite eight pillows in each), ate incredible meals (enchiladas, steak, fresh salads full of local vegetables) and started late enough in the morning that I continued to feel reasonably rested and sharp through lengthy meetings. We laughed a lot and were reasonably productive. And my moments of extreme stress were few and far between.

I was consistently shocked when people apologized for the weather - calling it too rainy or dry, cool or warm depending on our location. "It's lovely," we assured them, reminding them of our home state and watching them blink in horror at the idea of snow. The Midwest...making you feel better about your weather through 90% of the year. The three of us walked all we could, standing outside to chat and breathe fresh air. I lingered in the garden of one hotel during a break in the rain. The air was heavy with sweetness, flowers looked vibrant and healthy, and I sighed happily as I arranged colors and shapes on the screen of digital camera before capturing the image.

Between luscious chocolate torte and perfectly rich carrot cake, we traveled to the desert. I glanced out the window between tapping the keys of my laptop and blinked at the desolate scenery. Mountains and desert turned an odd shade of brown in the dimming twilight and I shivered with a sense of foreboding since my last glance out the window had revealed the blues and greens of the Pacific crashing against sunny shores.

After circling yet another airport, impatiently waiting to land the damn plane already, we secured a driver and soon checked into another set of large hotel suites. After placing a room service order, I hurried to the shower to wash my hair and rinse the smell of plane down the drain before hastily dressing to answer the timely knock at the door. The next day contained more meetings, a bit of lab work and talking to men who are as brilliant as they are friendly.

"That's my cover!" I said upon walking into the director's office. A young man, he's oddly lacking in ego and embraces my direct approach to collaborations. I like him very much.

"That's why I kept it out," he said and I nodded at its removal from the stack of journals on his desk. He handed the bound pages to me and I brushed my fingers fondly over the cover, blinking when he handed me a pen. "Would you sign it?" he asked when I continued to wear my inquisitive expression. I smiled, glancing at Best before returning my gaze to our host. "Seriously," he said. Ducking my head over the glossy cover after glancing around his office and admiring the multiple awards tucked discretely between books and between family photos, I scrawled my signature in the lower right corner, very flattered and feeling rather enamored of a job that allows me to meet such amazing scientists.

I returned home in the first moments of Friday morning and smiled when Dad came into the garage to greet me, proudly displaying the baby gate they added to the Wall of Awesomeness so that Chienne could not continue to escape. I heard Mom calling upstairs, telling my sleepy canine I'd come home. I walked inside, giving hugs and kisses and having a piece of Easter chocolate as I caught them up on travel news.

The house was lovely - kitchen counters wiped clean, laundry folded and properly put away. I declined the offer of dinner and thanked them for all the work they'd done while I'd been gone. We had breakfast when I woke, having caught a mere five hours of sleep.

"Stay here," they advised when I debated going home for Easter. "Get some rest and relax." I offered more hugs and kisses with my offers of thanks and expressions of love as I headed off to work. They'll return on Saturday in preparation for Longest Trip Yet - a 10 day excursion to a familiar island that one of my favorite people calls home. In the meantime, Chienne and I took a walk and napped at great length. I've cuddled with Mr. Sprout when he curls into my side and giggled when he tries to attack my hand when I rub his belly. It's wonderful to be here - quiet and mellow - so I'll enjoy the time until I must depart once again.

Incidental Finding

I have dark hair and pale skin. Rather large freckles appear sparingly on my skin. I’ve a tendency to worry excessively and take medication to prevent depressive episodes. I’m dramatic, but mostly kind unless cornered into being vicious. It is easy to make me laugh – I often find myself in fits of giggles over something or another. I have a Mittendorf dot in one of my eyes and the ankle I sprained never healed quite right. My left knee has a tendency to dislocate and I have severe headaches rather regularly.

“But I don’t want it,” I said quietly, staring at the screen. I nodded when assured it wasn’t dangerous, patting her hand when she rested it comfortingly on my arm. I couldn’t look away from the shapes appearing in grayscale – the curve of spine that contains an extra vertebrae, the pleasing symmetry of kidneys, the appearance of anatomy that is normally safely hidden under layers of skin and fat and muscle. “It’s ugly,” I noted of the circular mass on my uterus.

Another woman peered over our shoulders before clicking on a tool to measure the fibroid they’d found by accident. “No symptoms?” she asked as the small line appeared on the screen and noted it was about 5 cm in all directions. A sphere of grossness, I decided, wrinkling my nose even as I shook my head. “Cramps, bleeding, pain?”

“No,” I replied. “Nothing out of the ordinary for me. I’m very regular and do suffer a bit, but it’s nothing Advil can’t fix. But I still don’t want it,” I concluded, still looking at it and trying to figure out what part of my abdomen housed the fibroid what part of me should hurt. I'm bad at relating blurry images to the pieces of body they represent.

“It looks like it’s in the very outer layer,” one of them noted, zooming in and looking more closely. “That’s probably why it’s not hurting you.”

“I have a follow-up on Monday,” I reminded them, having made the appointment after learning of this abnormality while traveling.

“I’m sorry,” my traveling buddy for this trip replied when I mentioned the news at breakfast and I blinked at him. “Don’t be sorry!” I wanted to say. “It’s not a big deal. Nothing scary or bad or worthy of sympathy. It’s fine.” I even rolled my eyes at myself, good-naturedly abashed over my immediate assumption that each twinge of discomfort I felt on the long plane ride home was due to my fibroid.

We landed after midnight and in the last moments of Thursday, I blinked back tears over worst case scenarios. I don’t know what my childbearing plans are – it’s likely that I won’t have any given the way life is currently going. But the thought that this could be something other than benign and the subsequent necessity to remove the organ that contains it, left me mourning the loss of possibility.

“I’m not even married,” I told the women and swallowed against a sob when they regarded me with quiet sympathy. “I don’t want surgery or an impaired ability to have a healthy pregnancy. I don’t want this.”

“You’re fine,” one replied gently. “We'll look at it some more. Since it’s not bothering you, monitoring is the most likely outcome. It’s not that uncommon – many women have these and some never know.”

I looked at the screen again, burning the image into my mind. Knowledge is good, I reminded myself. It offers options and early detection is vastly positive. Ignorance, I sighed as I forced myself to rise and leave the room with thanks for their time, was a bit blissful though.

Homeward

"Well," I asked as Chienne leaped and whimpered in greeting when I returned from breakfast yesterday, "shall we go for a walk? Together this time rather than me chasing after you?" I took her prancing to the door and pawing at it as agreement and tucked Kleenex in my pocket before clipping her leash on and setting off toward the woods nearby.

I paused to take photos a couple of times, admiring the overcast afternoon and enjoying the brisk wind rustling through the amber grasses. Having been firmly instructed to take time for myself by the women at breakfast (I will, I wanted to say. I even wrote it on my blog!), I decided that exploring the paths Chienne had uncovered during yesterday's escape (part 2 of 2) appealed.

"This way," I called and Chienne followed me up a strange path, diverting from our usual route along the river but familiar with the short command. She soon took point while I climbed and tried not to stumble over randomly exposed roots. It was pleasant, I decided. Dead leaves crackling gently under my sneakers, looking around the bare trees and listening to the branches creak under the strain of the wind. I hadn't seen another person - it was quite chilly for an afternoon stroll - and savored the quiet as we continued to walk.

"Huh," I murmured upon reaching the crest of the hill. I frowned and turned in a circle, finally deciding I'd turned left into the park then left at the uphill path. I should continue to turn left, I reasoned, but continued to stand still, familiar with the sense of disorientation and flawed logic that lands me lost more often than not. I looked down at Chienne as she sniffed the ground, half blind but completely content, and thought she was more likely than I to get us home. But I was ready to head that way now and I wasn't sure what her ideal schedule was.

Unwilling to trust the puppy with our path, I thought through it again and decided that going left made sense. The park was surrounded by houses, I reasoned. If going left wasn't correct, I would eventually reach a neat line of houses. Wondering if this was like my strategy on the coasts of using oceans as landmarks - which always seems like it should work but never really does - I looked around and realized I was growing cold. I'd been out for a little over an hour and there was a snow storm coming. Growing worried that I'd be trapped in some sort of fast-moving blizzard, I took a breath and tried to enjoy the time as I made my way in what I hoped was a homeward direction.

I kicked off my heels when I entered the house this evening, some 30 hours after I made my triumphant return from our exploration yesterday. "Hey, pretty girl," I offered and bent until I could kiss her head and offer cuddles. "How goes it, Mr. Sprout?" I asked when I noticed the stripey cat observing from a distance. He waited until Chienne paused to grab a toy before moving gracefully toward me and purring while I smoothed his coat.

"I," I told them, "need to shower and pack. The flight tomorrow leaves at 6 - that's eight hours from now - and I'm not at all ready. Well," I corrected myself as they followed me upstairs, "I did check in and print my boarding pass. And laundry is done so I just need to pick outfits." Ceasing my monologue as I stepped in the shower, I made mental notes.

Snuggled into pajamas and tucking folded fabric into my suitcase, I sighed. "I'm always trying to get home," I told Chienne as she sat next to me on the floor, sad that the suitcase was being filled. "It's just three days," I whispered, sighing again.

"I can't take her for walks," Mom said when she called to check in. "She'll have to wait for you to get back. But we will be there all day! So that should be nice for her and Sprout."

I agreed easily, wishing I had more time to spend. "But I need to go," I told my parents. "Dry my hair, finish packing, decompress enough to sleep. I'm back late on Thursday - near midnight - but I need to be at work by 9 for meetings." Wincing at the idea of them visiting and not spending more than a few moments with them, I smiled over the comments some of you left yesterday and decided I still have some work to do.

Guidelines

As I was driving to work one day last week - events in the last 7 days have merged together somehow - I realized something odd. Sleep-deprived, frustrated and otherwise dismayed, I looked around at the emerging sunlight sparkling on the river as I crossed a quaint little bridge, beheld the gently rolling hills where grains are grown and felt happily settled. I belong here, I thought, and even given my current salary and my post-doctoral workload, I would not return to Former Institution.

"It'd be interesting to do a study," Adam decided as we sipped beer and nibbled chicken wings one night. "Since we all left rather luxurious careers to come here and work our asses off."

"Adrenaline," Best offered simply and I peered around Adam to send him an inquiring look. "We'd do this or heroin," he elaborated and I shook my head at him fondly. "Seriously," he said when Adam and I exchanged dubious looks. "We're people who can't stand being bored - who need constant stimulation and stress to feel engaged. It's not good, but I think that's why we're here - to prove we can do insane amounts of work and please incredibly difficult customers."

I paused to think, staring into my beer before taking another sip. I do not enjoy beer as a rule, but my head felt satisfyingly woozy. "I do feel really good when things go well," I decided. "A near-euphoric relief that I used to only get after I'd give seminars. Now I feel it at least weekly, but at the cost of intense stress otherwise."

Given that I do seem to like this - despite pages of complaints that indicate otherwise - and plan to stay for at least the next 18 months, it seems wise to set some limits on what I'm willing to give.

The 7PM rule
If I pull into my garage after 1900, the laptop remains on the passenger seat. I have worked enough for the day and require rest to be productive tomorrow. (If I arrive prior to 7, the laptop may come in and likely consume my evening.)

Accept invitations
I have this weird tendency to assume I'm somehow incredibly unique and only I suffer from these stresses and problems. I then feel isolated - either in a superior or inferior way - and am unable to see alternate solutions from within the spiraling panic. I did very well in the beginning - making time for lunches and breaks with colleagues - but have since reverted to old habits of unceasing work. When invited out, work can wait. So I'll slip off campus for coffee if asked. I can spare 30 minutes to sit in the cafeteria rather than working through lunch. I'm joining the group for breakfast in an hour to decompress and socialize.

Check Sanity
Given that we all tend to enjoy the drama, it is important to step back from heated arguments and passionate discussions and think about the goal. Is this truly important or do I just want to win? Adam and I bet $10 over a rather trivial question after spending some 20 minutes arguing about it. I lost so he often teases me, offering to bet on any number of issues. Before I start to yap at him like an provoked terrier - gesturing as I talk about flawed data and skewed samples and how I still think I was right (!!) - I pause to decide whether I actually care. So I sometimes (pretty rarely, but I'm working on it) shrug indifferently and return to what I was doing.

Disengage
There are thousands of customers. Our academic partners are incredible - I consider meeting with them a major perk of my job description. But, as research folks, they are smart, intense individuals and sometimes get very angry. In those situations, I panic. I respect status and understand they are Very Big Deals and hate that they feel disappointed or frustrated. But there are too many of them. And I am not the sole source of their negative feelings, nor am I the only one who can fix the problem. We try to delegate appropriately, but - given some of these folks - it's tremendously difficult to read email updates and not chime in when I think there are mistakes. There's one site in particular right now and I think our strategy is wrong and their demands unreasonable and it infuriates me that people are making asinine comments as they work through this. But it's not my problem. I must let it go.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
Perhaps from undergraduate courses, I have this aversion to using old material for new purposes. I tend to remake presentations (using pieces of old ones) rather than just calling it good enough and using what I have. I lose a lot of time tweaking documents when changes are highly unlikely to be noticed. I'm not a perfectionist at all - I can easily call something good enough - but after being here for quite some time, I have a lot of material. I need to be OK with just using it.

Volunteer Sparingly
If everyone in the group is to be assigned a task, volunteer for the piece you want. If it appears that only some people will get additional work, sit quietly and hope you're not one of them. When awarded a project, immediately note conflicts and problems with meeting timelines. Hope someone else has to do it instead or at least provide major assistance.

Keep Records
If I'm working very hard and can't articulate what I've been doing, there is a problem. Save old revisions - especially if material is getting cut for time/space - to indicate you knew a lot more than was presented. I also keep a spreadsheet with new columns for each week - listing items to do and accomplished. There is a notebook on my desk where I detail customer interactions. When consumed with many, tiny tasks, I can lose track of progress. So I keep notes.

Devise Sleep Strategy
I'm tired. Perhaps I need vitamins to perk up. But feeling like I'm desperately stealing time to rest is not working out. I'll see if my breakfast companions have any suggestions.

Shift

"It wouldn't be so bad," I replied, gritting my teeth when I grabbed for and missed Chienne's collar again, "if this wasn't the second time she got out of her yard this morning." After sleeping for twelve hours or so, I got out of bed to start laundry and dressed to spend the morning in the labs. Chienne had managed to get through the gate when I did, but I followed in my car and she hopped in when I called.

I returned home to grab different clothes since I wasn't going to wear my jeans or bra during an experiment and happen to be rather modest. Upon repeating my departure, Chienne repeated hers but headed for the woods this time. Cursing with every step, I followed her and reminded myself that she is my most favorite of creatures as she continued to evade capture.

"I've chased my dog up and down the street several times," the rather attractive man offered as he held his leashed dog at his side. I managed a distracted smile before scrambling over a hill and jogging after my erstwhile hound again. After coaxing her back to me, I removed my sweatshirt and looped a sleeve through her collar before tugging her toward home.

"Katie?" my colleague said when I answered my phone about 20 minutes after arriving at the office, "the lab is down. Everything's torn apart for maintenance."

"Crap," I replied after a moment. "I'll be back there in a moment - I'm on my way." A quick glance assured me we'd not be completing our experiment anytime soon and we looked at each other and sighed. I then paused, abashed at my lack of manners, and introduced myself to her husband who'd tagged along for our weekend session.

"Well," I chirped, determined to complete the other of my major weekend tasks, "can you hang out and do my thing with me?" Beaming when they agreed, we had everything 90% prepared when we discovered a glitch. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to work around it and my shoulders slumped.

I edged my lower lip out and blinked at her, cheered when she mirrored the expression. "I hate being thwarted!" I whined and she nodded sympathetically before packing up, reaching for her husband's hand and waving a farewell. I finished packing up and felt my mood dip dangerously low when I went back to my desk.

Bella called while I was fetching my keys - I'd sent a frantic message when I realized both projects were screwed - and she offered to help tomorrow. "Thank you!" I replied, offering to buy breakfast before we got started. Having made suitable arrangements, I walked out to the Jeep and headed home. Mid-commute, I decided to stop at the store. I could cook something if I obtained groceries, I reasoned and devoted a majority of my attention to making a list. Unloading my groceries at home, I came in and made a quick sandwich for lunch before flopping on my loveseat and wondering what to do with the remainder of my day.

Determined to make it a pleasant Saturday, I decided to take a bath, sniffing at the bath fizzie until I decided it smelled of lime. I wrinkled my nose when unable to remember shaving my legs this week, but kept withdrawing them from the water to admire once smooth. I relaxed, growing drowsy in the silky water scented a gentle citrus. When the water cooled, I emerged to dry off and snuggle into loose pajamas. I'm pondering dinner options and am in the mood to cook so I'll do that next. I have laundry to finish and a nap in my near future.

And Chienne is sunning herself outside, locked safely in her yard.

Habitual

I put coffee and cream into a travel mug and headed off to work before dawn most of last week. Upon rising one morning, I stared - befuddled - at the empty pot and shrugged before deciding to stop for a coffee en route. I repeated that routine - same time, same spot, same order - for the most of this week.

I ate sandwiches for lunch. I varied the source of said meals, but always had meat and cheese between bread.

I had burritos four nights this week. I would depart work, exhausted, and consider it simplest to return to the same Qdoba, consult the menu and find something with suitable cilantro levels that I would consume before bed.

When invited, I went out. Drinks with Adam one night in a German bar, sipping beer (it was what he'd ordered) and giggling at his jokes. A sunny shop with PrettyHair, sipping iced tea (it was what she'd ordered) and commiserating over aching heads and overwhelmed brains. A soda with a colleague as yet unnamed, following behind her as she selected a cup, filled it with ice and fizzy liquid, settled a lid atop and poked a straw through the hole.

I answered my phone. I replied to some email. I attempted to keep track of all the work I didn't have time to do, hoping I'd get to it later. And I worked and met and talked and revised. I slept, curled into pillows as I arranged myself on my side, and blinked myself awake each morning.

I winced upon hearing Adam's voice midway through the afternoon. I didn't want to work on this project anymore. I was tired and unmotivated and ready to be done. Briefly contemplating hiding under my desk, I sighed instead, waiting for him to take a chair across from my desk and giving him my attention.

"I think you're done," he announced and I blinked at him.

"I can go home?" I asked, afraid to be too hopeful. "And sleep?" He grinned and nodded, telling me to do what I had to do, but to escape the office a little early. "Only 9 hours today," I breathed. "It's luxurious!"

Finishing the task I'd been doing, I soon shoved my laptop into my bag and scampered from the office before someone forced me to stay. I must return tomorrow - the postponed work demands completion and I'm traveling again next week - but, for tonight, I may rest. Tomorrow I might not have to spend the whole day in the labs - maybe I'll take Chienne for a walk.

I rather like the idea of driving home during daylight hours and hope that's a pattern that sticks.

A compliment sleepily recorded

“So you finally figured out how to answer your phone,” he greeted me when I flipped open my cell and said hello.

I realized I forgot it when I was nearly to the office. While my commute is short and easy, I didn’t feel like repeating the 15 minute drive to go fetch the device though I did feel a bit lost without its weight in my pocket throughout the day. Nothing tickled my tummy with vibrations and I made multiple mental notes to replace the battery in my watch when I couldn’t consult a phone for the time.

I paused, unable to feel proud of my excellent parking space since I’ve obtained a very close spot all week, and watched the sun peek over the horizon past a patch of trees. I wandered past the company logo, polished and gleaming on a wall in the lobby, and arrived at my office before opening a phone line for a conference call and beginning my day at 6:30.

While I listened, I wrote a quick note to the group and informed them that I left my phone at home but would be around all day. We spent most of it together, checking numbers and walking through the life cycle of diseases. We continued to revise and perfect, trading documents and merging sections, until Adam joined us in the late afternoon.

“It all changed again,” I said flatly after glancing at him. “All that work,” I trailed off mournfully, feeling terribly sorry for the words and images that had been discarded for various reasons. Realizing I was exhausted – 5 hours of sleep each night is simply insufficient – and growing cranky, I took a breath and asked what we needed to do now.

Several hours later, and just over 12 hours since I arrived, we called it a day after reviewing tasks due by 2AM. Dragging myself toward the car after packing my laptop and slipping my bag over my shoulder, I stopped to get a burrito and tiredly drove home. I greeted Chienne, finally sitting down on the floor so we could cuddle while she whimpered in frantic happiness, climbed in the shower to wash my hair, remembered to eat dinner and began to work again.

I must have been in the shower longer than I thought, I decided when I picked up the phone and noted that Adam had called twice. I jumped when the phone buzzed in my hand and wondered what required multiple attempts to reach me in 30 minutes before placing my ear to the device and asking what was up.

“I wanted to compliment you, actually,” he said and I blinked in surprise. “I’ve been very impressed with you lately – you see topics very clearly and are asking good questions and offering valuable insight. I’ve seen a lot in you the last few days that surprised me – I think you have a lot of potential we need to develop.”

I laughed.

“Not that I don’t expect you to perform well or am surprised when you do,” he sighed as I giggled. So I apologized and indicated I was very tired but equally flattered that he was pleased.

“I know it’s been stressful,” he concluded, “but it was good for me to see your capabilities in this setting. I’m very impressed.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “It was very kind of you to tell me that – it’s been hard lately, but I love the group and like working for you. Mostly.”

I tried very hard, after hanging up, to assess the possibilities. Grow better at industry or endure until I’ve done enough that I can escape with pride intact. But my eyelids were heavy and my brain tired. So I opened my laptop and began to work, losing myself in the revisions and new information and yawning by the time I sent my slides and logged off for the evening.

Hair almost dry, bag already packed for my 8AM arrival time at the office tomorrow (Yay for sleeping in!), I considered curling up on the floor downstairs to rest but climbed the stairs instead, arranging myself on my side of my big bed with copious pillows and patted Chienne when she flopped on her side.

“Now we sleep,” I told her, but decided to write something since I’m reasonably certain this week will become a blurred memory, unable to properly encode in my sleep-deprived brain.

Contrary

I preened over the class feedback about 10 years ago, sitting in a plastic chair in a community college classroom and listening to the air conditioner valiantly battle the heat. Having no desire to fulfill my public speaking requirement with the students at my private university, I used a small portion of the summer after my freshman year to take a course off campus. I was pretty relaxed about the whole idea, simply wanting my B so that credits would transfer neatly.

When assigned a particular project, the first day’s presenters were horrible. So awful were their performances that I was intensely motivated to make the most super-fantastic-impressive speech ever. So I researched and rehearsed and watched gleefully as everyone was suitably awed by my minutes behind the podium. The next week saw an upswing in the class’s level of effort and a corresponding dip in my own.

With nowhere to go, I wake happily around dawn. Due at work by 7AM, I resent every single second my eyes have to be open. I’d wait until Brother would fall behind before I would complete all my chores, wanting all the credit or uninterested in any of it. When gas was expensive, I bought an SUV. I’m attracted to men I can’t have. When all is calm, I tend to get irritable and find minuscule problems over which panic. But when tension is thick and tempers are short? I am at my best – peaceful and calm, helpful and loving.

The day veered in a negative direction just after noon. Until then, the group had been busy and stressed, but coping admirably. Adam called us to meet at lunchtime so we all gathered around a table to receive instructions rather than food. We sat silently, faces blank, as he outlined the problem at hand and the changes that had been made. Not one of us commented as he explained why the past week of work – long days and a weekend of intense effort – had not been wasted, exactly. It was just not going to be used.

Instead, Adam continued after glancing at us and shrugging off our collective displeasure, we would do new work! On these new documents and presentations! Because it was…well, not better, really. But different. And it wouldn’t change again. Probably.

“We’ve done this five times already!” PrettyHair finally said, making me smile when she threw her hands in the air. We take turns being the dramatic one and I had assessed Adam’s mood and decided now was not the time to push him. She continued to speak, voicing very valid complaints and nodding when others offered their own criticism. Though I agreed with their every point – and was very frustrated and tired and unhappy myself – I began to feel badly for Adam.

He’s under tremendous pressure, I thought, and having to defend himself to his own team. The changes weren’t his idea and he was coping as best he could.

“What do we need to do?” I finally asked. When attention turned to me, I glanced around. “We need to get this done and do it well. So let’s go through the workload, agree on a sensible strategy and accomplish something.” I turned my attention to Adam again, watched him blink in surprise, and was pleased when the group remained quiet, awaiting instructions. We soon dispersed and I hadn’t been at my desk long enough to complete a single item on my list when he appeared at my door.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked when I looked up and I nodded, asking what I needed to bring before following him to his office. He motioned to the door once we were inside and I obediently closed it behind me. “I need your input on how to structure this,” he offered.

Flattered, I sat shoulder to shoulder with him as we frowned at his laptop to rearrange text and reorganize paragraphs, checking transitions and drawing diagrams to step back and understand goals. An hour later, satisfied, he went to fetch other people in the group. We worked together to convince the first person, easily won over the majority and crashed and burned at the end.

I heard my voice emerge, soothing and gentle, as I explained the theme to PrettyHair. I patted Adam’s shoulder when he tensed visibly, explaining her comment in a way that wasn’t so offensive yet still retained her point. They argued and I agreed with both of them, finding commonalities and expressing sympathy over their stress levels.

“We’re in good shape,” I chirped at one point. “We’ve learned a lot! And I think this is a strong message to send!” Preening when they both grinned at me fondly, I stood to follow PrettyHair from the room after asking Adam if there was anything else I could do.

“Thank you,” he said and I waved my hand at him. “No, really,” he insisted and I paused halfway out the door.

“It’s my pleasure,” I said, feeling inordinately affectionate toward him despite the massive amounts of work he’s created for me over the next three days.

I always cheer for the losing team. Once they start to win, my interest dissipates rapidly. So we’ll see how tomorrow goes.

Monday

I pursed my lips and thought very, very hard while letting Chienne tug me through the neighborhood. The days grow longer, making my short commutes even happier since they're not consistently made in the pre-dawn and post-dusk darkness.

I shall, I decided as I guided the Jeep toward home, take the puppy for a walk. Checking the temperature displayed on my dash, I decided 40 degrees was sweatshirt weather and dressed accordingly upon arriving at home.

"Where did I drink coffee this morning?" I said out loud, unable to remember and hoping that hearing the question would make it easier. "I made some before I left but didn't have time for more than a couple of sips," I murmured, letting the wind whisk the words away as they tossed wisps of hair that escaped my ponytail. "But I'm not sleepy so I must have had more." I mused, eyebrows lowered behind sunglasses as I continued to consider.

I got to work and parked the car, I listed, deciding to go step by step. I went to a lab to check the set up of an experiment, called someone to have them take care of mistakes and dropped my bag at my desk. I answered a couple of emails as people began to fill the building with noise and then I went to the pretty conference room. There, I perked up as I remembered, I had coffee in a pretty porcelain cup perched on a matching saucer while speaking to a customer.

"It seems like days ago though - not just this morning," I told Chienne. She glanced up from her examination of a tree before trotting off again, leaving me to follow along. I received and returned phone calls. I giggled through a meeting with Adam because what we do is truly ridiculous. We plan for events that are cancelled 40% of the time, negating all the effort we spent. We argue passionately over trivial facts and absently agree on major topics. We work incredibly hard - long days, intense effort, real focus. But we seem to make very few people happy. I was insulted three times via email and only one of them made me want to cry. (That's a vast improvement - I'm doing much better.) I formed a list of things to do, acknowledged I had little time to do any of it, and shrugged.

I left shortly after 5, deciding I'd had enough for the day. Resolving to relax for the evening - watch television, read a book, take a bath, drink some wine - my shoulders slumped when I remembered something else.

I have a conference call starting at 7PM tonight and another at 6AM tomorrow. I'm unlikely to remember where I drank coffee, but it's probable that I'll have more than one cup.

Tough Crowd

"Hello," I said, sincerely pleased, and watched one of our more vocal customers pause to shake my hand. He had been reaching to put his arm around me and, perfectly comfortable with such a gesture from faculty members, I likely would have cuddled against him with affection. It's as if academics recognize their own, even if I happen to have left their environment. The comprehension of their work - and respect that must follow it - are deeply ingrained. I listen when they speak because I've been trained to do so. I ask questions when I don't understand because I've slowly grown confident enough to admit I didn't get it the first time but am likely to catch on soon.

"You cut your hair," I noted, while gripping his hand with my own. "It looks good." Then I grinned when he winked at me before introducing my travel companion. Said colleague was promptly grilled while the scientist sent warning looks in my direction when I tried to intervene. I returned his gaze calmly, easily deflecting some questions and answering others in defense of one of our employees who travels infrequently and is unused to the inherent criticism and complaints. I patted his arm when we walked away, assuring him he'd done well.

I did the same in our meeting, facing multiple faculty members, each with varying issues and requests and focusing intently in order to ease their concerns while retaining credibility. "I will not," I've stated with varying degrees of emotion over the last few days, "promise something I know I can't deliver." So I guided conversations and took copious notes and directed the young scientist beside me as topics shifted and questions remained.

"They had really good comments," he said as we sat in the airport later that evening. I nodded in response, mentally exhausted and wanting only to nibble at orange chicken. "They are important customers," he decided and I nodded again before taking a sip of soda. "Did you work here?" he asked and I shook my head, quickly running through my pedigree before asking after his.

"You did your undergrad in China?" I asked, attention caught by the name of the university and he nodded. I almost asked for his name, but paused while wondering if that was impolite. I've always felt twinges of discomfort around the idea that some international students adopt another name while in America. I know a Julie, Dan, Steve, Joe, Mike, Shannon. I also know any number of people who use their given names, patiently repeating them until I can parrot it correctly. Either way, I end up feeling like a stupid American who is either considered incapable of pronouncing a name or who is proven to need practice before being able to reliably call someone correctly.

"Do you think you'll go back to China?" I inquired, ever curious once roused from weariness. He nodded immediately, spoke of jobs he could do and opportunities for advancement. He ducked his head when I smiled at him, but I nodded approvingly.

"I came back home," I confided. "There's something inherently comforting about it for me - looking around and feeling that elusive sense of belonging." I shrugged. "It's not important for everyone, but I needed it." Struck by homesickness, I was happy to board the plane and hurry back to the Midwest.

Given the importance of the customer, he speaks directly with my boss's boss. (For several odd reasons, I'm artificially high in the hierarchy. You'll have to trust me when I tell you it doesn't mean I have the power to do much.) I paused to chat with our leader today in the hallway and he informed me that our difficult customer thinks I'm one of the best hires in years. I have energy and intelligence and give people hope for the direction we're going.

"Keep up the good work," I was told and smiled before ducking my head modestly.

I was letting the various threads weave together into some acceptable conclusion when I frowned in realization. The academic environs are comfortable for me. I look around and have this odd yet powerful sense of belonging. And given my travel schedule, I'm constantly tugged between interaction with those beloved and respected PIs and the corporate folks who now call me their own. I talk to important people - scientists who are powerful and inspirational and sometimes seem impossibly wise. And returning to the office and its 'let's impress the boss!' mentality and 'what's the bottom line?' focus is nearly distasteful. I remember interviewing in California and looking at the mountains so near the ocean and thinking it was beautiful. But it wasn't right. So when my colleague says he wants to eventually go home, I can easily make sense of that.

Far less clear is my own path. Much as I miss and admire academia, I do not wish to return. I want to do this - be good at it and grow increasingly effective - but I'm concerned (read: terrified) that I'm fighting a losing battle. That I'm trying to convince people to call me by a different name that I keep forgetting to answer to. That I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and heartbreakingly sad because this just isn't right. And that no amount of time to adjust is going to help.

Weeks slip by at dizzying speeds. My days are booked so solidly that I lose track of what happened when, where I was when I last wore that shirt or who asked me that question I meant to answer. A conference is approaching - the same one where I was so miserable last year because I didn't think I'd find a job. The lesson, I think, is I should learn to relax. There's a constant supply of worrisome sources, but all appears to go right in the end.

Inadequate Articulation

I glanced at the tiny woman seated next to me on one of the twenty flights I’ve taken in the last 30 days. I cocked my head in confusion, not understanding what she’d said. She tried again with similar results – I turned to the flight attendant, accepted my glass of water while she looked at me and shrugged.

“Coke,” the woman in the window seat finally said after three inquiries, her lyrical accent unable to morph that single syllable into an incomprehensible murmur above the roar of the engines. She was handed a small plastic cup full of fizzy brown liquid and I tried to recall her original requests to make sense of what I hadn't been able to decipher.

“Coca Cola soft drink,” I realized, at once pleased and abashed that I’d finally understood. She was correct – used the right words in the appropriate order – but I've always judged communication by its efficacy rather than how well it follows rules and standards. Still, I decided, it wasn't fair. I often hear complaints from my foreign colleagues - not being understood despite speaking as clearly as possible - to the best of their abilities.

I sighed, offering my Coke-sipping neighbor a weak smile while I settled into my middle seat. I have not been doing well of late and, unable to articulate it in a suitable manner, I’ve remained quiet. I have too many projects to manage. Too many people need my time. Adam sets priorities with which I don’t agree. People are disappointed in me – multiple people at varying times during the day – and it hurts my feelings. I’m tired and the frequency of criticism leaves me unmotivated. I have no balance in my life and no energy to devise a suitable plan.

But that’s all boring. Multiple words to describe an ongoing issue that – despite the new challenges that each day offers – changes very little.

“Should we go for a walk?” I asked Chienne this morning, awarded by an immediate perking of ears and prancing of paws. We wandered up and down the street, watching kids climb on the bus and ducks paddle smoothly across the small pond. I dropped her off at home with a pat on the head and headed off to work.

I sat with my group 10 hours. We sat around a table, drawing on a board and arguing points and plans. I ignored all else – no email, no (well, few) phone calls, no more than a random thought about other projects. As I sipped my way through three cans of soda and two cups of tea, snacked on two oranges, a pear and a cookie and joined my group for lunch, I gained clarity on a single issue.

I did so at the cost of all else – for which I’m sure I’ll be scolded from any number of people – but it felt good to just think. To gather information and organize it. To speak and listen, ask questions and watch as a plan slowly coalesced into a recognizable entity. I don't think anymore so much as react. When a salesperson calls to tell me how I'm Ruining Everything or when a soft-spoken woman drops off four folders of surveys for me to review ASAP, I feel myself disengage. I can't do anything for either of them - I'm consumed by this flurry of urgent and important items.

"Which bullet will hit you first?" Adam asks when I beg for help with my workload.

"But," I reply, terribly confused, "shouldn't we try to avoid getting hit? Or pick the bullet most likely to be fatal and dodge that? How does it help me to avoid being shot today only to be mortally wounded tomorrow?" So he tells me to do specific tasks and I try to cope when other people demandingly overrule him.

I declined the offer of drinks with the team. When I’ve been with the same people – no matter how lovely – for upwards of 10 hours, I’m pretty much done. So I came home, greeted a happy puppy, petted a resigned cat and made a couple more figures for tomorrow. Regardless of how many words I use to tell it, this storyline isn’t very compelling. And I’m still befuddled as to how to find the next one.

Re-training

"You've never had anyone force you to do anything," Friend decided. We were bundled up on the balcony and I looked away from the ocean to glance over to where she sat. "You worked for people - for grad school and your post-doc - that let you do whatever you felt was important. And now that there's someone who demands you do what he wants, it just doesn't seem to make sense to you and you keep struggling against it."

"We need to take the door out," I told Dad. "Chienne doesn't get it - a more drastic change in environment is necessary."

The sliding door now offers an unencumbered view of the backyard. The insert that allowed dog and cat outside now leans against a wall in the garage. Not terribly far from that is a custom built structure Dad has taken to calling "The Wall of Awesomeness." While not built from chicken wire as Mom threatened, there is a barrier to define a narrow walkway that leads from the door to the house to the matching doorway leading outside. They both boast openings with rigid plastic - suitable for Chienne but not for a smaller Sprout - and I'm allowed to pull my car in the garage without allowing the canine to escape.

As we nailed lumber together and wrapped orange snow fencing around the four foot tall frame (I'm not kidding.), I kept giggling. We attached the awkward object to the walls of the garage and rafters above to achieve some degree of stability. Then we stapled and tied the orange plastic to the pieces of wood.

"I don't think it looks bad," Dad decided, hitching up his pants and viewing his creation. I laughed until my sides hurt and looked up in time to watch him pat a corner of the barrier fondly. And, to be fair, it is effective. Chienne now walks to the sliding door, blinks at the lack of opportunity to exit, and moves to the garage door to trot beside The Wall of Awesomeness and out to her yard.

I am attempting to alter my behavior as well.

"It's not right!" I exclaim, barely unable to resist stomping my feet in frustration. "I don't like it and don't want to do it and am very, very unhappy!" I want to continue, but I take a breath instead. I articulate why I think something is wrong. I grit my teeth when my expert opinion is questioned. Then I do what I'm paid to do, even when I think it's an asinine task.

"I have to go," I said before kissing Mom on the cheek at 6AM on Friday. I repeated the same line, sans kisses, to a colleague about 12 hours later. I returned to my house and admired the carpets that my parents had cleaned and happily moved to the table where dinner waited. We talked while eating and cleaning up and I wandered upstairs to find laundry folded neatly on the corner of my bed.

Tomorrow I'll return to work to do 2 major projects in the morning. I'll come home to hang out with my parents for a bit before packing and heading to the airport again. I keep thinking I'm learning - that I'm getting better at this game - but I'm not sure that's the case. But if my puppy can figure out the new system of going outside and the cat can express his extreme disappointment that his door is gone, I can also adapt.

Confined Cat

Confusion morphed into revulsion in a fraction of a second - the same amount of time I flicked the light above my stairs on and then off again.

"It's a bird," I shuddered as soon as my brain processed the gruesome scene. A nearly unrecognizable heap of naked flesh surrounded by fluffy gray feathers. I shook my head and shivered again. "Was a bird," I corrected before going to fetch materials to dispose of the remains. Upon descending the stairs, I frowned darkly at the trail of feathers that marked a path from the door, through the living room and up the stairs to where Chienne and I had been sleeping.

It was 4:30 in the morning and I was battling my gag reflex as I vacuumed feathers and scooped the creature into a dustpan.

"Unacceptable," I hissed at the cat as he observed the proceedings. He met my gaze, looking rather regal in his boredom, and I grew furious. "I will not have it," I told him firmly. "You are a bad, bad cat!"

*****

"No," I replied to inquiries from my parents and Friend. "I haven't seen him. It is warm outside so I don't think he's frozen. But I don't know if he's coming home."

I would sniff with disdain upon seeing him after the bird incident. I fed him, tossing his bowl of kibble on the floor with obvious contempt. I'd do little more than nod upon being in the same room and began to lock the door to keep him inside at night.

"He'll adjust," Mom said when I confided that I wasn't sure I liked him anymore. "Once he's inside all the time, he'll be a sweet cat again. Plus, you did let him out. This is what cats do."

"Poor Sprout," Friend repeated, only cementing my resolve that he would understand the depth of my disapproval.

Yet when I returned from a recent trip - I've forgotten which one exactly - there was no stripey cat. No demanding meows or diminishing kibble levels in his plastic bowl. And I worried - he doesn't like people so I couldn't see him finding another family. Had he drowned in the river? Eating a poisoned mouse and taken ill? Caught some feline disease? While there wasn't the frantic worry and heartbreaking misery that would have occurred had my dog gone missing, I was very sad.

"Hi," I offered two days after his disappearance when he stretched after coming up from the basement. "Welcome home, Mr. Sprout." I walked over and scooped him up, telling him I'd been sad and worried. He tolerated the attention for a moment or so before squirming and I set him on the floor.

*****

He's taken lessons from me in terms of attitude when thwarted. For my response to the bird has been replicated during his recent deprivation of outdoor access. When he deigns acknowledge us at all, it's likely with a sound of utter displeasure. He will not be petted or told he's pretty. He lurks in the basement or dark corners, hoping for someone to relax control of the door so he can enjoy the warmer weather.

While I was away again, my parents persisted in our indoor effort. I was curled on the loveseat, watching television with my dad, when Sprout came downstairs from the bedrooms with typical feline grace. He wandered over to examine his food and nibbled for a moment. I saw him look at the door with seeming resignation before going to peer out the window longingly. Steeling myself against sympathy, I returned my attention to the show about car restoration and was startled when Sprout leaped up to join me.

"Hey, buddy," I murmured, smoothing his stripey coat and rubbing under his white chin. I smiled when he purred, ruffling his fur and smoothing it again. He curled on my chest - a soft, warm weight - and arched into my touch as I petted him.

He looked directly into my eyes after a few moments, his eyes green and serious, and meowed. After that single sound, I nodded while maintaining eye contact.

"I know," I told him. "But it's actually my house so I get to win. You're an inside cat now, my dear. But I do love you." He regarded me for a moment before sighing - there is a good deal of that between me, Chienne and Sprout - and relaxing again. I continued to pet him absently, feeling a tug of sympathy when he went to stare out the door again.

I came up to write a blog post, lying supine upon my soft mattress among mounds of pillows. I was revising a couple of sentences when he leaped up beside me, curling on my chest again and preventing me from seeing the screen until I had offered sufficient attention. He has curled up against my shoulder, slender body rumbling with purrs, and waiting for his blog post to be finished. It is, I decided, only fair to keep you updated since I kept the pretty cat more because it made a good blog post than out of any real desire for another pet.

But we appear to be adjusting. And, for the moment, I think I'm winning.

Fortunately

"Where is everyone?" I asked the guard checking my identification against the boarding pass I printed the night before. "I've never seen security completely empty of passengers before."

"You missed the herd," he told me as he scrawled his initials on the corner of my paper and wished me safe travels. I moved forward and hurriedly placed items in the bins an agent set out for me. I thanked her as she helped me organize laptop and baggie of liquids and continued to look around the empty terminal.

"It's positive reinforcement of bad behavior," I told the woman who sold me water. I had arrived late - a mere 20 minutes before boarding rather than my typical 90. I had been on schedule for a lengthy wait, but Adam required transportation so I changed course to fetch him. The timing did work remarkably well though and I spent the few moments I had to spare thinking of additional sleep I could claim instead of arriving at the airport so early.

The entire trip has seemed full of happy circumstances. I connected through Detroit, land of moving walkways. I walked all the way through Terminal A - from gate 70 to 4 - to take full advantage of the delightful devices.

Given the time it took to make my way across the airport, I had to wait mere minutes before boarding my next flight.

I scampered off the rental car shuttle first so I didn't have to wait in line to get my car.

They had a single vehicle left with a navigation system and I snagged it, making my way to my destination without confusion or angst.

I parked at my destination. For free. Both circumstances are almost unheard of at large institutions such as this.

I walked outside to one appointment through a positively beautiful day.

I also wore flats and was able to more quickly and comfortably through the pretty campus, spending more time admiring budding trees and blooming flowers than thinking about how I wore uncomfortable shoes.

I spent time getting my questions answered rather than hearing complaints. I call that an awesome visit.

I finished early, enabling an escape to the hotel where I shed professional clothes and curled into a nice nap before dinner.

We went to a fantastic place for our evening meal, meeting two collaborators so that there were four of us. There was interesting conversation and lively arguments. There was excellent wine and incredible soup (not seafood bisque, but good nonetheless). There was good bread and these odd little inter-course treats (not as sexy as they sound, unfortunately) and dessert that looked good but I had to wave away when I was too full. Dinners like this are frequent when traveling with Adam - he goes all out. I'm more likely to grab room service and sleep early. Still, his way results in some memorable dining experiences.

I've checked in for my flights tomorrow morning and have good seats - on the aisle, near the front. I also have a chance to get some rest before making my way to the airport.

Little factors, obviously, but it's been absolutely lovely to watch everything fall so neatly into place.

Beachy Keen, Day 3

"Go straight," I advised, eyes squinted in the most intense focus I can achieve - which is, in fact, considerable - while I looked out the windows and back down at the map on my lap. "Maybe left," I replied when Friend pointed at something on her side of the car. "Go left," I stated decisively when she told me I had to pick one.

"Oh, there it is!" I cried upon seeing the large fountain within the park. "I want to see it!" While Friend muttered about one way streets and parallel parking, I stared out my window at the flowering plants and twisting tree branches while a small crowd of people milled about the space I coveted. I lost sight of it and sighed wistfully as Friend selected a street that "wasn't too narrow" so that we could return to look for parking again. Upon finding a spot, we dug cameras out of the bags in the trunk and walked until Friend's toes got cold.

A feeling of dread settled around me even as I admired my surroundings. We were going home and had only stopped because there was a too much time between checking out of the condo and in for our flights. I haven't even made my list of topics requiring attention - the very thought leaves me torn between exhaustion and panic.

"Breathe," I kept reminding myself. "You're capable and talented and can figure this out." When that failed to achieve the desired results, I went with, "Look at the pretty flowers!" And somehow the profusion of color in the thousands of delicate petals loosened the tension in my chest and shoulders and allowed me to relax, at least a little.

But the worry returned as we made our way to the airport and returned the rental car. As we touched kiosk screens to acquire boarding passes and cleared security. While we found books and t-shirts and bottles of water then waited together at the gate. As I hugged Friend and blinked back tears while she went to catch her plane and tried to focus on the pages of my book. I arrived home and climbed in my Jeep, parents in the front seats, and had dinner out while we caught up.

"Creepy," I decided as we spent our last moments before the airport at the cemetery. A surprisingly somber place in an otherwise bright city, the moss seemed heavier on the trees here. Friend and I had debated descriptions of the dangling plant matter upon my arrival Wednesday evening and I had conceded that it could be called pretty at the park as it draped toward the flowers and swayed gently in the breeze.

"I think it's attracted to death," I frowned, walking away before she could roll her eyes and wandered slowly by tombs and markers, reading of men who painted miniatures, owned publishing companies or fought duels. I nodded when Friend announced she was cold, caught somewhere just before an epiphany regarding the meaning of life, I'm sure, and walked out the gate.

"I don't want the company logo on my grave," someone said to me before I left the office. I wondered what the men buried would think of theirs and soon decided it didn't really matter. Decisions have consequences and while I've made a number of questionable ones lately, there - given family history and general health - should be a number of years where I can correct any missteps. Even as the return to work looms darkly before me, the puppy snoring across the room in her chair provides some comfort as I sip water, take a last look a photos and prepare for what's next.