So very true.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
A push for National Health Care
Unfortunately, I am uninsurable because of a certain medicine I take; a certain medicine I need to live a healthy life. This puts me in quite a precarious position. And, surprisingly, being told you are insurance poison is not the best feeling in the world.
It's ok, because no one will read this anyway. It's just an easier way of writing and saving my thoughts with the benefit of spellcheck.
But it's terribly depressing and I seem to only think about it in the minutes and ensuing hours before bed. No wonder I can't sleep.
What should I do? There are few to no options for me save one; that keeps me on a 6 month pre-existing condition limitation.
The worst is knowing I can't escape this, even if I ran as far and as fast as I could, this would still follow me anywhere I went. Time will not heal this wound. This is a mark I wear as if I were a leprous sinner.
The majority of this is my fault. But yet, it becomes another thing; fight; obstacle; mountain; black hole I must cross.
But who has yet to successfully cross a black hole?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
It's been a very long time, but I thought I would post this for anyone wondering what's been running through my head the last couple months:
I was running my hands over his skeletal back, trying to give some comfort to this dying man; my dying father. The skin, hanging off the back of his arms looked more like a victim of Auschwitz than the strong, taught muscles of the man who raised me. His shoulders were hunched. He was trying so hard to breathe. The cancer had moved into his heart, although he didn’t know this yet. Wild wide grey-green eyes searched the room every time he raised his head, looking for…something. I tried to remember every second, knowing it might be one of the last times. I would soon realize, it was.
The doctor came in and told us the news that this was the last. There was no more treatment, the cancer had won. It was causing congestive heart failure and soon the fluid would prove too much for his heart to handle. At least I think that is what she said. I can’t even be sure which doctor came in to speak with us. Perhaps it was his oncologist. Maybe the pulmonologist, I don’t know. It was just my father and me in the room and then the doctor left. Something else had left with her too. Hope maybe? The room just felt emptier.
My welling eyes looked at the back of my father near hairless head. I thought about all the questions I had wanted to ask him; all the stories I wanted to hear from him. And in that moment, I knew I would ask and hear nothing. This was all there was. We were at the end of our road together. I had known I would never again see his happy sun-burst eyes laughing at me from a healthy body, but the reality felt like it had knocked the wind out of me. It was then that he turned to me and said something so simple. There were no choked goodbyes. No regret. He simply turned his head as far over to me as he could and clearly said, “I love you sweetie.” His voice did not falter or crack.
I spent that night watching over him, trying to keep the O2 mask from making him uncomfortable. I wrote letters, I read. I watched the man drift in and out of a doze. And I stayed awake. I stayed awake until my mother came the next morning. And when she did, I laid down to rest my own head. I was grouchy. But I stayed awake until my father signed the DNR forms and the doctor re-told the bad news to rest of the family. And then I went to sleep.
When I woke up, he was asleep, soundly. And I went home, leaving him in the care of my mother. I would not see him awake again. The next time I would come into that room would be 12 hours later. I would walk into a dark room at 2am, my mother asleep on the cot, my father lying still, heavily sedated with morphine. My mother would awake and we would discuss with the nurses my father’s elevated heart rate until, 22 minutes after I arrived, his heart rate would plummet.
The nurses would rally us around his bed and I, holding in one fist my mothers trembling fingers and in the other, my father’s limp hand, we would watch him, through our tears, taking his final few breaths; shallower and shallower until two gasps, turning his head right then left…..and then nothing. The O2 blowing onto a frozen face, his mouth slightly ajar. My father had died. Only the hiss of the oxygen and our sobs were audible.
Eventually we moved to the other side of the room, away from the dead body that had housed the most important man in both our lives. After a string of people filed in and out, doing whatever it is hospital staff does in the event of a death, we left. To the core it felt wrong to do so. Perhaps it was because both of us had not left him alone in over a year. But he was gone. We both knew it. So we held onto each other and walked from the room, out of the hospital and eventually into our house. But from that moment until I found myself sitting in the funeral directors office, I do not remember. A blur of pain, sadness, and a bit of relief was what filled that empty space in time. The relief was to see him out of pain. But that has since faded.
I sit here now and grieve constantly. It washes over me like a tide. It never goes out. Wave upon wave of sadness that I can stave off with constant distraction, but sometimes, not even then. Perhaps one day there will be nothing left of me to crash against and I will simply be part of that great ocean and drift with it for eternity. I hope only that my father may be somewhere in that deep pool and that I might finally be with him again.
I was running my hands over his skeletal back, trying to give some comfort to this dying man; my dying father. The skin, hanging off the back of his arms looked more like a victim of Auschwitz than the strong, taught muscles of the man who raised me. His shoulders were hunched. He was trying so hard to breathe. The cancer had moved into his heart, although he didn’t know this yet. Wild wide grey-green eyes searched the room every time he raised his head, looking for…something. I tried to remember every second, knowing it might be one of the last times. I would soon realize, it was.
The doctor came in and told us the news that this was the last. There was no more treatment, the cancer had won. It was causing congestive heart failure and soon the fluid would prove too much for his heart to handle. At least I think that is what she said. I can’t even be sure which doctor came in to speak with us. Perhaps it was his oncologist. Maybe the pulmonologist, I don’t know. It was just my father and me in the room and then the doctor left. Something else had left with her too. Hope maybe? The room just felt emptier.
My welling eyes looked at the back of my father near hairless head. I thought about all the questions I had wanted to ask him; all the stories I wanted to hear from him. And in that moment, I knew I would ask and hear nothing. This was all there was. We were at the end of our road together. I had known I would never again see his happy sun-burst eyes laughing at me from a healthy body, but the reality felt like it had knocked the wind out of me. It was then that he turned to me and said something so simple. There were no choked goodbyes. No regret. He simply turned his head as far over to me as he could and clearly said, “I love you sweetie.” His voice did not falter or crack.
I spent that night watching over him, trying to keep the O2 mask from making him uncomfortable. I wrote letters, I read. I watched the man drift in and out of a doze. And I stayed awake. I stayed awake until my mother came the next morning. And when she did, I laid down to rest my own head. I was grouchy. But I stayed awake until my father signed the DNR forms and the doctor re-told the bad news to rest of the family. And then I went to sleep.
When I woke up, he was asleep, soundly. And I went home, leaving him in the care of my mother. I would not see him awake again. The next time I would come into that room would be 12 hours later. I would walk into a dark room at 2am, my mother asleep on the cot, my father lying still, heavily sedated with morphine. My mother would awake and we would discuss with the nurses my father’s elevated heart rate until, 22 minutes after I arrived, his heart rate would plummet.
The nurses would rally us around his bed and I, holding in one fist my mothers trembling fingers and in the other, my father’s limp hand, we would watch him, through our tears, taking his final few breaths; shallower and shallower until two gasps, turning his head right then left…..and then nothing. The O2 blowing onto a frozen face, his mouth slightly ajar. My father had died. Only the hiss of the oxygen and our sobs were audible.
Eventually we moved to the other side of the room, away from the dead body that had housed the most important man in both our lives. After a string of people filed in and out, doing whatever it is hospital staff does in the event of a death, we left. To the core it felt wrong to do so. Perhaps it was because both of us had not left him alone in over a year. But he was gone. We both knew it. So we held onto each other and walked from the room, out of the hospital and eventually into our house. But from that moment until I found myself sitting in the funeral directors office, I do not remember. A blur of pain, sadness, and a bit of relief was what filled that empty space in time. The relief was to see him out of pain. But that has since faded.
I sit here now and grieve constantly. It washes over me like a tide. It never goes out. Wave upon wave of sadness that I can stave off with constant distraction, but sometimes, not even then. Perhaps one day there will be nothing left of me to crash against and I will simply be part of that great ocean and drift with it for eternity. I hope only that my father may be somewhere in that deep pool and that I might finally be with him again.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
When i was walking to work this morning, along the plaza of my building i could see three people standing inside, right next to their full length window. They were looking at the ground. As I walked past, I looked down to see a yellow-bellied sapsucker , a migratory bird that flies through IL on its way back North in the Spring. He had flown into the glass and landed on his back on the concrete. The other three people indicated that they were going to call the local rescue that picks up these poor, smashed birds throughout the city. But none of them were walking outside. They suggested that I turn him over on his belly, as if that would help.
Instead, I picked him up and carried him into my own building a few doors down. There i waited. His poor little body was moving in such a way that i knew he was in pain. I held him in my hand, close to my chest to keep him warm. He was still blinking and had seemed like he had calmed down a bit since i got him off the plaza.
The woman from the bird rescue showed up a few minutes later and i gave him up to her. She put him in a travel bag and went on her way.
He didn't look good when i put him in the bag. He probably won't make it. The injuries sustained when a bird flies into a window are almost always fatal.
Maybe with the right care he will hopefully receive at the bird rescue, he'll be able to make it back up North. Although, as much as it makes me cry, I don't think that is the most likely prospect.
It sucks to know that you did your best and it still wasn't quite enough.
Instead, I picked him up and carried him into my own building a few doors down. There i waited. His poor little body was moving in such a way that i knew he was in pain. I held him in my hand, close to my chest to keep him warm. He was still blinking and had seemed like he had calmed down a bit since i got him off the plaza.
The woman from the bird rescue showed up a few minutes later and i gave him up to her. She put him in a travel bag and went on her way.
He didn't look good when i put him in the bag. He probably won't make it. The injuries sustained when a bird flies into a window are almost always fatal.
Maybe with the right care he will hopefully receive at the bird rescue, he'll be able to make it back up North. Although, as much as it makes me cry, I don't think that is the most likely prospect.
It sucks to know that you did your best and it still wasn't quite enough.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Workspace redux
My boss has a tendency to hover around my cube. He is a large gentleman; about 6’5”, 210lbs. Loud as all hell. He seems to enjoy having discussions with the woman who sits directly facing me. I do not have a problem with this. HOWEVER, he likes to have these discussions either while standing at the end of my cube or standing directly IN my cube. So I have this behemoth of a dude just hanging out, thundering his opinions about FINRA this, IRA that, Institutional accounts whatever, right over my head while I am trying to work. Hell, it would be and is annoying when he does this when I don’t have jack to do. Its doubly infuriating when I’m busy. It makes me want to say, “STAY THE HELL OUT OF MY GOD DAMN CUBE BOSS-MAN!!”
So I tried it once. He actually had the audacity to defend himself. He said he likes standing there and that since I’m such a small person, I shouldn’t mind it so much. Yeah, I don’t mind. I don’t mind trying to throw something away and risking sexual molestation. I don’t mind answering the phone and talking into your ass. I don’t mind having my thoughts literally thundered out of my brain because of the cavernous echoes issuing from your great inner stomach depths! I don’t mind at all!!
Not in so many words, I expressed this. I even went the professional way and told him I couldn’t concentrate with him there. Again, to no avail. I was rebuffed. So I have had to endure his intrusions into my space. But it will stop. I have figured out a plan that will end this turmoil.
I will send a company memo out to all employees stating that I am officially changing the name of my work area from “cube” to “vagina”.
I do not expect anything to change other than the fact that henceforth, all references to my desk, cube, work station, etc. will be my vagina. If someone wants to drop off paperwork, they can leave it on my vagina. If someone wants to know where I am, I’m in my vagina. If someone complains about the papers and filing on my desk, I’ll tell them, “I’ll get around to cleaning my vagina next week sometime.”
And the best part will be that my boss will never stand in or around my cube again. The next time he attempts to violate my personal bubble with his never ending babble about nothing important, I will simply say,
“Please get out of my vagina immediately!”
or
“Please stop hovering around my vagina!”
or
“If you put any more of your junk in my vagina, I will be very angry!”
or
“You’re standing in my vagina and it makes me very uncomfortable. Please leave.”
That outta keep him the hell out of my way!
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