We moved out to the boonies almost one year ago.  The plan was to finish the basement - 2/3 boy cave and 1/3 mommy studio.  Currently, my studio is “temporarily” residing in the dining room.  When my folks decided to visit for two weeks in October, my dad went right to work on the basement.  He retired recently and is not comfortable with relaxation, rest, hobbies…he likes to work.  Before he arrived, he inquired what projects I wanted him to complete.  I have no doubt that if the power had not gone out for the last few days my parents were here, the basement would now be finished.  Sadly, the power did go out and my father’s rapid forward progress was brought to an abrupt halt.  Thankfully, he did much of the work that I did not want to attempt on my own - he put Tivek on the exposed ceiling insulation, erected a wall, hung a door, ran electricity (with its own circuit) into my studio area…and much more, I am sure.  Now I just need to put up the pine bead board for the walls (I hate drywall, so I decided to put up pine boards),  dye, paint, stain concrete, put in a drop ceiling and build some shelving.

New tools, thus far:
Table Saw
Laser Level (self-leveling!)
Nail Gun

The wall that my dad built from outside the studio

I put up the first two boards (successfully cutting out the light switch area!)

Laser Level

New Portable Table Saw with pile of boards

Boards on the “boy cave” side of the basement

*  *  *

I now realize that I need minions.  I have so much to do and not enough time.  I am now accepting applications for an anticipated need of minions.  Must be willing to work for free (or perhaps coffee and food), appear to be completely taken with and invested in every word that comes out of my mouth, laugh at my jokes, make coffee (ability to make scones a HUGE ++), drive, lift up to 50 pounds, entertain 4- and 6-year-old boys, speak and write intelligently.

An Accruing Mass of (dis)Content: A Thomas J. Gustainis Retrospective is the current exhibition at Gallery Kayafas.  It is a wonderful show (and I am not just saying that because Thomas is my pal).  I purchased some art from the show and I am damn happy with it.

I bought something else, too, but it’s a gift, so I will not post it here.  There is an artist reception on Saturday (yes, tomorrow!) from 3pm - 5pm.  I am going.  You should, too.  Then, you could see me and a really cool exhibition.  What a perfect Saturday.

Continuing with my self-involved, arrogant position, no organization is free from my rants, including that bastion of LGBT rights, the Human Rights Campaign (HRC). 

Wait, aren’t you a lesbian?  The Human Rights Campaign is your ally.

Well, you might think so and you may also think that it is my obligation to support the Human Rights Campaign because they like queers.  Well, I became quite disillusioned with this organization and here is why:

Remember those pretty, blond, long-haired, arrogant republican women who garnered so much attention for not seeming to be republican material until they opened their mouths?  It is an interesting shock tactic, although I have to wonder about these women—many (most) republicans would have them barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen right after they force the gays and lesbians back into the closet.   This particular woman had (has? perhaps she still does—I do not know) a newspaper column and she used the word “faggot” and perhaps some other base, insulting, anti-queer terms in an piece that she wrote.  There is a tendency amongst this little group of republican women to really dislike “the gays.”  That might be an interesting topic for discussion, but not now.  The point is that she was crude and demeaning toward the queer population.

Her column was vile, in my humble opinion, and simply demonstrated her limited ability to engage in thoughtful discourse.  The HRC was outraged; I received an email from them requesting that I sign a petition to try to force the owners of the paper to cancel this Young Blond Republican Woman’s column.  I was appalled.  This is the Human Rights Campaign, not the Humans That We Agree With Rights Campaign.  That’s far too long and clunky, the acronym would not be memorable, plus it just does not match what the HRC is purportedly all about.  My understanding of the HRC is a mission of equality and fair treatment for all humans, advocating for Lesbian, Gay, Bi-Sexual and Transgender rights.  Additionally, I believe that one of the good things about the U.S. is that we have the first amendment right to free speech.  It is this right that allowed gays to be heard-to talk and write and keep talking and writing to effect social change.  It is this right that allows for gay publications, speeches—any public communication—to exist in the face of those religious fanatics who would have us all put to death.  Thus, conversely, we must support the right to speak freely for those with whom we do not agree.  Many would have us silenced if they could, so why would we, in turn, work to silence someone with whom we do not agree?  I believe that is termed a “double standard,” or “no fair,” in the words of my six-year-old son.

I wrote a carefully worded email to the HRC stating my problem with the petition and I received a canned reply: “We must insure that the gay community is not abused…we must protect the gays…” or words to that effect.  There was some history, some information and some statistics. It was written as if I were ignorant.  Yes, I know that the historical treatment of homosexuals is abysmal-hey there, talking to a fellow homo here.  I wrote back, using stronger language and more logic about not censoring anyone.  If we do not want to be censored, how can we insist that someone else be censored?  They basically sent the same response back to me again.  Hey, if you do not agree with someone who has been granted a public forum, here are some things to do:

1. Write letters to the newspaper (or other sponsoring body) explaining your position.  Start a letter-writing campaign and, if public voice is strong enough, she may have to stop writing.  But, if enough people want to read her column, we must honor her right to display her ignorance (her right to free speech).  We cannot silence others if we do not want to be silenced.
2. Do not read that newspaper.
3. Respond to the editorial with a well written and articulate piece that counters her ignorance.
4. Do nothing and folks will grow tired of the idiocy and she will disappear after her 15 minutes.

I know that the HRC does a lot of good.  I do sign petitions with them, but I will not offer my monetary support because they do not do what the purport:

“By inspiring and engaging all Americans, HRC strives to end discrimination against LGBT citizens and realize a nation that achieves fundamental fairness and equality for all.” (from the Mission Statement on the HRC website)

It states “equality for all.“  It does not state “only for us LGBT folks.”  “All” includes those annoying Young Blond Republican Women who somehow missed the women’s movement (which created the foundation for them to even be speaking out and writing as they are right now; if not for that Judy Chicago Dinner Party-and probably some other stuff-they would instead be at home baking some pies).  So, if there is an audience, these women have every right to state their opinions.  Would anyone in this contemporary moment, in this country, have the audacity to attempt to start a petition to get a gay writer banned from writing his newspaper column?  Maybe.  But, can you imagine the outrage?  Freedom of Speech, no discrimination … HRC would be all over that.

We cannot have it both ways.  We want to be heard, we have to allow room for others to be heard—even if we do not agree or if we find the content offensive and untenable.

</RANT>

The Salvation Army does not like queers.  Who knew?  Well, me.  But, I guess a lot of other folks did not.  Before I knew the organization’s policy on the gays, I still did not like what I consider glorified begging in the form of annoying bell ringing and the recently encountered “voluntary toll booth.”  I could not completely express my outrage at the “voluntary toll booth” (we were going to target) because the children were in the car.  So, I just said, “Mommy doesn’t like asshole, queer-hating, change grubbers in the guise of charity.”  No, I did not really say that.  I just spoke quietly to Milissa, who thought I was overreacting.  But, this really bothers me - why do we look down upon the homeless individual who holds out a cup, but then we happily toss cash into those ridiculous red kettles?  I know, many of you are happy to hand your change to the homeless, as well, but I am just trying to make a point.  This is not an effective or appropriate way to raise funds - by cornering a captive audience.  This is closer to extortion, I think.  Do I sound grumpy?  I am not.  Really.  I simply like to choose mindfully which charities I will support.  This is a matter of thoughtful consideration that does not occur when someone is ringing a bell in your face and looking at you with  judgment when you do not plunk your money into the kettle.

Many years ago I was diagnosed with cancer.  Two weeks or so prior to receiving that diagnosis I was at a movie with Milissa. They played that awful Jimmy Fund short that depicts these construction workers who were working on a building next to Dana Farber.  The workers began writing messages on the steel girders for the children who were watching out the windows from Dana Farber.  It’s all very heartwarming, sad, and manipulative.  After they played this short, the turned on the house lights and folks walked up and down the theater aisles with little Jimmy Fund buckets asking for donations.  Please do not think me cold, but I was so outraged.  I paid money to see a movie.  Generally I go to movies to “suspend my disbelief” and exist inside an imaginary tale as told with images and sound.  It is relaxing for me.  But, it is not relaxing when I am forced to deal with this awful fact of life that children are suffering from cancer.  Captive audience.  Guilt-driven donations.  Extortion.  I raged about this for so long that Milissa told me to quiet myself.

Then, I was diagnosed with cancer and, as Milissa and I drove down Jimmy Fund Way to get to Dana Farber, we both looked at each other and had a moment.  We laughed.  It was a dark laugh and I noted that I was probably being punished for getting angry at the movie theater.

Cholecystectomy.  Somehow that word seems more fitting to my experience than “gallbladder surgery.”  Two reasons: 1. The entire thing was horrific and deserves a scary-sounding medical term that bears no resemblance to the popular/cultural vernacular and, 2.  The word “gallbladder” immediately causes me to think of old(er) folks with chronic medical issues.  Okay.  I am not 25 or even 35 anymore.  But, geez.  Gallbladder surgery?

Here’s what happened:

I purchased a Groupon for Tri-State Speedway (click on the link - the web site is so bad) in Dudley, MA (where? yeah, that’s what I said. But, it was go-kart racing and, for some reason, the Groupon format is quite effective in inspiring a purchase from me.  I do not use coupons, discount cards, punch cards, membership cards, but for some reason, I dig the Groupon.  I think it is because I can simply show my phone at the location - no clipping, carrying cards, key fobs… just my phone, which I already carry.)   The boys had fun, but it was quite a drive and not the sort of establishment I can imagine traveling to frequent again.  Although, the guys are too short so I got to drive the carts in two races - one for each boy to ride as a passenger.  The carts go pretty fast so it is a cool adrenaline rush. 

On the way to Dudley, we stop to pick up some coffee for me and, sadly, Dunkin Donuts was the available vendor.  The boys start screaming “Donuts!”  I said, “no,” like a good parent.  But then, I can never resist the munchkins (just a 25 pack). We eat munchkins and I drink coffee all the way to Dudley.

After we finish with the go-carting and game playing (Tri-State Speedway has an arcade …), we gather up the boys and head out. Milissa is hungry and so we decide to eat wherever we find a place on the way back to the house. We come upon a Friendly’s almost immediately after we leave the go-cart warehouse. It looks a little sketchy (the entire town looks a little sketchy), but, what the heck. We enter and it is not a place I would choose to frequent, but we were already inside and I did not have the energy to turn everyone around to find another eating establishment.  When the waitress/hostess rolls her eyes at you when she asks “how many?” you should leave, I know.  I do not eat meat, mostly, (I cannot call myself a vegetarian because sometimes I do eat meat) so I order a grilled cheese sandwich. What could go wrong with that? What indeed.  It is quite greasy and I do not finish it nor do I eat the french fries. Everyone else in my family seems perfectly pleased with their meals.

We make the long drive home and ultimately win the battle of getting the kids to bed. Milissa and I are looking forward to watching American Horror Story on-demand (I know, but it’s kinda good, in a good-bad sorta way, and Jessica Lange! need I say more?), but are sad to find there is no new episode. Instead, we elect to watch the film, Super 8. I admit it, I raid my kids’ Halloween bags and the pantry prior to starting the film. I enjoy a peanut butter/chocolate granola bar and an mini almond joy from my kids’ halloween bag as I watch the film from the comfort of my bed (my oldest recently noted that he thought that his bag was missing some contents - what?). Not long after the end of the film and the beginning of Milissa’s snoring, I experience the first stomach pain. It comes on rather sudden and rather intensely. I believe that this will pass, as all pain eventually does. I assume that I ate too much junk and am just paying the price.

The pain in my stomach does not abate but becomes worse as the night progresses. I got up once to throw up and, on the way back to bed, I almost passed out — it was one of those things where the margins of vision become smaller and smaller — the edges becoming blacker and blacker. I make it back to bed and do not really know whether or not I passed out. I got up several times to throw up, but it was never a big, satisfying vomit that makes you feel better (you know, it’s always bad during, but sometimes afterward one feels better) — it was mostly a lot of dry heaving with little productive matter. (Is that too much? So sorry.)

The next day, Milissa advises the boys that they must stay out of my room because I am sick and she does not want the whole family to become ill. The boys cannot resist coming in the room, but they mostly abide her directive. I was in so much pain, I could hardly stand it. Milissa examined my belly a few times, saying that she thought that perhaps we should go to the Emergency Room. At first I refused, “you’re a psychiatrist, what do you know about stomach pain?” But finally, it became so painful, I agreed.  Note - going willingly to the ER is a big deal for me.  I hate doctors, hospitals, medicine, medical-anything.  Categorically hate - I do not necessarily hate the individuals who happen to be a part of the category.  One of my dogs was just diagnosed with Lyme’s disease and I have been in the woods with my bike a lot lately.  I have grabbed several ticks off of myself (prior to any bites that I know of), so I think perhaps I have some tick-induced illness.  Do not laugh.

The whole family arrives at the ER.  It is amazing how things become so complicated with small children involved.  An intake nurse calls me into the patient area almost immediately. I feel bad that Milissa has to try to keep the boys in check in the small waiting room.  The intake nurse works rather expediently, although she does not fail to ask my favorite question that every single medical-anything invariably asks, “So, how did they find the cancer?”  And, this is relevant how?  It fucking sucks.  I do not want to talk about it.  Do not ask me that.  After that sickening (to me) exchange, a nurse takes me back to the ER jungle of curtained off “rooms” and has me disrobe and put on the costume of medical object (the ever-lovely johnny).  As I am waiting in the bed in the ER, I realize that Milissa should take the boys home and that I should just call her when I am ready to go home. I also realize that I forgot to bring my telephone with me. A kind nurse, Monica, is attending to me and starts an IV. At about the same time, Milissa comes back with the boys. Nurse Monica exclaims, “Roberto!”

She knows my son. Oh, living in the boonies just gets better and better.  I find out that her son and mine were on the same t-ball team, were in the same Kindergarten class and are now in the same first-grade class.  Nurse Monica is sunny and kind and says she wishes we had met under better circumstances.  Me, too.  Now we will invariably run into one another and she will think of me in the supine position, all drugged up and styling a johnny.  She begins to push all manner of drugs into my system through the IV: Dilaudid, Toradol, Benedryl, anti-nausea drug, anti-vomit drug, anti-anti drug…  She just keeps pumping stuff into me. Soon I cannot think straight and am unable to make a cogent plan with Milissa. I encourage her to take the boys home and assure her that I will find a way to call when I am finished.

A man with thick glasses and a rattail haircut openly watches the drama unfold in my little ER room. For some reason, only three curtains are closed, leaving my small domain open to the entire bustling (except for rattail) ER. (Can someone shut the goddamn curtain??) He pretends to be working on paperwork, but does not make any progress as he is always watching me when I look up at him. Often, he will make a comment related to what is being said to me.  He jumps up and enters my curtained off area when the boys are there and turns on the little TV for them. Nurse Monica tries to explain that the boys and Mis are leaving, but it does no good as the boys are immediately transfixed by the tiny screen. Mmmmm, screens — drool forms at the corner of Alex’s mouth as he stares with rapt attention at the steroid-produced muscle man selling his workout formula. Mis then has the task of turning off the infomercial that’s playing (“you wanna look like me? - call 1-800-big-pecs now! Grrr”) and dragging the boys (mostly Alex) away. Alex insists that he wants to watch. Of course. Thank you, Mr. Man with the rattail. It is a good thing that Alex did not see that rattail or he might want one. (I have few absolutes with the boys, but no rattails is one of them.)

I remember that someone told me that they were going to do an ultrasound and that they thought it was my gall bladder. They had to call a tech in to do the ultrasound, so there was waiting…I did not really experience any waiting as I was passed out from the drugs. I remember waking a bit when they took me for the ultrasound. The tech did all manner of examination, including pushing hard on my abdomen. She asked me if it hurt. “Nuh,” I mumbled.

“That’s some good pain medication,” she said. Had I been conscious, this may have clued me into what she was finding on the ultrasound. I can barely keep my eyes open to answer questions and I certainly am not forming complex thoughts (or even simple ones for that matter).

Soon, I am wheeled back to my original ER curtain-room.  I remember someone coming in to tell me that my gall bladder is infected.  Rattail is still sitting on the same stool with the same optimal view of my little area of the ER.  Nurse Monica comes by holding a giant Dunkin Donuts refillable plastic container and wearing her jacket.  She waves.  I smile (I think).  I close my eyes.  Someone is explaining that they are waiting for someone to take me to my room.  I force my eyes open.  “Wha?” I inquire.

An unknown nurse states, “Sorry it’s taking so long.  We’re just waiting for someone to take you up.”

“Up where?” My consciousness returns, but I am fighting the drugs.

“To your room.  Did the doctor speak with you?”

“Maybe.  I dunno.  Can he speak with me now?”

“Sure, I’ll find him.”

I wait.  Eventually, the ER doctor who initially saw me enters the room.  He explains that my gallbladder needs to come out “sooner rather than later.”  That phrase is stupid.  I hate it.  I hear it often during this event.  What does it mean.  Whenever I do anything, it would be, by definition, sooner rather than later, right?  I did it now.  That is sooner, not later. 

“Does it have to come out now?” I ask.

“I called the surgeon and shared your blood work and ultrasound results.  He wants to do it tomorrow.  Your white count is elevated. He wants you on antibiotics all night to try and get things calmed down in there before surgery.”

Things feel pretty calm to me.  But, what do I know. 

The ER doctor slaps his hand on the bed rail (they always do this when preparing to leave the room) and grasps it as he prepares to stand.  “Okay? Any other questions?”

“No.”

He stands up, leaning on the bed rail. “All right then.  They should be here soon to take you up.”

As soon as the ER doctor is gone, rattail exclaims, “I had my gallbladder out.  No big deal.  I wish I still had it, though, so I wouldn’t be able to eat all the fatty foods I eat.”

Someone brings a telephone to my bed.  Milissa is on the line.  I tell her what is going on.  She says that they are on their way.  After I hang up, someone puts a clip board in front of me and asks, “is this everything you came in with?  If so, could you please sign.” She hands me a pen and as I continue to scan the page attempting to locate the signature line; she points to the line for me.  I sign.  All of my belongings are placed in a plastic bag with my name on it.

Soon after, someone comes to wheel my bed up to my new, temporary, sleeping quarters.  Upon arriving to the hospital room, Nurse Karen assists me in getting out of the ER bed and into the hospital room bed.  Then, with scissors, she snips off my ER bracelet.  She asks my name and date of birth.  Upon reciting the correct answers, she says, “good,” and proceeds to put a different bracelet on my wrist.  Shortly after, Milissa arrives with the boys.  Roberto hangs back from the hospital bed, but Alex comes up right next to me and starts rubbing my arm.  “Don’t worry, mama, it will be all wight.”  He hugs me as best as he can and kisses me on the cheek.  Roberto approaches and has a toy bicycle that belongs to me.  It is a working replica of a full suspension mountain bike.  I am rather fond of it.  Milissa explains that they brought it for me to keep with me in the hospital so I will not be afraid.  Roberto gives it to me and hugs me tentatively.  Alex asks if he can play with it.  I let him and soon they are both on the floor playing with the bike.  Then, “uh-oh, mom.  I broke it.”  Alex.  “It’s all right,” I say. At another time and place, I would have been pissed off.  That bike was my toy and I had hidden it from them for years.  They found it when we moved, but I still had it tucked away from their access (or so I thought).  They continue to play, but Milissa tells them that they need to get home to get to bed.  They protest and Alex wants to take the bike home.  Roberto insists that it must stay with me while I am in the hospital.  They leave.  The bike stays.

Nurse Karen enters the room with a giant IV pole, a new IV bag and some sort of gadget.  She tells me she will return, leaves, then comes back with another nurse.  She mumbles something about having to have someone witness and sign off.  There is a gentleman in the room next to me who has possibly the loudest talking voice I have ever experienced.  It is a raspy smoker’s voice and it goes on endlessly.  Nurse Karen says to me, “he is loud, isn’t he? And, he does talk a lot.”

The two nurses finish the comparison and check-off routine and the second nurse signs her name and leaves.  Then Nurse Karen inquires whether or not I have ever had PCA pump.  I think that maybe I have, but I cannot remember.  So, she explains that the doctor ordered morphine for me and that I can dose myself using a button attached to the gizmo on the IV pole.  Great.  I nod or smile or make a sound, as needed.  She finishes her lesson and puts the button on my bed; she also puts the nurse call button on my bed.  There are too many things in my sleeping space.  There are too many things attached to my body.  Nurse Karen leaves.  The machine to which I am attached for morphine delivery makes a low, rumbling sound that has a discernible pattern that quickly becomes quite annoying.  After a few minutes, it begins to beep.  Loudly.  Finally, Nurse Karen returns and looks at it.  She mumbles, pulls up an electrical plug that is attached to the gizmo and plugs it into the wall.  “Battery needs to be charged,” she states and then leaves.  It still makes the low pattern sound.  All night long.

Alone in the room with all the lights on and my door open, I begin to survey my surroundings.  I recognize the space.  I saw it in the Lars von Trier series, The Kingdom (called Riget originally, changed to The Kingdom for the US release). 

A brief aside: This is a truly brilliant work and, if you have not seen it, do so now. Actually, first finish reading my adventure, then watch it. It is set in a hospital that is touted as the most technologically advanced facility in the country (Copenhagen’s Rigshospitalet, called Riget, meaning Realm or Kingdom), but is home to some odd, quirky patients, physicians and other medical workers as well as some supernatural goings-ons. There are rats in the basement. There are two characters with down’s syndrome, a man and a woman, who work as dishwashers in the hospital. They seem to be the only ones who understand what is going on and act as our narrators, in a sense.  I am going to watch it again.  It is so good.  But, needless to say, I do not want to be treated in a facility that resembles the one in this film.

The floor in my room is cold tile.  The lights are bright fluorescent bulbs, hidden in a not-so-inconspicuous rectangle above the bed.  Covering the light boxes are plastic diffusers with a raised grid pattern covering the entirety.  The walls are brick, but painted institutional yellow.  I realize that I am cold.  I try to pull the covers over me and see that they are not blankets, but tattered rags that once may have been blankets.  I have two of these.  I am still wearing the johnny and they did not give me the fancy sock/slipper combo that usually comes with a hospital stay.  These could have helped to keep me a bit warmer.

Loud man next door is still talking.  The content is limited, but the number of people that he can find to whom to deliver it is endless.  He wants to smoke.  Would someone please take him outside for a quick smoke.  He had his appendix taken out, but has come back because he has an infection.  He would really like to smoke.  He has an e-cigarette.  That is a digital cigarette (his words, not mine) that delivers nicotine without the smoke.  Sadly, his digital cigarette needs to be charged up.  It delivers a precise amount of nicotine so that you can cut down and eventually stop smoking.  You buy cartridges to put in the cigarette.  He has 2.8mg cartridges.  It works like a vaporizer.  He has to use the hospital phone because his cell phone is not working in the hospital.  Could he just go outside for a brief period.

I finally gather my various cables and IV tubes and get out of bed.  I unplug the machine and then drag the IV pole with me to find the light switches.  There are many switches on the bed, including one that indicates it will operate the lights.  It does not.  I locate the switches and turn off all the lights in the room.  I shut the door to my room.  Loud man is muffled.  I go back to bed and try to sleep.  The morphine machine begins to beep loudly again.  I realize that I forgot to plug it back in.  I get up and do so.  Unfortunately for me, it seems that it is imperative that my blood pressure be taken often.  So, invariably, someone enters the room, takes my blood pressure and leaves without shutting the door.  Then, I have to gather my gear and go shut it again.  This leaves me even colder.  The morphine machine gurgles, loud man keeps talking, but I must have eventually fallen asleep because I suddenly hear a voice.

“Uh, er, hey there…uh, g’morning.  Hello?”

I open my eyes and pull the covers off of my head.  The sun is streaming through the window directly into my eyes.  I have to squint, but even squinting I can see Ross Perot looking down at me.  He thrusts his hand out at me and says, “Hello, I’m Dr. A__.  I’m the surgeon.”

I move my head a little so that the sun is not directly in my eyes.  I think I may be staring at him.  He is actually a cross between Gomer Pyle and Ross Perot, but he speaks much like Ross Perot—quickly with many extra syllables with no meaning inserted generously (uh, er, um). 

I manage to free my right hand and accept his small, dry paw for this obligatory handshake.  “So, uh, what seems to be the, er, problem?” he inquires.

I stare at him.  Really?  What seems to be the problem?  Are you not the surgeon who insisted that I be admitted last night?  “You tell me,” I say.  This man wants to cut me open.  I am in Kingdom Hospital and Gomer Pyle/Ross Perot is going to operate on me.  I can feel the anxiety growing exponentially.

“Well, uh, er, it, uh, looks to me, uh, like, we’re gonna need to, uh, get that, uh gallbladder out.”

I continue to look at him and find that I am completely fascinated by his attire - his shirt, actually.  After some research, I have found that it is a special class of medical scrub called a “warm-up jacket.”

This image shows the uniform exactly as Dr. Gomer wore it with two exceptions: 1. his is blue, and 2. his is at least one size smaller and fits rather tightly.  Buttoned all the way to the top with the shirt and tie underneath is not an attractive look for him.  It appeared that the crew neck was squishing his shirt/tie into his neck.  The sleeves do not  fall loosely on his arm as in the picture, but are tight about his appendages. I do like this image as Dr. Gomer was geeky, just as this poor nerd is modeling.  Or, this talented model is playing geeky nerd quite well.  I am going to order a case of these (in black, of course) and wear them every single day.  I love them.  Warm up scrubs.  What a concept.  While I am amused now, at the time, I feel this odd attire is a sign of possible shortcomings of Dr. Gomer.  I think we all want our doctors to wear similar and recognizable uniforms.  It helps us recognize them as the doctor.  Certainly the individual would not be able to wear scrubs if she were not a doctor.  You have to prove it before you can order scrubs, right?  Fax in the diploma or something.

“Well, uh, anyway, uh, there, uh, we, uh, we’re not gonna, uh, be able to, er, get that gallbladder out today, uh, like we planned, um…I, uh, can’t find an assistant,” the strange doctor continues.

Alas! There is hope.  I can escape. “Well, why does it have to come out now?” I ask.

“Well,er, uh, you, uh, you’re gonna wanna, uh, get that out, er, sooner, uh, rather than later.”

Yes.  Sooner rather than later — so this is a medical term.  “But, it does not have to come out now, right? I can wait.”

“Uh, well, er, it’s uh, pretty inflamed.  You, ah, you’re gonna keep havin’ pain, er, and uh, we don’t wanna see you, er, end up, uh, in another ER.”

Why not? “Well, if I watch my diet, I can keep it under control, right?”

“Mmm, er, not, uh, no, it’s infected.  You don’t wanna, ah, have it out?”

“No.  I do not.  Could I go see my regular doctor for an evaluation and then schedule surgery?”

“Well, er, sure.  But, uh, it’ll probably be pretty similar to, ah, here.  It’s Thanksgiving week, uh, and everybody’s gone.  That’s why we’re, uh, havin’ so much, uh, trouble findin’ me an, uh, an assistant.”

“So, it cannot wait until next week?”

“No, uh, not really.  You’re, uh, you, well, you really wanna get that, uh, outa there sooner rather than later.”

Right.  I tell him that I am waiting for my partner to arrive and that I will discuss it all with her. He has the audacity to attempt small talk.

“So, uh, I just moved out here from, uh, Montana.  Just this past, eh, January.”

GASP (in my head).  I stare at him.  Montana.  What are the odds?

“It’s a bit, eh, different out here.  So, yer, uh, yer doctor’s in Boston, huh? I, uh, drove my, uh, kids to Boston, for a Red Sox game.  Er, well, I mean, we, uh, drove to the, er, outskirts and, uh, took the train into, uh, Fenway.  No sir.  I don’t, uh, I don’t drive in Boston.  Boy, uh, that, uh, that there scares me!”  Wonderful.  He wants to operate on me, but cannot drive in Boston.

“Huh.”  I respond.

“So, uh, where you from?”

“You mean, where did I move to Ayer from or where am I from originally?”

This is obviously far too complex for him and he responds, “well, what’s the first three digits of, uh, yer social security, uh, number?”

Oh, shit.  “5-1-7,” I respond.  Here we go.

A huge smile forms on his face.  He plunges his arm toward me for another handshake.  Fuck.  I am not proud of that, dude, and I could not wait to leave there.  You see, sir, I am a lesbian.  Folks there might have killed me had they known.  It was not a pleasant experience for me to grow up there.

I am treated to at least a half hour of stories about Montana.  He lists every ski hill he ever visited, complete with snow conditions, the difference between the snow there and the snow here (gee, I never realized) and where his kids took ski lessons.  He moved to the east because his kids all wanted to attend college “out here” and his mother-in-law lives in the area.  Her health is deteriorating and his wife wanted to be closer.  I am sure this would all be quite interesting if we were at a cocktail party and I had no one else with whom to converse.

Finally, we get to the magical cancer discussion. “So, how’d they, uh, find that cancer?”

Fuck. You.

He finally leaves.  Shortly thereafter, a new day nurse comes in and takes over.  She is not happy and I do not remember her name, so I will go with Nurse Wrench.  Nurse Wrench bustles around and sighs a lot to indicate that she is overworked and under-appreciated.  I get it.  Nurse Wrench checks my vitals and starts to leave the room.

“Could you take this out?” I ask, indicating my IV.

She looks at me as if I am insane and, with her voice as much as her face expressing her incredulity, she asks, “Why?” She almost manages to extend the word to two syllabus to demonstrate just how idiotic she finds me.

“I’m not having surgery today and I have not used any of the morphine, so I do not need it.”

“Hmph.  I can’t just take it out.  I’ll have to find the doctor.” And, she scooted off.

Then, another nurse or technician comes into the room.  She is pleasant and kind.  She  brings me some “toiletries” (her word) and wants to know if I would like to “freshen up.”  I say that I would.  She lays a towel on the patient tray (the one that is the table for all things and has wheels and is mounted so that it can be placed over the bed) and then lays out all of the toiletries.  She runs some warm water into a pink plastic basin and puts it on the tray; she puts two wash cloths into the basin.  She puts towels on one of the two chairs in the room and tells me to sit down.  I sit and she begins an overview of the toiletries as if I am at a spa.  I appreciate the gesture, but I really do not care about the type of lotion, shampoo or anything else.  She also has brought a clean johnny for me to change into once my toilette is complete.  After she completes her tour of the toiletries, she pulls the privacy curtain in front of the door that no one can seem to leave closed and asks me to let her know if I need help and/or when I finish.

After she exits, I begin to take off my johnny.  Then I realize that I cannot because of the IV.  This turns out to be fortunate because a moment later, there is a knock on the open door and a man swings open the privacy curtain and says, “Nutrition.  Did you order breakfast?”  He is upbeat and seems not to notice that he has interrupted my toilette.  Fortunately, I am covered.  He does notice that the tray is in use with my vast array of toiletries.  “Hmm.  I’ll just put this over here.”  He places the tray on a tiny night stand tucked in the corner.  He pulls out a slip of paper.  “Now, you are on a restricted diet, right?”

“Yep.  Clears.”

“Okay.  Enjoy!” He says with complete sincerity.

I return to my toilette and brush my teeth and wash my face.  I decide it does not matter anyway as I am breaking out of this joint.  I need a shower.  There is one shower for patients that I have seen — a community shower for patients in a hospital.  Nice.  Loud man from next door is planning to shower this morning.  He has done a lot of planning about it with a lot of people.  Boy, he really needs to shower.  At least that is what he keeps saying.  I try and manage with great restraint not to yell, “Just take your fucking shower already!”

When Milissa arrives, I am still out of bed and sitting in a chair.  I have removed most of the tape from my IV line and am contemplating pulling it out myself.  She scolds me, telling me I should not take it out.  I ask her to please get me out of this hospital.  She wants to speak with the doctor.  Nurse Wrench finally returns and removes the IV, mumbling that the doctor approved it.  I immediately take the johnny off and put on the clothes I arrived in the ER wearing.

Dr. Gomer finally comes back to my room and tells Milissa everything he told me.  I say to him, “since you cannot do surgery today and may not even be able to do it tomorrow, could I leave and come back when you can do it?  It is day surgery, right?”

“Well, er, yes, it is usually, uh, day surgery, uh, as long as, er, uh, we can do it laparoscopically.  Now, with all that, er, scar tissue, ehh, in your abdomen, we may not, uh, be able, to, uh, do it laparoscopically.”

“You may not cut me.  Laparoscopy only.”

“That, uh, may not be possible.  But, uh, lemme see about something, uh, about the, er assistant.  I’ll be right back.”

He leaves and Milissa and I proceed to have an argument about whether or not I will be having surgery at Kingdom Hospital.  She says something about me not taking the “long view” and I say something about it being “my body.”  She worries that she will not be able to take care of both the children and me if I go into Boston for surgery.  I worry that Gomer is an idiot and will not be able to deal with the complications he may find in my abdomen.  Call me crazy, but I just do not want a surgeon that just moved here from Montana.  This is fucking BOSTON, home to some of the greatest medical minds and medical facilities.  What am I doing at a community hospital?

Gomer returns and says that it is fine for me to go home and that I can return tomorrow morning for surgery.

“You found an assistant?” I ask.  Probably his Labrador Retriever, I think, or maybe one of his kids.  He probably does not see much action in this hospital.

“Yep.  That’s, uh, what I wanted to, er, check on.  So, uh, we’ll discharge you.  I wrote the, er, uh, order.  Then, uh, Clara will come in and, er, get ya, ah, all set up for tomorrow.”  He then shakes my hand again, as well as Milissa’s.  Then we wait for various people to show up for discharge and intake for the day surgery.  We finish and go home.  Although I want to call my doctor and try to get this handled through her and through a Boston hospital, I am exhausted, still drugged and so I and fall into bed.

I wake up the next day and resign myself to the fact that I am going to let Gomer cut on me.  I am terrified, yet feel that I have no options.  I do not have the energy or fortitude to fight Milissa and then get an appointment with my regular doctor, get more tests or try to get the Kingdom tests sent to a Partners facility and then schedule a surgery.  I surrender.

While waiting for the surgery, the anesthesiologist comes to see me, as is standard for any surgery.  Dr. Dickhead, as I will call him, asks me to open my mouth.  Sadly, I have been through this before so I expect this request.  I open my mouth.

“Is that as wide as you can open it?” he asks, with undisguised irritation in his voice.

“It is,” I reply.

“Let me see again.”  I open my mouth again.  “Do you have TMJ or some jaw problems, does your jaw click?” Dr. Dickhead inquires.

“Yes.”

“Well, you can’t open your mouth very wide.  I have to put a breathing tube down your throat so you can breathe while you are under anesthesia.  I’m not going to be able to get it down easily because of the size of your mouth opening.  It’s going to be difficult and I will tell you now that I will probably not be able to avoid hurting your throat.  You will probably have some pain, soreness and scratchiness in your throat when you wake up.”  He glares at me.

Gee, I am so sorry, I think.  I cannot believe that I have the audacity to have a small mouth.  It is odd that in the other surgeries that I have had, I never woke up with any problems with my throat.  I woke up with a sore throat this time.  Alex said, “Mommy, why you talk funny? You don’t sound like you.”

I am grateful that the surgery went well or at least that is what Gomer told Milissa.  He also told her that I had an “angry gallbladder.”  Milissa insists that this means that my gallbladder was inflamed and infected.  I think it was angry that someone wanted to rip it from its home.  Now that I have had some time to do research as I exist on my new diet of crackers and water, I wish that I would have taken the time to see my regular doctor.  I would have tried harder to keep the gallbladder, even if it was angry.  I would have tried to find ways to mitigate that anger that did not involve incisions, anesthesia, angry anesthesiologists, surgeons from Montana or hospital rooms.

Shortly after my mother and father arrived for their extended stay at my house, my mom posed the following:

“Rachelle, I want you to do me a favor.”

“What, mom?”

“Just promise me you’ll do it.”

“I will not promise anything until I know what it is.”

“Your grandma is going to call you for your birthday and I want you to answer the phone.”

“How is that a favor for you, mom?”

“Please, Rachelle, for your mama.” This is a phrase she uses a lot.  I do not like it.

—————-

Today is my birthday.  I hate my birthday.  I know I should not, but I do — for reasons that I will not bore you with here.

Milissa realized it was my birthday this morning after my mother and father wished me a happy birthday.  She then showed me her watch, which showed the date as 21.  She emphatically insisted that she believed that my birthday is tomorrow.  Oh well.  Like I said, I do not like my birthday anyway.  She did ask what I wanted.  I said, “a bike ride.”

So, after the boys’ soccer game this morning, I went off to Harold Parker for my bike ride.  I had a good ride and then as I was driving home, my phone rang.  I have bluetooth in my car, so when my phone rings, it goes through my stereo system and then I can answer with the controls on the steering wheel.  The caller id shows up on the console screen.  Pretty sweet.  Anyway, it was my grandmother.  I hesitated, but answered, just for my mom (and also so I would not have to call back).

“Hello.”

“Hello?” my grandmother inquired.

“Hi, Grandma.”

“Hello? Rachelle?”

“Hi, Grandma,” (louder) I said.

“Oh.  Rachelle.  Happy Birthday!”

“Thanks, Grandma,” I shouted.

“What?”

“Thanks,” I shouted even louder.

“How are you?” she asked.

“I’m good.  How are you?”

“Huh? What’s that?  How are you?”

“Good,” I yell.

“Um.  Did you get a call from Arizona?”

“Yes, grandma.  Robyn called.”

“You didn’t get a call from Arizona?”

“Yes.  From Robyn,” I screamed.

“Huh.  No one from Arizona called you yet, huh?  Here’s grandpa.”

“Happy Birthday!” He said.

“Thanks, grandpa.”

“Huh?”

“Thanks,” I screamed.

“It sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”

“I’m driving in my car,” I explained loudly.

“You’re in the toilet?” he said, “Huh.  Okay.”

“No! Driving.  DRIVING!!!!”

“Oh.  Well, ‘bye.” And he hung up the phone.

And a great, big Happy Birthday to Me!

My mom and dad are visiting.  They arrived on Tuesday evening.  My children were ecstatic at the arrival of their grandparents and that makes me happy.  The prospect of my parents in my house for two weeks makes me anxious.  I have noticed that odd things have been happening around my house since their arrival.

First of all, my parents’ luggage remains right inside the doorway at the foot of the stairs and into the living room.  They have been here for two days and the guest room is upstairs.

I do not really care that much about things like this, but, if I were to do something similar when visiting my mother, her head would pop right off.  She would go absolutely nutty with the introduction of such disorder.  Note that not only are their suitcases on the floor, but they have a stack of clothing on top of the table that holds an expensive piece of sculpture (I mean, really expensive, like well-known artist, accompanied by a book with the provenance… - a graduation gift for my partner from her father).  Let’s attempt another comparison.  My mom collects roosters (yes, you read that correctly, I said roosters—like kitschy roosters, but not collected with a crooked face).  If anything of mine even came close to touching a rooster (however cheap and inconsequential said roosters might be), I would probably be asked to leave immediately.  I know, one person’s kitsch might be another’s art, but a seriously double standard is at work here.  That’s really my point — I’ve got nothing in particular against the rooster collection.

Second, my kitchen has been invaded by cutesy dishtowels and stuff.  I can explain only by showing:

The funny thing here is that I have never seen any of these things before.  That begs the question: did my mother bring along the most hideous kitchen items she could find to put in my kitchen?  If so, why?  Oh, and notice the pink scrubby pad — I already had a scrubby that is located in the wire holder behind the sink.  Again, I have no idea from where the pink one came.  I am quite happy with my dye-free scrubby.  Sure, it’s a light brown, but I think it’s better for the environment.  Did she bring a whole host of dish cleaning supplies with her, do you suppose?

I know that I have never had a house that is clean enough for my mother.  My mom’s number one priority in life is having a house so clean that one could literally eat off of the floor.  This above all else.  And I am not exaggerating for effect — this is true.  She cannot stand it when I visit because I am so messy.  And, just imagine how difficult it is for her now that I have added two small children to the mix when visiting.

Yesterday I came home and found my father had pulled all of the chairs away from the counter in the kitchen and all the chairs away from the dining table and was on his hands and knees with some sort of tool scraping the floor wherever he could find a spot of dirt (did he bring this tool with him?).  It’s been rainy and there were probably some spots of mud and some food that the kids dropped on the floor.  I admit that I did not mop prior to their arrival.  I did vacuum.  I did not mop.  I am relatively certain that there was no need for the elaborate scraping ritual.  However, my dad is my mother’s slave.  He works tirelessly to avoid any kind of irritated or heated exchange that involves my mom.  I think he lives in constant fear that he will not have the house clean enough for her and I guess this must translate right to my house.  He asked me if I had a mop.  “Why, no, dad, I just like to let the filth pile up.”

I went upstairs where my mother was using my bathroom (one of two bathrooms upstairs).  She had taken the liberty of collecting all the upstairs trashcans so that she could empty them.  No, they were not full (but that’s only my opinion).  She took all the trash downstairs with her and then ordered my dad to take a slew of plastic bags upstairs to line each of the trashcans she had just emptied.  She made sure that she located all recycled bags — those that I save from stores — to line the now emptied trash cans.  I believe it would be more earth friendly to actually allow the garbage bins to be full prior to removing the plastic liner.  But, that’s just me.  I say nothing as I call my therapist for some extra sessions.

And, now, for the final bit of fun.  Here it is:

That’s a stick of butter left out on a paper plate.  I keep the butter in the refrigerator.  I guess my mom enjoys a stick that’s been left out in the air at room temperature, uncovered.  Nothing tastes better than rancid butter - that’s what I always say.

So, this begins a potentially long and arduous two-week visit.  But, the boys are having fun with grandma and grandpa and I have not yet lost my temper or taken to drinking heavily.

This tumblr entry is dedicated to my sister; only a sister can truly understand some things.

Hey.  Would you like to know what I love?  Sure you would - you are choosing to read this.  I love riding my bicycle in the woods.  Lately the weather is so unpredictable and wet that I try to hit the trail whenever the rain is not falling.

It is Wednesday and the skies are not pretty, but it seems like I can do some pedaling.  I want to drive to a more public trail system than the ones around my house.  Last time I went riding alone on Anaconda (near my house), I came far too close to a grimy, bearded man in the woods.  Granted, I was probably a bit grimy, too, but who would feel threatened by me on my white and purple bicycle?

I want to ride on rocks, big rocks, so I go to Harold Parker.  I do not have time to get to Lynn (will I ever again?) and HP has some rocks.  Oddly, I always seem to find men in work trucks hanging out in the parking lots of public use forest land.  For instance, there will be a guy sitting in a Comcast van in a dirt parking lot at a trail head.  Why?  This is a bit creepy, too, but with other mountain bikers around, it seems less potentially perilous.

I arrive at HP with enough time to do about 1.25 hours of riding and still get to the school to pick my children up on time.  I am moving quickly to use as much of the time as possible for riding.  When I pulled into the dirt lot, I was relieved to see a car with a bike rack parked there.  I am at the rear of my vehicle, pulling on my knee pads, and I notice a dude on a motorcycle who looks a whole lot like one of those zz top guys.  I  find this odd similar to the parked work trucks.  I cannot think of a reason to sit on a motorcycle in a dirt parking lot at a trail head.  But, he is on the other side of the lot, a good distance from me, which brings me comfort.  I give it little thought beyond that, but then somehow he cannot resist the urge to speak to me.

“You, uh, better watch out fer ticks,” he announces in a gravelly voice.

Thought bubble: “Oh, sweet Jesus, really?  Why do you need to talk to me?  Am I wearing my Please Talk to Me t-shirt again?”

I nod and do not make eye contact.

“You know there’s a lotta ticks out there.  Ya gotta watch out fer them.”

“So, what I hear you saying is: keep my eyes peeled for ticks?  Yep.  I will.  I will watch for ticks and when I see them, I will steer clear,” I say in my head.

I reach into my vehicle and get my bug spray and begin spraying it all over my body.  Perhaps this is just the clue he needs to shut up.

“You know, you get a tick, you get lyme.  There’s been a lotta lyme lately,” he states.

“Oh yeah?” I mumble.  I cannot help it.  I do not know what else to do, but answer him.  “Now, please shut up and leave me alone,” I say to myself.

“I had lyme,” he explains.  “I was so sick.  Terrible, terrible, that lyme.”

“Oh, God, please shut up.” Again, in my head.  Lyme.  Seriously?  Do I look like I am venturing into the forest on two wheels for the first time in my life?  And, even if I do, who appointed you to do public outreach for the CDC?  I finished preparing and got on my bike to quickly ride away.  I am flummoxed by these experiences.  I seem to have them more than I would welcome, although one would be more than I would welcome.  I try to have a tough as nails exterior face that screams, “leave me the fuck alone,” but I guess I am not pulling that off.  Perhaps I need a t-shirt that clearly states my expectations:

If I do not know you, be confident that I do not want to engage in a senseless conversation, nor do I require any advice, feedback or otherwise unsolicited information.

As a colleague of mine once remarked, “Never pass up an opportunity to remain silent.”  So, I do not.  Perhaps that’s the t-shirt.

Every time I read one of these articles, I feel sad and a little defeated (and, I will not lie — a bit vindicated; I did leave, after all).  The for-profit model had such potential in my eyes (perhaps covered with rose-colored glasses) when I first began my tenure at an Ai.  I saw the possibility in a more direct connection between student tuition and resources; indeed, the technology was top-notch and you would be hard-pressed to find better equipment at another art college.  I was able to hire amazing faculty and, with them, build a stand-out program with rigor and excellent end results.  However, the desire of the corporate monster for bigger and bigger profits gave me pause and made me feel uncomfortable, at best.  In the end, my commitment to students and ethical behavior did not mesh well with a new administration.

I was once accused by a superior of academic arrogance: “you just don’t like for-profit education.”

“No,” I replied, “I just don’t like greed.”

I am readying to launch a new blog on my experiences as an educator and my critical read on the educational system in the US currently.  If you are interested, please watch good old Facebook for an announcement this month.

Today I had a near-death experience.  I was mountain biking in Ayer with my new riding friend Dawn (also known in these parts as Sammy’s mom).  Here’s the deal about riding the conservation land in Ayer: you have to come out of the woods sometimes and ride for a bit under the giant power lines to get to the next nice singletrack.  We were out in the open on a grassy fireroad doing just that when we rounded a corner and were confronted by a giant snake.  Yes, I mean confronted.  It was not a little garter snake slithering away.  No.  It was a giant, black, angry snake who raised it’s head slightly and hissed at us, its giant tongue going in and out of its giant mouth.  It rattled its tail.  I am not going to lie about this - I screamed.  I screamed like a little, baby girl.  This would have been embarrassing (I have not known Dawn for long), except for the fact that we were about to be eaten alive.  Dawn seemed calm, especially given the situation.  The snake made it very clear that it had no intention of moving, but was seriously considering an all-out attack.  We would have lasted a week or so in its giant belly.  Just look:

It seemed to pause for a moment to contemplate its next action.  I think it may have been uncomfortable taking on two of us (it did not know that I am a chicken shit and would have left Dawn for the snake as I ran crying all the way home).  Then, it raised its giant head, way into the air, still hissing, still rattling.  Again, I will not lie - I thought my legs might give out.  Check this:

I did pee a little in my pants.  As we stood frozen, the snake suddenly backed down and took off into the long grass.  I waited for Dawn to ride past the area and check it thoroughly before I got on my bike and followed.

Here’s the thing: be careful if you decide to ride your bike in Ayer (or even hike, for that matter).  There is a killer snake on the loose.  I have notified the authorities.

On a side note, after experiencing this horror, I was riding along a ledge and tried to put my foot down where there was nothing (it was a ledge) and went tumbling over, head first, smashing the back of my head and my left shoulder as well as my left butt cheek on rocks.  Dawn had to come back and help me get up.  I blame the snake.