Quite a lot has happened since my last post. I probably need to update this thing more, because sometimes I am afraid that it will be the only evidence remaining of my life here on Earth. And if that's the case, I need to make this good.
I started a new job on April 30. I had been toying with the idea of leaving the walk-in clinic for many months, and finally took Dr S up on the offer he had made me around the holidays. I'm working less hours for more money, and in a much more relaxed environment. I'd missed the more personal aspects of Family Practice; of getting to know my patients a little better. Even the needy, drug-seeking ones. So, this aspect of my life is better, and it could not have come at a better time. When I say this place is laid back, I mean that the office manager is a stripper on the weekends, and the company xmas party is usually held at her strip club. Dr S, who makes an appearance about once every 3 weeks, is a smiley 35-ish African-American dude who looks like Chef from South Park. I am pretty sure that there is something going on between Dr S and S, the office manager, but I keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I fit right in from Day One.
Driving home from work on my second day, I was rubbing this sore, numb-ish spot below my right collarbone that had been tapping me on the shoulder for the past 2 weeks. The night before, I'd inspected my shoulder for shingles. I've never had shingles, but the burning sensation felt like my patients had always described. I am an excellent self-diagnostician. Coupled with my talents for procrastination and hyperchondriasis (in my dictionary, the opposite of hypochondriasis), it makes me my own Patient From Hell. Anyway, as my fingers explored this weird numb area, I happened upon something that made a bolt of sweat flash across my scalp- there was a lump. A lump the size of a ping pong ball that definitely was not there the day before.
With the help of friends, and friends-of-friends, in various medical offices, I had my real diagnosis in 48 hours- both the CT and the US were consistent with metastatic melanoma. A fine needle biopsy was needed to confirm it, and this was done in my oncologist's office a few days later. It had been almost exactly a year since I'd finished the high-dose Interferon/chemo for the tumor on my right arm, and my subsequent "I Kicked Cancer's Ass" Party, attended by over 200 of my amazing friends. This was not supposed to be happening. I am only 46. I have too much shit to do.
Dr Sosman, my oncologist, cannot give me a prognosis until after my PET scan and surgery results. The PET was done last week and the results are still pending. This is frustrating. Vanderbilt Medical Center is horrible about calling patients with test results. I'm seeing the surgeon tomorrow, so I will know more then. My brain MRI WAS clear. I'm told that melanoma finds brain tissue delicious, or something like that. My brain says Fuck That Shit, or something like that. I need to rally the rest of my entire body to say the same thing.
And now I am laying in bed every night, vibrantly awake and creating Worst Care Scenarios with my cancer-free brain. As happy as I am to have lost 40 lbs since 2010, I gotta admit that I wasn't really trying. That ain't good, from an oncology perspective. Little aches and pains are becoming metastases. I am surrounded by hypochondriacs and refuse to sound like one, so I keep it all in. That ain't good, either. I do have to give my friends and family credit for being 100% supportive and wonderful. Lowell refuses to let me see him worry. I know he does, though. The stress has led to some fights but we always work them out. I know he did not sign up for this, and that he is free to leave anytime, and yet he does not. A few weeks ago, I took out a large life insurance policy on myself and left the proceeds to him. I hope it never comes to that, but if I go, he will at least get to keep our house if he wants to.
At night, I also devise lists of my Final Wishes. I should probably make them known. I know that this Blob is not a legally binding document, but since no one seems to want to have this conversation with me, here's what I want. Spoiler Alert: It's kind of fucked up - but so am I. :)
I want to be cremated. And I would like my ashes to be split up and dispersed in a few places that are very special to me. A handful sprinkled on top of Love Circle in Nashville, some off the Newport Cliffwalk in RI, some on my dad and my Nana's graves. If someone could send some to Merle in Hawaii, I'd love her to shake some on Waikiki Beach. Kelly Love is in charge of the St. George Island sprinkling. Steve Greaves gets to throw some near the Sydney Opera house, if he is allowed. Some need to be with my mom, and with Lowell. Anyone else want a piece of me? I think that there will probably be enough to go around. Pick me out a cool place. New Orleans, Pawtucket and England are also on my Ash Bucket List. Anyone too grossed out by this whole debaucle to participate? No problem. Am I crazy? Abso-fucking-lutely. And please have a party. You know I would for you. I'll be there.
I hope to be re-reading this Blob when I'm 80 and thinking about what a morbid headcase I was for even posting this. I am prepared to fight and fight and fight so that this happens. But just in case... I feel much better letting my 5 readers know what to do if the melanoma wins. I hope to get some good news tomorrow, and get the surgery over with soon. The lump is now egg-sized and painful, but it will be gone soon.
But I'll be here.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
Baby B
On December 24, 1998, I was rushing through the Acadiana Mall in Lafayette, LA, trying to get some very last minute Christmas shopping done after a long day at the clinic. I ran into Durel's Pet Shop to get Higgins a dog bone for his stocking, and in the back, I noticed a lonely looking, tiny black cocker spaniel puppy in a cage. I asked the teenaged clerk how old it was.
"He was born on November 10th, so that would make him about 6 weeks old", she said, looking at her watch. "You wanna hold him while you look around?" November 10th was Higgins' birthday too.
And I held him. He fell asleep on my shoulder as I shopped, and I was still holding him as I got to the front register.
"It's $4.19 for the bone, and $412 for the puppy", a different clerk told me.
"OK", I said. And I walked out of the store with Baxter.
I ran into my friend Mindy's husband as I was leaving the mall, carrying a cardboard box with holes in it.
"Is that a puppy?", asked Kirk. "Steve's gonna be pissed!" The enormous responsibility of my impulse buy occured to me at that very moment.
And Kirk was right. I got drove home as the puppy howled in the box. I left him in the car, went inside, and told Steve that I had a surprise for him.
"If it's a puppy, I don't want it. Don't even bring it inside. One dog is enough." He did not even look up from his computer. Steve had been working on his PhD thesis for one year too long. Our marriage was on the rocks. Higgins nodded in agreement from across the room. "I'm serious, Kris, Bring it back."
But it was Christmas Eve, and I could not bring him back, Instead, I made him a little nest in the game room, and whispered in his black, floppy ear. "I promise. I promise that I will always be here for you."
I promised. And I reminded Baxter of this promise every day for almost 14 years.
Baxter was a handful. It took Steve 4 weeks to come around to the idea of another canine mouth to feed, and Higgins 2 years to accept his baby brother. Two months after he joined the family, he came down with sarcoptic mange- or canine scabies - which we ALL got, lost most of his hair, and popped out a Cherry Eye. He was quite possibly the ugliest puppy I have ever seen. The Promise held true, though. The dip that the vet prescribed was not noticeable on his black fur, but it turned Higgins' blond hair a lime green color. Higgins was disgusted. He laid facing the wall, growling, sulking, and GREEN, for the next 2 weeks. Baxter was hyperactive, destructive, needy, and often inconsolable. He clung to me like a wet, smelly blanket.
The following Christmas, I was in the process of making Louisiana gift baskets for my friends and family, and had the supplies stashed in the spare bedroom closet. This included 4 large canisters of Tony Chachere's Cajun Seasoning. Baby B opened the closet and gnawed through several of the canisters, somehow eating cup after cup of very spicy seasoning.. and then proceeded to have explosive diarrhea throughout the entire, carpeted, house. This was just one of his capers.
And then Steve and I separated.
I was gone for several months while we worked out details of our divorce. It was mostly amicable, and I eventually relocated to Nashville. Steve decided to return to Australia, where we had met, and could not take the dogs with him, so we decided that he bring them to me in Nashville. It was one of the most difficult times in my life. At the time, I had just moved here and had no job, was staying on a friend's couch, and was totally broke. Add 2 very active dogs to the equation, dropped off my an ex-husband I was actually starting to mix - but who already had a baby on the way with his new girlfriend - and it was almost more than I could bear. That afternoon, I sat in the bathtub and wept. Both dogs perched their chins on the corner of the tub and looked at me longingly. Baxter, despite his new aversion to water, actually tried to get IN the tub with me. I made another promise that afternoon- we were going to make this work, no matter what. and we did. I found a job the next day, moved into my own place with a best friend the following week, a place that was dog-friendly and comfortable. We were across the street from Love Circle, a beautiful park overlooking Nashville's skyline. My new roommate, Gary, was very kind to The Boys and helped me take care of them. We settled into our new life.
Those of you who know me are aware that I have a dememted sense of humor, and I could not help but personify Baxter and Higgins' lives. While we were roommates, Gary helped me come up with the details. Higgins, more quiet and serious, was an accountant. He drove a Saab, wore a bowtie and smoked a pipe. He listened to Barry Manilow and showtunes, and dated a pom-pom poodle named Lady. They regularly played bridge with her grandmother. Higgins made a good living and was constantly having to bail his delinquent brother Baxter out of jail. Baxter was unemployed, drove a '79 Cutless Supreme dropped low with spinning rims, loved Rick James and Snoop Doggy Dogg, and was dating a mutt named Misty, who worked at the Discount Tobacco and Beer Store. She would answer the phone "D. T. and B!!" Baxter wore FUBU clothes and a gold fang. But he would help out his brother Higgins in a minute, digging in the Taco Bell dumpster for scraps when they were broke. He wasn't proud. We had so much fun coming up with these stories.
Over the next 9 or 10 years, I made Nashville my new home. I moved 4 times, always to someplace nicer. I made some awesome friends, and had a few relationships, some good, some not. The dogs were a big part of my life. They slept with me, or next to the bed when they got too old to hop up with me. They definitely had their moments... Higgins digging in the trash and Baxter howling if he was ever left alone. One visitor we had years ago left a very large joint on the coffee tabnle and Baxter ate it down in one gulp. For the next 3 days, he was asleep on the kitchen floor, his legs moving like he was running as he dreamed. He got the nickname "Dream Pony" that weekend. Baxter was also quite adept at snatching a hot dog or hamburger out of a bun while you were looking the other way. They kept me grounded, though. I needed a rock to hold me in one place for awhile, because I definitely am a vagabond by nature, and they kept me where I needed to be. In 2009, Lowell and I decided that we were serious enough to buy a home together, and The Boys finally had their own backyard again. The following year, Higgins - almost 16 years old, died in the backyard while I was at work. I had just had surgery to remove a melanoma on my right arm, and Lowell was away on business in California. As it was April, the ground was hard and cold, and as I began to dig his grave, one armed, in approximately the spot where I had found him, my friend Doug came to my rescue and helped me to put him in his final resting place. As sad as I was to lose Higgins, the niggling thought in my mind was... how could I handle losing Baxter? He had always been my favorite. I'd heard how dogs who are close would die of grief, closely together. I worked a lot of hours away from the house, and Baxter hated being alone. So, we rescued 2 little gray tabby kittens to keep him company. Hops and Barley quickly became B's new best friends.
Two weeks ago, after I returned from a trip to Mardi Gras, I noticed that Baxter was ageing very quickly. He had gone deaf last year, had runny eyes and a perpetual stink that even the groomer and a dental procedure could not control. His vision also seemed to be failing. He slept most of the time, and wobbled when he walked. He stopped eating solid kibble, so we found a mixture of wet food and canned pumpkin that we spoon fed him. He always perked up when he saw me, though, tail a-wagging, licking my hand. I whispered the Promise in his black, curly-haired ear every day.
Five nights ago, I instinctively knew it was Time. He had had a particularly good day earlier, eating and sunning himself on the patio. I'd even given him a bath outside with some peppermint doggie shampoo. But that night, he was at the door, asking for me. We both just knew. I made myself a bed on the couch next to him, kept my hand on his belly, and prayed as his breathing became more labored. About 15 minutes later, he took his last breath as I had him scooped in my arms. I held onto him for about 20 minutes more, crying and telling him everything would be ok. I hope I am right.
We buried Baxter next to Higgins the following morning. I've ordered some headstones online, and we will plant some rosemary for rememberance in the same spot, too. He was buried with the dog bowl I made for him, 2 hotdogs, his brush, his leash, his collar, a photo of me and Higgins, some cookies, and a cat turd. (Yes, he ate cat turds. Shut up.) Higgins is buried with similar things, and some bubbles, which he loved to snap out of the air.
Hops and Barley have been looking for Baxter for the past few days. I donated his brass dog bed to my friend Michelle's dog Bailey, along with some other goodies for my friend Brandi's girl Lizzie. I cannot handle the responsibility of another dog right now, and I am not about to repeat another impulse buy! But I am so very glad to have known these beautiful, loving creatures, who gave to me so much more than I gave them.
I will miss you always, my Boys.
"He was born on November 10th, so that would make him about 6 weeks old", she said, looking at her watch. "You wanna hold him while you look around?" November 10th was Higgins' birthday too.
And I held him. He fell asleep on my shoulder as I shopped, and I was still holding him as I got to the front register.
"It's $4.19 for the bone, and $412 for the puppy", a different clerk told me.
"OK", I said. And I walked out of the store with Baxter.
I ran into my friend Mindy's husband as I was leaving the mall, carrying a cardboard box with holes in it.
"Is that a puppy?", asked Kirk. "Steve's gonna be pissed!" The enormous responsibility of my impulse buy occured to me at that very moment.
And Kirk was right. I got drove home as the puppy howled in the box. I left him in the car, went inside, and told Steve that I had a surprise for him.
"If it's a puppy, I don't want it. Don't even bring it inside. One dog is enough." He did not even look up from his computer. Steve had been working on his PhD thesis for one year too long. Our marriage was on the rocks. Higgins nodded in agreement from across the room. "I'm serious, Kris, Bring it back."
But it was Christmas Eve, and I could not bring him back, Instead, I made him a little nest in the game room, and whispered in his black, floppy ear. "I promise. I promise that I will always be here for you."
I promised. And I reminded Baxter of this promise every day for almost 14 years.
Baxter was a handful. It took Steve 4 weeks to come around to the idea of another canine mouth to feed, and Higgins 2 years to accept his baby brother. Two months after he joined the family, he came down with sarcoptic mange- or canine scabies - which we ALL got, lost most of his hair, and popped out a Cherry Eye. He was quite possibly the ugliest puppy I have ever seen. The Promise held true, though. The dip that the vet prescribed was not noticeable on his black fur, but it turned Higgins' blond hair a lime green color. Higgins was disgusted. He laid facing the wall, growling, sulking, and GREEN, for the next 2 weeks. Baxter was hyperactive, destructive, needy, and often inconsolable. He clung to me like a wet, smelly blanket.
The following Christmas, I was in the process of making Louisiana gift baskets for my friends and family, and had the supplies stashed in the spare bedroom closet. This included 4 large canisters of Tony Chachere's Cajun Seasoning. Baby B opened the closet and gnawed through several of the canisters, somehow eating cup after cup of very spicy seasoning.. and then proceeded to have explosive diarrhea throughout the entire, carpeted, house. This was just one of his capers.
And then Steve and I separated.
I was gone for several months while we worked out details of our divorce. It was mostly amicable, and I eventually relocated to Nashville. Steve decided to return to Australia, where we had met, and could not take the dogs with him, so we decided that he bring them to me in Nashville. It was one of the most difficult times in my life. At the time, I had just moved here and had no job, was staying on a friend's couch, and was totally broke. Add 2 very active dogs to the equation, dropped off my an ex-husband I was actually starting to mix - but who already had a baby on the way with his new girlfriend - and it was almost more than I could bear. That afternoon, I sat in the bathtub and wept. Both dogs perched their chins on the corner of the tub and looked at me longingly. Baxter, despite his new aversion to water, actually tried to get IN the tub with me. I made another promise that afternoon- we were going to make this work, no matter what. and we did. I found a job the next day, moved into my own place with a best friend the following week, a place that was dog-friendly and comfortable. We were across the street from Love Circle, a beautiful park overlooking Nashville's skyline. My new roommate, Gary, was very kind to The Boys and helped me take care of them. We settled into our new life.
Those of you who know me are aware that I have a dememted sense of humor, and I could not help but personify Baxter and Higgins' lives. While we were roommates, Gary helped me come up with the details. Higgins, more quiet and serious, was an accountant. He drove a Saab, wore a bowtie and smoked a pipe. He listened to Barry Manilow and showtunes, and dated a pom-pom poodle named Lady. They regularly played bridge with her grandmother. Higgins made a good living and was constantly having to bail his delinquent brother Baxter out of jail. Baxter was unemployed, drove a '79 Cutless Supreme dropped low with spinning rims, loved Rick James and Snoop Doggy Dogg, and was dating a mutt named Misty, who worked at the Discount Tobacco and Beer Store. She would answer the phone "D. T. and B!!" Baxter wore FUBU clothes and a gold fang. But he would help out his brother Higgins in a minute, digging in the Taco Bell dumpster for scraps when they were broke. He wasn't proud. We had so much fun coming up with these stories.
Over the next 9 or 10 years, I made Nashville my new home. I moved 4 times, always to someplace nicer. I made some awesome friends, and had a few relationships, some good, some not. The dogs were a big part of my life. They slept with me, or next to the bed when they got too old to hop up with me. They definitely had their moments... Higgins digging in the trash and Baxter howling if he was ever left alone. One visitor we had years ago left a very large joint on the coffee tabnle and Baxter ate it down in one gulp. For the next 3 days, he was asleep on the kitchen floor, his legs moving like he was running as he dreamed. He got the nickname "Dream Pony" that weekend. Baxter was also quite adept at snatching a hot dog or hamburger out of a bun while you were looking the other way. They kept me grounded, though. I needed a rock to hold me in one place for awhile, because I definitely am a vagabond by nature, and they kept me where I needed to be. In 2009, Lowell and I decided that we were serious enough to buy a home together, and The Boys finally had their own backyard again. The following year, Higgins - almost 16 years old, died in the backyard while I was at work. I had just had surgery to remove a melanoma on my right arm, and Lowell was away on business in California. As it was April, the ground was hard and cold, and as I began to dig his grave, one armed, in approximately the spot where I had found him, my friend Doug came to my rescue and helped me to put him in his final resting place. As sad as I was to lose Higgins, the niggling thought in my mind was... how could I handle losing Baxter? He had always been my favorite. I'd heard how dogs who are close would die of grief, closely together. I worked a lot of hours away from the house, and Baxter hated being alone. So, we rescued 2 little gray tabby kittens to keep him company. Hops and Barley quickly became B's new best friends.
Two weeks ago, after I returned from a trip to Mardi Gras, I noticed that Baxter was ageing very quickly. He had gone deaf last year, had runny eyes and a perpetual stink that even the groomer and a dental procedure could not control. His vision also seemed to be failing. He slept most of the time, and wobbled when he walked. He stopped eating solid kibble, so we found a mixture of wet food and canned pumpkin that we spoon fed him. He always perked up when he saw me, though, tail a-wagging, licking my hand. I whispered the Promise in his black, curly-haired ear every day.
Five nights ago, I instinctively knew it was Time. He had had a particularly good day earlier, eating and sunning himself on the patio. I'd even given him a bath outside with some peppermint doggie shampoo. But that night, he was at the door, asking for me. We both just knew. I made myself a bed on the couch next to him, kept my hand on his belly, and prayed as his breathing became more labored. About 15 minutes later, he took his last breath as I had him scooped in my arms. I held onto him for about 20 minutes more, crying and telling him everything would be ok. I hope I am right.
We buried Baxter next to Higgins the following morning. I've ordered some headstones online, and we will plant some rosemary for rememberance in the same spot, too. He was buried with the dog bowl I made for him, 2 hotdogs, his brush, his leash, his collar, a photo of me and Higgins, some cookies, and a cat turd. (Yes, he ate cat turds. Shut up.) Higgins is buried with similar things, and some bubbles, which he loved to snap out of the air.
Hops and Barley have been looking for Baxter for the past few days. I donated his brass dog bed to my friend Michelle's dog Bailey, along with some other goodies for my friend Brandi's girl Lizzie. I cannot handle the responsibility of another dog right now, and I am not about to repeat another impulse buy! But I am so very glad to have known these beautiful, loving creatures, who gave to me so much more than I gave them.
I will miss you always, my Boys.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Back in Rhode Island
I flew home to Rhode Island yesterday to attend my cousin Neil's wedding on Sunday 9/11/11. I admire his idea of celebrating their new life on the 10 year anniversary of a major tragedy. It's hard to believe that a decade has flown by so fast... and that with time the wounds of such a tragedy can indeed heal. I have no doubt that it will be a joyous yet bittersweet celebration, and I really look forward to going and spending time with many family members who I rarely get to see.
As I was boarding the plane, I got a message from my young friend "Alex", a student at an Ivy League college and a young man who I would be proud to call my son. Alex spent a few weeks at my house last year on his summer break, shortly before he left for Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship. An incredibly gifted pianist who was raised in Guam, he earned a full scholarship after a strict upbringing and homeschooling by an Asian "Tiger Mother". His email informed me that his younger brother Paul had just committed suicide by hanging himself in his dorm room, on his first day of freshman year at a college in Connecticut. I cannot imagine Alex's grief, even though I lost my dad in a similar way. As I flipped through the 9/11 magazine tributes and memorials on the plane, I could not stop thinking of Alex and his brother. 10 years from now, would he remember his brother in a sentimental way? There will probably be no bittersweet celebrations of his life. I had no idea what to say to Alex, except to offer my love and friendship.
The other purpose of my trip is to bring my couson Tori to tour a few colleges in Boston and RI and help her decide which one she will attend next year. Tori herself has had some very difficult and painful losses this year - some things that a 17yo girl should never have to experience. As we followed a student guide around Boston University today, I remembered taking the same tour with my mom when I was her age. I realized with awe that is was 28 YEARS AGO. The time... where does it go? I feel like the same person in so many regards, but in reality I have lived and learned and experienced such an incredible amount of stuff since that time.. good And bad. But compared to Tori and Alex, I've had it pretty good. I think they are both survivors, and I want with all of my heart for them both to do incredible things with their lives.
And somehow, celebrating a wedding on 9/11 gives me hope... for Neil and his bride, for Tori, and even for Alex. I'm not sure exactly why. I can't explain it, and I'm not even sure why I am posting this - it just makes me feel better. Goodnight and Peace. I'm going to say a prayer for Paul now.
As I was boarding the plane, I got a message from my young friend "Alex", a student at an Ivy League college and a young man who I would be proud to call my son. Alex spent a few weeks at my house last year on his summer break, shortly before he left for Oxford University on a Rhodes Scholarship. An incredibly gifted pianist who was raised in Guam, he earned a full scholarship after a strict upbringing and homeschooling by an Asian "Tiger Mother". His email informed me that his younger brother Paul had just committed suicide by hanging himself in his dorm room, on his first day of freshman year at a college in Connecticut. I cannot imagine Alex's grief, even though I lost my dad in a similar way. As I flipped through the 9/11 magazine tributes and memorials on the plane, I could not stop thinking of Alex and his brother. 10 years from now, would he remember his brother in a sentimental way? There will probably be no bittersweet celebrations of his life. I had no idea what to say to Alex, except to offer my love and friendship.
The other purpose of my trip is to bring my couson Tori to tour a few colleges in Boston and RI and help her decide which one she will attend next year. Tori herself has had some very difficult and painful losses this year - some things that a 17yo girl should never have to experience. As we followed a student guide around Boston University today, I remembered taking the same tour with my mom when I was her age. I realized with awe that is was 28 YEARS AGO. The time... where does it go? I feel like the same person in so many regards, but in reality I have lived and learned and experienced such an incredible amount of stuff since that time.. good And bad. But compared to Tori and Alex, I've had it pretty good. I think they are both survivors, and I want with all of my heart for them both to do incredible things with their lives.
And somehow, celebrating a wedding on 9/11 gives me hope... for Neil and his bride, for Tori, and even for Alex. I'm not sure exactly why. I can't explain it, and I'm not even sure why I am posting this - it just makes me feel better. Goodnight and Peace. I'm going to say a prayer for Paul now.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Labor Day Weekend!
Aren't long weekends supposed to be relaxing? I admit that I've had a blast, but as usual, I feel like I need a vacation from my vacation. Back to "laboring" tomorrow, but at least it will be a short week, as I am off to spend time with my family in Rhode Island for another long weekend coming up in just a few days.
On Thursday, I had the pleasure of meeting another one of my StumbleUpon friends, Dana. Dana is a big college football fan and went to college in Montana. Montana played University of Tennessee yesterday, and we had arranged for him to come visit us for the game and the long weekend almost a year ago. Montana was definitely the Underdog, and I am not really a big sports fan, but I am definitely a big fan of festivities of any type! So, we were more than happy to host him here, and I'd even decided to throw a Toga Party in his honor. Why the Hell not? :)
I'd met Dana on StumbleUpon about 5 years ago, after he had made an amazing post about an abandoned house he'd found near his property, just North of Seattle, Washington. The previous owner had chronicled his life by writing on the walls of the home, which was slated for destruction within weeks. Dana had taken photos of the writing and posted them on his blog, with a touching narrative. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen online, and since that time we have been friends. That, and also his journaling about his wife Jenny's struggles with bone cancer while raising their 2 young, gorgeous children, made me want to be his friend for life.
I picked Dana up on Thursday afternoon at BNA Airport, and liked him immediately. Tall and thin, with a boyish grin and a quick laugh, he was charming and funny, without an ounce of awkwardness that sometimes comes with meeting someone from The Internets. He was immediately relaxed and familiar. Dana is an account executive for LabCorp, a competitive cyclist, and extremely young looking for 43 years old. He shares the exact birthday with my ex-husband, who is an all around good guy. Dana fit right in with my friends. He updated me on the story of that house. It has indeed been torn down, but he went through legal documents, found the previous owner's name and address, and mailed him a nice letter, telling him that over 5000 people had seen the notes he'd written on the walls via his blog, and that his stories have not been forgotten. He is That Kind of Guy.
Friday night was our Labor Day toga party. I'm not sure exactly how many people attended, but I'll guess and say 60? Most of them were sporting togas, many were drunk, some swam in their sheets, and I am pretty sure everyone had fun. I did, anyways. If you came, thanks for attending. If you didn't, you missed a good time, and you should come to the next shindig. My toga consisted of some old gold lame curtains I'd found at Goodwill that day, for $1.99. The belt was made of the "toga" I'd bought on eBay. It looked like it would possibly only fit a small 5 year old. It made a cute belt, though. Here I am with my cool Sun Medical coworkers:
The only unfortunate part of the entire weekend was a misunderstanding I had with my friend B, who was supposed to visit from Pennsylvania. B was supposed to drive, but decided at the last minute to fly. The flight on Friday night was delayed, he missed his connection and was stranded overnight in NYC. By the time he arrived in Nashville the next morning, he was overtired, cranky and misunderstood that we had to leave IMMEDIATELY to make the game on time. He insisted that he had to sleep, and went to his hotel instead of to my house like I'd asked. Also, as he did not drive, we did not have enough room in my car for 6 people. On top of everything else, his flight home was leaving at 6am the next day, so we would have been unable to get him to the airport ( a 3.5 hour drive plus a time zone change away), as we had all planned to spend the next day there as well. So unfortunately, we missed seeing him. He was not happy about this, to put it mildly. The only other choice I had was to have EVERYONE miss the game, and I could not do that to Dana, whose sole reason for coming to Nashville was to go to Knoxville and attend the game. So, B is very upset, has made some wild threats, and hopefully will eventually calm down. I have not let it ruin my weekend.
Today was finally a day to relax, enjoy a rainstorm, and regroup before returning to work for a few days this week. I am so blessed to have a group of marvelous friends, and I thank all of you who helped to make it a fun weekend. <3
On Thursday, I had the pleasure of meeting another one of my StumbleUpon friends, Dana. Dana is a big college football fan and went to college in Montana. Montana played University of Tennessee yesterday, and we had arranged for him to come visit us for the game and the long weekend almost a year ago. Montana was definitely the Underdog, and I am not really a big sports fan, but I am definitely a big fan of festivities of any type! So, we were more than happy to host him here, and I'd even decided to throw a Toga Party in his honor. Why the Hell not? :)
I'd met Dana on StumbleUpon about 5 years ago, after he had made an amazing post about an abandoned house he'd found near his property, just North of Seattle, Washington. The previous owner had chronicled his life by writing on the walls of the home, which was slated for destruction within weeks. Dana had taken photos of the writing and posted them on his blog, with a touching narrative. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen online, and since that time we have been friends. That, and also his journaling about his wife Jenny's struggles with bone cancer while raising their 2 young, gorgeous children, made me want to be his friend for life.
I picked Dana up on Thursday afternoon at BNA Airport, and liked him immediately. Tall and thin, with a boyish grin and a quick laugh, he was charming and funny, without an ounce of awkwardness that sometimes comes with meeting someone from The Internets. He was immediately relaxed and familiar. Dana is an account executive for LabCorp, a competitive cyclist, and extremely young looking for 43 years old. He shares the exact birthday with my ex-husband, who is an all around good guy. Dana fit right in with my friends. He updated me on the story of that house. It has indeed been torn down, but he went through legal documents, found the previous owner's name and address, and mailed him a nice letter, telling him that over 5000 people had seen the notes he'd written on the walls via his blog, and that his stories have not been forgotten. He is That Kind of Guy.
Friday night was our Labor Day toga party. I'm not sure exactly how many people attended, but I'll guess and say 60? Most of them were sporting togas, many were drunk, some swam in their sheets, and I am pretty sure everyone had fun. I did, anyways. If you came, thanks for attending. If you didn't, you missed a good time, and you should come to the next shindig. My toga consisted of some old gold lame curtains I'd found at Goodwill that day, for $1.99. The belt was made of the "toga" I'd bought on eBay. It looked like it would possibly only fit a small 5 year old. It made a cute belt, though. Here I am with my cool Sun Medical coworkers:
The only unfortunate part of the entire weekend was a misunderstanding I had with my friend B, who was supposed to visit from Pennsylvania. B was supposed to drive, but decided at the last minute to fly. The flight on Friday night was delayed, he missed his connection and was stranded overnight in NYC. By the time he arrived in Nashville the next morning, he was overtired, cranky and misunderstood that we had to leave IMMEDIATELY to make the game on time. He insisted that he had to sleep, and went to his hotel instead of to my house like I'd asked. Also, as he did not drive, we did not have enough room in my car for 6 people. On top of everything else, his flight home was leaving at 6am the next day, so we would have been unable to get him to the airport ( a 3.5 hour drive plus a time zone change away), as we had all planned to spend the next day there as well. So unfortunately, we missed seeing him. He was not happy about this, to put it mildly. The only other choice I had was to have EVERYONE miss the game, and I could not do that to Dana, whose sole reason for coming to Nashville was to go to Knoxville and attend the game. So, B is very upset, has made some wild threats, and hopefully will eventually calm down. I have not let it ruin my weekend.
Today was finally a day to relax, enjoy a rainstorm, and regroup before returning to work for a few days this week. I am so blessed to have a group of marvelous friends, and I thank all of you who helped to make it a fun weekend. <3
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
All Names* Have Been Changed.. for Confidentiality.
A challenging, exhausting day at work. I love what I do, but some days just get to me. Today... got to me.
35 patients into my schedule, I noticed Robin*'s name appear. Her last name sent a chill down my spine, as I remembered her brother, Jake*. Immediately, I knew why she and her mom were coming in to see me. eClinicals listed "sinus problems" as her complaint, but I knew better. My desk calendar told me it was the one year anniversary of Jake's death.
Almost four years ago, I'd met Jake for the first time in the clinic. The son of an upper middle class mother with a mild attitude problem, Jake came in for hand pain after he "fell" on it. An xray confirmed a boxer's fracture, and his story did not fool me. Jake was 16, handsome, very tall and had an offbeat sense of humor. Teenaged me would have certainly had a crush on him. It took 2 or 3 well worded questions from me to have him admit that he had punched something. It turned out to be a wall, and I further learned that he had quite an explosive temper. Both Jake and his mom seemed to trust me right away, and once he was splinted, the conversation turned to the more important issue at "hand"- Jake's frustration with life, his anxiety and mood swings. We talked at length about his need for counseling, and maybe some medication. They left with an ortho appointment and a prescription for Zoloft. His mom called me 2 days later to personally thank me for my time, my caring nature, my genuine concern for Jake. "You got to him... and he needed that. Thank you", said Cathy*. She was weeping.
Cathy kept me updated over the next several weeks, as Jake slowly improved on the antidepressant. He called me himself too, an oddity for a 16yo. There were no more temper problems. He'd come in for medication refills over the next 2 or 3 years, and the occasional illness. When he got mono at 18yo, I reassured him that he'd be ok, and pointed him in the direction of a research study going on where he could make $5000 just for having the disease and donating his blood for research. "I have never been so frickin' happy to be sick. You are The Bomb!", he exclaimed. Cathy called me when he got accepted to college. Things were going well for Jake. I was as proud as I'd be of my own son.
And then, the unthinkable happened. 19yo Jake was driving his best friend home from a night out in Nashville, drinking. Drunk, he lost control of his truck, ran off the highway exit ramp, and killed them both. I couldn't go to the funeral due to my work schedule, but my coworkers and I sent flowers. I could not even imagine Cathy's grief. Jake haunted my nightmares for weeks. Did I talk to him about the dangers of drinking and driving? Did the Zoloft make him more impaired? Could I have done anything differently? Did he feel any pain? Will he ever be forgiven by his friend's family?
And now, a year later, 17yo Robin is still wrought with sadness, sleeplessness, guilt. Her symptoms border on irrational sometimes. Yesterday, at a Chinese restaurant, she was afraid to open her fortune cookie, imagining that it was forecasting something terrible which would happen to her. She misses her big brother. She's lost 40 pounds.
So in the middle of a cough and cold rush of patients in the office today, Robin and Cathy came in to see me. Robin had just been to a counselor for the first time today, but was reluctant to open up to him. But she opened right up to me, telling me all of her fears and worries between heavy tears and feeble smiles. "Jake trusted you, so I do too."
And I listened. I started her on Zoloft. And warned her about the dangers of drinking and driving. I hugged them both tight. I was unprofessional, and cried throughout the entire office visit. I wish I could do more. I wish I could tell them that everything will be ok. I don't know if it will. I can only hope I made a difference.
Somehow, I think Jake was listening, hands folded, smiling.
This is my hope.
35 patients into my schedule, I noticed Robin*'s name appear. Her last name sent a chill down my spine, as I remembered her brother, Jake*. Immediately, I knew why she and her mom were coming in to see me. eClinicals listed "sinus problems" as her complaint, but I knew better. My desk calendar told me it was the one year anniversary of Jake's death.
Almost four years ago, I'd met Jake for the first time in the clinic. The son of an upper middle class mother with a mild attitude problem, Jake came in for hand pain after he "fell" on it. An xray confirmed a boxer's fracture, and his story did not fool me. Jake was 16, handsome, very tall and had an offbeat sense of humor. Teenaged me would have certainly had a crush on him. It took 2 or 3 well worded questions from me to have him admit that he had punched something. It turned out to be a wall, and I further learned that he had quite an explosive temper. Both Jake and his mom seemed to trust me right away, and once he was splinted, the conversation turned to the more important issue at "hand"- Jake's frustration with life, his anxiety and mood swings. We talked at length about his need for counseling, and maybe some medication. They left with an ortho appointment and a prescription for Zoloft. His mom called me 2 days later to personally thank me for my time, my caring nature, my genuine concern for Jake. "You got to him... and he needed that. Thank you", said Cathy*. She was weeping.
Cathy kept me updated over the next several weeks, as Jake slowly improved on the antidepressant. He called me himself too, an oddity for a 16yo. There were no more temper problems. He'd come in for medication refills over the next 2 or 3 years, and the occasional illness. When he got mono at 18yo, I reassured him that he'd be ok, and pointed him in the direction of a research study going on where he could make $5000 just for having the disease and donating his blood for research. "I have never been so frickin' happy to be sick. You are The Bomb!", he exclaimed. Cathy called me when he got accepted to college. Things were going well for Jake. I was as proud as I'd be of my own son.
And then, the unthinkable happened. 19yo Jake was driving his best friend home from a night out in Nashville, drinking. Drunk, he lost control of his truck, ran off the highway exit ramp, and killed them both. I couldn't go to the funeral due to my work schedule, but my coworkers and I sent flowers. I could not even imagine Cathy's grief. Jake haunted my nightmares for weeks. Did I talk to him about the dangers of drinking and driving? Did the Zoloft make him more impaired? Could I have done anything differently? Did he feel any pain? Will he ever be forgiven by his friend's family?
And now, a year later, 17yo Robin is still wrought with sadness, sleeplessness, guilt. Her symptoms border on irrational sometimes. Yesterday, at a Chinese restaurant, she was afraid to open her fortune cookie, imagining that it was forecasting something terrible which would happen to her. She misses her big brother. She's lost 40 pounds.
So in the middle of a cough and cold rush of patients in the office today, Robin and Cathy came in to see me. Robin had just been to a counselor for the first time today, but was reluctant to open up to him. But she opened right up to me, telling me all of her fears and worries between heavy tears and feeble smiles. "Jake trusted you, so I do too."
And I listened. I started her on Zoloft. And warned her about the dangers of drinking and driving. I hugged them both tight. I was unprofessional, and cried throughout the entire office visit. I wish I could do more. I wish I could tell them that everything will be ok. I don't know if it will. I can only hope I made a difference.
Somehow, I think Jake was listening, hands folded, smiling.
This is my hope.
Monday, August 29, 2011
The Legendary Cure Concert
(For Jennie)
In the summer of 2004, Starwood Ampitheatre, which is outside of Nashville, had a special one day, and announced that for that afternoon only, all of the concert tickets for the season were selling for $10 each. I was on the way home from work and detoured down I-24. After standing in line for 2 hours, I had tickets for Chicago/Earth Wind And Fire, The Cure, DMB, Sting/Sheryl Crow, OzzFest, and ColdPlay. I’ve always been a concert lover, and Starwood is a cool outdoor venue. This is the story of how I didn’t get to see The Cure, and how that $10 concert cost Geoffrey $300.
The Cure was playing on a Wednesday night a few months later, and I was going with Gary and Geoffrey after work. I’d had a particularly shitty day at my job, and had been just been told that afternoon that I was going to be laid off. (The reason: our referrals had dried up after one of the doctors, who was hooked on OxyContin, pulled a gun out of his anesthesia fannypack during surgery and threatened to kill another doctor. This brought Channel 2 News to our office, along with the DEA and the SWAT Team. In the middle of clinic hours). So, I was fed up with work, freaked out by the events of the day, stressed out about supporting myself, and ready to kick back at a concert. On the way to the show, we stopped at Frugal MacDougal’s and loaded up on booze. Gary fixed me a Jager Bomb in the car. I filled my flask and stuck it in my bra. A couple more Jager Bombs in the parking lot, and we were ready to rock.
Walking past the concession stands, we noticed a large Captain Morgan’s display. Bellying up to the bar, Geoffrey plopped his card down and ordered 3 triples. In the distance, Arcade Fire was playing as the opening act. It was still light out, a beautiful fall evening. We sipped Cap’n and Cokes at a picnic table, and Geoffrey went and gathered another round. I was getting a serious buzz working. And I was feeling much more relaxed about work. "Everyone sucks but us", Gary toasted as we pounded our drinks back. Geoffrey kept them coming. Soon my mind was spinning. Woooooooo, I was feeling fine. Dandy enough to have a little stroll, wrapped in the blanket I’d brought, since our seats were on the lawn. G and G went to the bathroom, and I wandered off.
It had rained for a bit that afternoon, and the lawn was muddy. The last thing I remember was staggering by the crowd and sliding down a hill. My blanket was long gone. I guess I decided to take a little disco nap in a mud puddle. In my miniskirt. Soooooo sleepy. I was awoken by a uniformed security guard.. "I’m all set", I told him, lifting my head out of the dirty water. "Nothing to see here". Next thing I knew, I was being escorted to security. IN A WHEELCHAIR. Mud was encrusted all over my legs, face and hair. Concertgoers gaped at me as they waited for The Cure to take the stage. I prayed that none of them were my patients. In the security office, I puked in a trashcan for awhile, not realizing I was handcuffed to the wheelchair. Ever hit rock bottom? That’s where I was. Or so I thought then (I’ll tell my jail story someday when I’m ready...it’s even worse). The real police showed up a bit later, and ran my ID. I had puked myself a bit sober by that time, and repeatedly tried calling Gary and Geoffrey on my cell phone. Neither one answered. Eventually, I convinced someone that I was well enough to go find my friends. Mercifully, I was let go. I staggered to my car ("Why Can’t I Be You" played in the background) and sat behind it with my head on the bumper. I’m not sure how long I was sleeping there when Gary woke me up. It was, however, long enough for bystanders to decorate me with beer cans and confetti.
"Where the fuck have you guys been?!", he exclaimed wildly, and drunkly. "I’ve been walking around with a jar of mustard, squirting it on people’s hot dogs and stuff, and looking for you and Geoffrey". Geoffrey? I thought they’d be together. "I’ve been in security in a wheelchair. I rolled down a hill. Can we go home now? Can you drive?". I laid back down on the bumper. "What???", Gary exclaimed. "We haven’t even seen the concert yet! But fuck it- we’re leaving him here". Gary took my keys and I climbed in the back seat and fell asleep again. I awoke to the sound of a voice over a microphone. "Are we in a drive through?" I asked, as Gary shouted an order into a Jack In The Box receptacle. "Go back to sleep", he told me. Soon enough, we were back at my condo, and I was in my own bed.
The next morning, my alarm rang as usual at 6:30am. "BOOP. BOOP. BOOP. BOOP." Every cell in my brain vibrated to the auditory explosion, which was matched with the image of a thousand middle fingers being flipped at me inside my head. Holy shit. I had to go to fucking WORK. If this hangover had happened 2000 years ago, it would have been mentioned in the Bible. I dragged my ass outta bed, drank a 2 liter bottle of Sprite and 4 Excedrins, showered the mud off my body, and looked for something to wear. No clean scrubs. No clean clothes, for that matter. I threw on a low cut dress and drove to work, hating life.
At work, where I’d be for only 2 more weeks, I checked out my schedule- 40 patients. I threw on my lab coat and buttoned it up to my neck, hiding my cleavage. My nurse, Karen, graciously got me a large bottle of water and asked if I was OK. "Girl, I feel like I’m gonna die. I never go out on work nights, but I did last night. Please be easy on me today". She was. At lunchtime, I went outside to my car to take a nap in the back seat. That’s when I noticed my car, which was parked in the doctor’s lot, was littered with Jager and Morgan bottles. I moved it to a more vacant area.
After the shift from hell, I realized that I still had no idea where Geoffrey had gotten to. I called him on the way home. "Why’d y’all leave me?", he whined. "I had to take a taxi home, for $75.00. I was like the last one there in the whole ampitheatre". Poor Geoffrey. Add to that his $200 bar tab.
New Rule: I no longer go out on work nights, no matter what is going on. I got a better job a few weeks later, and a great reference from work. I also lay off the hard stuff most of the time.
Maybe someday I’ll get to see The Cure, too.
In the summer of 2004, Starwood Ampitheatre, which is outside of Nashville, had a special one day, and announced that for that afternoon only, all of the concert tickets for the season were selling for $10 each. I was on the way home from work and detoured down I-24. After standing in line for 2 hours, I had tickets for Chicago/Earth Wind And Fire, The Cure, DMB, Sting/Sheryl Crow, OzzFest, and ColdPlay. I’ve always been a concert lover, and Starwood is a cool outdoor venue. This is the story of how I didn’t get to see The Cure, and how that $10 concert cost Geoffrey $300.
The Cure was playing on a Wednesday night a few months later, and I was going with Gary and Geoffrey after work. I’d had a particularly shitty day at my job, and had been just been told that afternoon that I was going to be laid off. (The reason: our referrals had dried up after one of the doctors, who was hooked on OxyContin, pulled a gun out of his anesthesia fannypack during surgery and threatened to kill another doctor. This brought Channel 2 News to our office, along with the DEA and the SWAT Team. In the middle of clinic hours). So, I was fed up with work, freaked out by the events of the day, stressed out about supporting myself, and ready to kick back at a concert. On the way to the show, we stopped at Frugal MacDougal’s and loaded up on booze. Gary fixed me a Jager Bomb in the car. I filled my flask and stuck it in my bra. A couple more Jager Bombs in the parking lot, and we were ready to rock.
Walking past the concession stands, we noticed a large Captain Morgan’s display. Bellying up to the bar, Geoffrey plopped his card down and ordered 3 triples. In the distance, Arcade Fire was playing as the opening act. It was still light out, a beautiful fall evening. We sipped Cap’n and Cokes at a picnic table, and Geoffrey went and gathered another round. I was getting a serious buzz working. And I was feeling much more relaxed about work. "Everyone sucks but us", Gary toasted as we pounded our drinks back. Geoffrey kept them coming. Soon my mind was spinning. Woooooooo, I was feeling fine. Dandy enough to have a little stroll, wrapped in the blanket I’d brought, since our seats were on the lawn. G and G went to the bathroom, and I wandered off.
It had rained for a bit that afternoon, and the lawn was muddy. The last thing I remember was staggering by the crowd and sliding down a hill. My blanket was long gone. I guess I decided to take a little disco nap in a mud puddle. In my miniskirt. Soooooo sleepy. I was awoken by a uniformed security guard.. "I’m all set", I told him, lifting my head out of the dirty water. "Nothing to see here". Next thing I knew, I was being escorted to security. IN A WHEELCHAIR. Mud was encrusted all over my legs, face and hair. Concertgoers gaped at me as they waited for The Cure to take the stage. I prayed that none of them were my patients. In the security office, I puked in a trashcan for awhile, not realizing I was handcuffed to the wheelchair. Ever hit rock bottom? That’s where I was. Or so I thought then (I’ll tell my jail story someday when I’m ready...it’s even worse). The real police showed up a bit later, and ran my ID. I had puked myself a bit sober by that time, and repeatedly tried calling Gary and Geoffrey on my cell phone. Neither one answered. Eventually, I convinced someone that I was well enough to go find my friends. Mercifully, I was let go. I staggered to my car ("Why Can’t I Be You" played in the background) and sat behind it with my head on the bumper. I’m not sure how long I was sleeping there when Gary woke me up. It was, however, long enough for bystanders to decorate me with beer cans and confetti.
"Where the fuck have you guys been?!", he exclaimed wildly, and drunkly. "I’ve been walking around with a jar of mustard, squirting it on people’s hot dogs and stuff, and looking for you and Geoffrey". Geoffrey? I thought they’d be together. "I’ve been in security in a wheelchair. I rolled down a hill. Can we go home now? Can you drive?". I laid back down on the bumper. "What???", Gary exclaimed. "We haven’t even seen the concert yet! But fuck it- we’re leaving him here". Gary took my keys and I climbed in the back seat and fell asleep again. I awoke to the sound of a voice over a microphone. "Are we in a drive through?" I asked, as Gary shouted an order into a Jack In The Box receptacle. "Go back to sleep", he told me. Soon enough, we were back at my condo, and I was in my own bed.
The next morning, my alarm rang as usual at 6:30am. "BOOP. BOOP. BOOP. BOOP." Every cell in my brain vibrated to the auditory explosion, which was matched with the image of a thousand middle fingers being flipped at me inside my head. Holy shit. I had to go to fucking WORK. If this hangover had happened 2000 years ago, it would have been mentioned in the Bible. I dragged my ass outta bed, drank a 2 liter bottle of Sprite and 4 Excedrins, showered the mud off my body, and looked for something to wear. No clean scrubs. No clean clothes, for that matter. I threw on a low cut dress and drove to work, hating life.
At work, where I’d be for only 2 more weeks, I checked out my schedule- 40 patients. I threw on my lab coat and buttoned it up to my neck, hiding my cleavage. My nurse, Karen, graciously got me a large bottle of water and asked if I was OK. "Girl, I feel like I’m gonna die. I never go out on work nights, but I did last night. Please be easy on me today". She was. At lunchtime, I went outside to my car to take a nap in the back seat. That’s when I noticed my car, which was parked in the doctor’s lot, was littered with Jager and Morgan bottles. I moved it to a more vacant area.
After the shift from hell, I realized that I still had no idea where Geoffrey had gotten to. I called him on the way home. "Why’d y’all leave me?", he whined. "I had to take a taxi home, for $75.00. I was like the last one there in the whole ampitheatre". Poor Geoffrey. Add to that his $200 bar tab.
New Rule: I no longer go out on work nights, no matter what is going on. I got a better job a few weeks later, and a great reference from work. I also lay off the hard stuff most of the time.
Maybe someday I’ll get to see The Cure, too.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Quiet In The House!
Lo and Meg got up early on this Sunday morning and went to the Tennessee State Flea Market across town. Lo is making a hot rod out of a 1949 Chevy Truck and needs some fenders for it, and Meg no doubt brought her camera to shoot some interesting stuff. I have to work in a little while, so I slept in and am actually alone in the house. I honestly cannot remember the last time this happened. Between working about 60 hours a week and having Lo work from home, it's never ever quiet here. Even Baxter hasn't howled once this morning. It's blissful!
I'm working in the Nolensville office today, which I call "non-work". This office is slow, my coworkers are cool, and it's almost like being paid to hang out with friends. I've got a bunch of credentialing paperwork to wade through while I'm there, but overall it should be an easy day. Working at my usual office, in Murfreesboro, is the opposite. I stilllike love my coworkers, but it is a nonstop madhouse. One day last week I could not even pee for 8 hours, it was back-to-back patients the whole time. The time goes by quickly though, and there is a great deal of camraderie with being sent to the trenches together. Sometimes I almost hope it gets even busier, just to see how insane it can get. It's also sad to say that at this point in my medical career, 18 years in, I am jaded to the point that the best part of working in a walk-in clinic is the fact that most patients you will never, ever have to see again once the door hits them in the ass. Yes, that is sad! I have had my share of truly horrible jobs in my life, and I am very lucky that I have finally found my niche.
Off to jump in the shower, throw on some scrubs, and onward to cure the common cold!
I'm working in the Nolensville office today, which I call "non-work". This office is slow, my coworkers are cool, and it's almost like being paid to hang out with friends. I've got a bunch of credentialing paperwork to wade through while I'm there, but overall it should be an easy day. Working at my usual office, in Murfreesboro, is the opposite. I still
Off to jump in the shower, throw on some scrubs, and onward to cure the common cold!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)