Overall a very nice experience, but MAN do I WISH I could get some of those drugs more often.

The IV was set. Everything was doing fine. I was messing around with my anesthetist on the heart monitor. I wanted to see how low I could get my heartbeat… I was aiming for a 45. He told me he hadn’t seen anyone that could really affect it that much. So I relaxed, and down it went, 50. Then I jumped it up to 70, then went for the total relaxation, numbers ticking away, 48… 47… 46… 45. GOAL.

He said, “so you made yourself relax a little more.”

“Watch this,” I replied. 46… 60… 75… 80… “And then…” 82… 55…

Heh.

“That’s pretty cool,” he said. “Alright, can you roll onto your side so we don’t have to move you?”

“No problem.”

“Is that the stuff?”

“That’s the stuff…” he said as he lifted up the medicine port on my IV tubing. In it went. I felt a little tingle in my hand. Then I grinned really wide, feeling the initial tingle in my brain.

“See y’all after lunch… buh bye!” and I just flowed on out to sleep-time to the sound of laughter.

Another LT-friend waited in the recovery room for me. He said the staff was making fun of me for being such a lightweight. “Even the granny down the hall didn’t crash that hard. It took them a half an hour to get you awake. Pain didn’t even work.”

“Dude, when I get to sleep that soundly, nothing is getting me up until I am ready.”

From down the hall the anesthetist yelled, “I heard that!”

Things checked out pretty well. Follow up in a week or so.

My laptop just did a total Acute Panic Disorder crash, everything locked up, music playing the same .5 second over and over, no mouse movement, nothing, for 5 minutes. I had to do a manual power off and reboot that took nearly a WHOLE MINUTE. Nothing was lost, due to auto backups and built-in system recovery features, thankfully, but I only had 9 major programs running at once, not like when I get upwards of 15-20.

This is like the third time in the SEVEN years since I switched to Macintosh.

I bet my PC-using friends don’t have to go through all this, like a crash a little over every 2 and a half years that loses no data or work, minute-long reboot times, etc. I can see why y’all want to stick with Windows now, but I’ll admit I am too stubborn to learn how to click a mouse and type on a screen that is SOOO completely different than what I know now.

:end smug

Now they outrank me and I couldn’t be prouder. The US Army is stronger today than it was yesterday.

Today I saw other friends graduate from college, and I saw them lose their solemnity during the processional out as they broke ranks and rushed over to hug me. Sure, part of the pride was because some of these 20-something ladies were danged hot, too.

And finally, I have pride in another close friend of mine. He graduated college some time ago and is now headed back working his way towards veterinarian school. But he has a great voice and ended up trying out for and getting accepted to a small student group. And he just had his first performance. That’s him on lead.

So here’s my Merry Christmas to you all as I share, with pride:

By the way, if you want to hear another great harmony and an amazing tenor voice… check out their song Lullaby.

He’s heavily involved in politics and talking with him is always interesting. It was a shame, though, watching him drift from a somewhat conservative standpoint to where he is now.

Me: Oh come on, when I left all you cared about was Obama.

Him: I wasn’t that big a fan…

Me: You completely dismissed every criticism I had, and now you’re using those exact same criticisms as the reasons why you no longer support him and have shifted to… I can’t say it… her.

Him: She’s an experienced politician…

Me: Well maybe since I was right a while back on Obama, I might be right in this case as well…

Him: This is different.

Me: Just please read Atlas Shrugged. Hell, there are at least 6 different copies lying around the cabin right now, plus I have it in PDF and MP3.

Him: Yeah, I don’t know. I hear that everyone who reads it ends up becoming a Libertarian.

Me: Nowwww you’re getting it…

I dislike city driving. The Viking would do the driving for us, but then came the great idea: we’d take the train from the northernmost station down to the stadium. Made sense.

Sitting directly across from each other we chatted a bit about nothing in particular as we waited for the train to begin its journey into the city. The Viking is a funny man. He can keep me laughing. Then the sound for the doors closing. It’s a very high pitched, loud beep. He jumped a moment. Reflex.

There are sounds we get used to calling us into action. The sound reminded him of the sound just before a blast, the loud clicking of tracks another danger sound. Passing under bridges his eyes dart upwards looking for warning signs. It takes time.

“Thank God they didn’t have a subway in Baghdad,” he mused. “We’d have been all up and down those tunnels guarding that thing too.”

There are reflexes we develop. While not on the same level, I still react to a certain set of 4 tones in sequence, the tones that alerted my ambulance that our particular unit had an emergency call coming in. It was so heightened at one point that I was at home, asleep one morning after a very active 24-hour shift, a full mile away from the station, my bedroom windows opened to the moist morning air. A little after 0700 the tones went out over the radio, the ambulance doors must have been open, and I jerked awake, reaching for my shoes before I realized I wasn’t on duty, the echo of those tones carrying across the distance.

But this is all a part of reintegration: crowds, loud noises, etc. I don’t do well in crowds either, but I knew the Viking was with me. Between the two of us we’d either be just fine, or else there would be a wide swath of carnage of Atlantans who got too close. Luckily one of the MOST attractive women I have seen came and sat right next to me on the train. I did my best not to drool and only stare at her peripherally. Viking boy, the bastard, had a straight on view. It took his mind off the sounds and alerts. She was way too young for me, and I’m sure the reason she chose my seat as opposed to some of the others was that I seemed the least dangerous/safest among the bets. We spoke a little and she guided the Viking and I to the transfer and busses to the stadium. She even had an exotic eastern European accent.

Once successfully perched in our cheap seats, we enjoyed the game, the beer, the hot dogs, nachos, ladies throwing free t-shirts, though none anywhere near us. The sunset glowed over the city in peaceful hues eventually giving way to indigo. And we texted and took pictures for other very fine ladies in New York. (and after seeing the replies I use the term “lady” VERY loosely, charitably even, or, dare I say it, with eleemosynary indulgence.)

Then after bidding goodnight to the Bulldog, into the crowds we went for the trip home. We stood on the train, the seats all around us packed tightly and we made sure we gave ours to others. Funny how reflexes hit, mine from street-medic life, his from wartime life. Facing each other, he towards the back, me towards the front, non-dominant arm holding the overhead rail, slightly off center from each other. For those who know me, here’s the shocker: I didn’t turn around even with several doors behind me. I knew the Viking had my back. I had his.

“We just formed a 360° field-of-view, good perimeter security,” he noticed after a couple of stops. We smiled. “You know, if you wanted to really take over and dominate this city, you’d want to get your hands on the train system. You could dominate and divide up the city.”

“Yeah, but imagine the attempts at damaging the tracks and such,” I countered.

“There’s a chance for that, but there’s so much barbed wire and the tracks are either raised high above, great sniping points with concrete barriers, or they are underground. The transition zones are very well barricaded as it is. Just a little bit of reinforcement.”

Passengers around us seemed to more intensely and concertedly ignore us and our debate/strategy session, the sounds getting more animated as we worked out security and assault points. Support the troops, just don’t talk to them or let them get too close, people. Is that it?

He’s going to be alright. More than that, he’s going to be great. People will follow him because he’s a man who cares, each lesson making him stronger, better for the next challenge. Don’t be sorry for those scars, they are part of who he is, and that is very good person.

Secret Message to Michelle and Erica: Can you read the sign here? I mean, we know y’all went to those inner city public schools that were nothing but gangs and drugs, but we figured you might have picked up something… you know… other than disease… (with all due respect, of course)

And from the fellow potential jurors I heard all the typical “such a waste of time” “this isn’t like Law & Order, they need to make it more interesting.” Yes, you’re all so original. Suck it up and drive on, wusses.

I answered all the questions presented honestly, but I guess I wasn’t good enough. I actually would not have minded the inconvenience of sitting for a jury trial because I do feel it is a duty and a privilege to live in a country where I can participate in such a thing. Or can I?

Let’s see, what might I have had going for/against me?

* Was a reporter covering crime in Miami and Denver
* Am a licensed medical professional (they asked, apparently there were some issues to be brought up) having worked at a children’s hospital for 5 years.
* Had a year of law classes (undergrad journalism)
* Stated I agreed most drugs should be legalized but that is a legislative act, not something I can bend the law for while on a jury.
* Have been an expert witness for the prosecution in a drug case, though not with regards to the crime itself.

The crime in question today? Someone accused of possessing and attempting to sell meth-amphetamines next to an elementary school’s property. I don’t know any more details than that.

Yeah, from the defense side I probably would have gotten rid of me, too, unless I was certain I had a good case. But if I did, the DA would never have gone to trial anyway. I was also told I wouldn’t be needed for any other cases this week. Oh well. I tried.

I notice I have far fewer squirrels this year and almost no mole-holes in the yard. I like these owls, though I miss the hawk of the last few years. Off in a dark gully I heard some thrashing tonight and some horrid cries. It could have been squirrels but I think it more likely to have been a couple of young birds taken from their nests by one of the smaller owls. They kept crying out in what sounded like a plea for help, not so much in a defiant return fight, their parents having abandoned them, flying elsewhere in the woods to squawk in protest but otherwise doing nothing.

The path to the stream has been growing over a bit as fresh twigs spout from the earth to claim their rich ground. I’ve not walked it enough lately, but today I took a book and sat on a log for a few hours. It was an appropriate way to spend some time, a rest I have deserved.

The woods tell a story of times I’ve not witnessed. Next to the stream stands a half a tree. Judging from the refuse around it, another tree from across the stream fell many years ago, too close to the water’s edge, it’s roots could not grasp the loose soil strongly enough as its weight overtook its height. When it fell, it hit hard enough in the fork of a tall maple tree to split the tree in half, one half falling away into the stream where it has since been decomposed and washed away. The other half still clings to the bank, the roots still running deeply. From one side the tree trunk appears to be full, round, 40-50 years old, but stepping around to its side, one sees the narrow sliver of trunk shooting up from the soil into the sky, the core looking dead, partly rotted.

But high up the older trunk has put forth new, large branches over the years, seeking the sunlight with broad leaves. Towards the base, new shoots are growing from the split. Rather than giving in and dying, or falling away, the tree fights on, seeming to know it is in a good place and can survive no matter how harsh the damage from circumstances. Over the years the tree spread its roots, running deep under ground, giving it a solid access to all it needed to sustain it. Even if in a few years the rest of the old trunk it has been defined as finally falls away, the new growth coming from the base will be tall enough to reinvent itself, to start over, the foundation from early in its life, then developed over time, giving it the strength to go on.

INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Put your music player on shuffle.
2. Press forward for each question.
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn’t make sense. NO CHEATING

How do you feel today?
Far From Today – Fiona Kennedy (yeah, I’m out of it)

How will I die?
Show Me Heaven – Saint featuring Suzanna Dee

It think it more shows the diversity of my collection…

And there are moments in time I will hold to myself, shared only with my thoughts and maybe another much later in time.

And then the work week starts and I again doubt. Though I should have no doubts.

So each day the best thing to do is to find a way to make one person’s day a little brighter. The chances are there. Take them.

thanks y’all

You are the Hanged Man

Self-sacrifice, Sacrifice, Devotion, Bound.

With the Hanged man there is often a sense of fatalism, waiting for something to happen. Or a fear of
loss from a situation, rather than gain.

The Hanged Man is perhaps the most fascinating card in the deck. It reflects the story of Odin who offered himself as a sacrifice in order to gain knowledge. Hanging from the world tree, wounded by a spear, given no bread or mead, he hung for nine days. On the last day, he saw on the ground runes that had fallen from the tree, understood their meaning, and, coming down, scooped them up for his own. All knowledge is to be found in these runes.

The Hanged Man, in similar fashion, is a card about suspension, not life or death. It signifies selflessness, sacrifice and prophecy. You make yourself vulnerable and in doing so, gain illumination. You see the world differently, with almost mystical insights.

Sometimes I write things intended to share a moment or thought.

Sometimes I write to celebrate the men and women in uniform who’s friendship I am privileged to enjoy.

Sometimes I write some fiction.

Sometimes I write things that recount difficult moments.

I don’t do it for attention. I don’t do it to garner sympathy. I’m a strong person. If something were too difficult to take, you wouldn’t be reading it here.

I do it so my friends can keep up with what is going on. I do it to so some people can see a different perspective or a glimpse into the unfamiliar.

I do it because I write.

Yes, the press and the left are exploiting this Walter Reed scandal as if it is proof positive about the inaction of the current administration. From what I have seen in my private life, the hell of a VA hospital was embarrassing, but I know that things improved after the turn of the century/administration. I saw it. Improved, but not enough. I used to feel actual fear for my patients if I found out I was going to have to take an emergent case to a VA hospital. I might spend a little extra time doing paperwork in the ER to ensure some basic steps of care were taken.

I’ve a rant coming up, some stories about my experiences as a civilian outside of things, but I’m letting it percolate. It’s not like I didn’t see similar things in private and public hospitals as well, but let me tell you, there are some places where it seems the entire staff, even the cleaning crew, is dedicated to every patient. It CAN be done. For the military, it’s well past time, though the truth is once it goes into place, others will say it proves that socialized medicine will work just fine.

Military hospitals are in a unique position and it’s all thanks to your posturing, postulating politicians. Don’t let them fool you into believing they have been caring about this since day one. A few do, but get caught up in other concerns. Military hospitals have to meet military regs, but first, when operating in the US, they have to meet the incredibly labyrinthine regulations of the civilian world, too. Anyone that has worked on a Joint Commission Task Force combined with HIPPA concerns can tell you about that nightmare. It’s FAR more complicated than you can imagine and it’s all due to governmental oversight, watchdogging, insurance companies protecting their interests in a world of incredibly costly lawsuits that are usually settled rather than go before a jury trial which almost always finds for emotion over justice… (yes, I can tell you.)

However, I cannot fathom what’s going on here other than a tremendous case of burnout on the part of the caregivers trying to fight bureaucracy and just giving up, or else they are all civilian contractors signed on to a job with no desire to go above the bare minimum and eager to hide behind red tape when they have a moment of conscience and clarity.

Last week when I heard one of my young ones had been feeling really sick all day, throwing up, I went to the barracks to check on her, partly because I knew she probably had not been to see anyone out of some of the frustration. It’s what I do. When on maneuvers I go TO the patrol bases for sick call. Understand that this is entirely voluntary on my part and I can walk away at any time. I also have no real authority to institute anything in particular other than life-saving protocols, but try to help where I can. I can also pick out a slacker/malingerer pretty quickly.

I believe that in order to truly help the soldier you need to go to his or her environment, kind of like old fashioned house calls. I know I’m foolish and it’s not the most “efficient” form of healthcare on the surface, but being able to observe the environment is often a key component in helping a doctor zero in on a diagnosis. I’ve gently but firmly given reports to residents that included details that should speed their processes along:

“Also, when we found him, there were small black ants in the bathroom, but none in the kitchen or other parts of the house.”

“Ants? So?” came the sarcastic reply as if I were wasting his time.

“Ants… only in the bathroom… around the toilet…”

“He’s trying to point out something. Listen,” said the attending physician.

“Ants seek out sugar mostly… sugar only in the bathroom… where men pee…”

(cue lightbulb)

Every bit of OTC medication, every glove, every bag of fluids, heck, even my pack to carry it all in comes out of my own pocket. (The Reserves has bought some gauze, ace wraps and a few other wound supplies to replace my used items, to be fair and show appreciation for their efforts.) I do it because I have the chance to. Would it be even better if I could get paid for it? sure.

Certainly I can’t help every single person out there, but I can help those I come into contact with and who fall under my care. The problem, of course, is that success is always punished.

I really cannot imagine that the whole of the staff of Walter Reed is unconcerned, but I don’t know. I’ve a few stories to tell, though none of WR, and they will be coming.

THE RULES: Each player of this game starts with the 6 weird things about you. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says you are tagged’ in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

1. I have too many cards and will buy more whenever I’m traveling. I have decks of cards in the jeep, in pockets, in my gym bag, and about 40 different decks up in the loft/game area. I have preferences for look, feel, size, etc. Right now, on almost all counts the Black Tiger with red pips deck is my favorite, but I wish they made it in the narrower bridge-sized and a little less expensive.

2. I tense up in crowds not because I am afraid of people but because I find crowds mean more a-holes per square inch which means I am more likely to aggressively correct the behavior of at least one of them.

3. My jaw has reptilian features that require my dentists to bend their needles and reexamine x-rays before they successfully numb my mouth.

4. I divide my stacks of folded tshirts into categories: Plain white, plain brown, plain colored, universities, Medical and job-related, Apple-oriented, workout wear, historical/sentimental shirts I’ll probably never wear again, and military-themed shirts. My hanging clothes I sort by manufacturer/label with uniforms to the far right.

5. Due to an injury years ago, part of my pain response has been rewired. Now much muscle pain and deep tissue pain such as from pressure points has switched over into either a dull, numb feeling or pleasure. It means I’m a bastard at submission wrestling and can wear out a muscular therapist.

6. I don’t excrete bodily waste. I am a furnace. Occasionally I’ll poot out a little ash but that’s about it.

One of those is not true, the rest are. My six tagees… (six is excessive but what the hey?) Well, I’d pick the blogpa, but he abhors memes and, let’s face it, his WHOLE blog is nothing but weird stuff about him so he’s out of this one. Let’s go with…
* Last One Speaks
* Shadowscope
* Fiona
* Pixie
* Caltech Girl
* and, just for a taste of Yiddish and someone who is probably a complete opposite to me in most ways, but I am sure would keep me laughing, Erica. What can she expect from a shaygets? Kine-Ahora, ma’am!

A good friend of mine, a Physical Therapist and Professor, will be starting a doctoral level class in the near future on cardiac issues and treatments in physical therapy. She wants to review the anatomy of chest with her class and asked if I would like to help in the dissection of the cadaver. What can I say? I’m totally in.

One of the nicest things I have seen at her school is the complete respect everyone involved has for the bodies and the people whom they represented. Both my friend and I admitted we were a little too selfish. I’m willing to donate my organs for transplants on death, but I still want my body buried. (though, again, I am still looking for vampire-like immortality if at all possible.) These people donate their physical forms so others, complete strangers, can study and learn and hopefully go on to help others whom they’ve never met.

“Have you ever cut open a human?” she asked. Well, not a dead one, no. Of course I had to quickly qualify that I was talking about minor surgical repairs. Strange how so many people get a touch nervous when they figure out there are little gaps in the story of my life we don’t talk about.

She was watching me at first, asking several times if I were alright. I suppose just about anyone could suddenly do the weak-kneed pass out thing, but I’ve worked on cadavers before, though not all my own prep work. I was quiet because I was amazed and honored to have this opportunity.

After saying a little prayer of thanks for the sweet woman, my friend let me do almost all the cuts from the initial big Y-incission to work on other layers. Properly dissecting a body for teaching includes a great deal of painstaking, delicate work. The major chunks of fat need to be cut away but then comes all the minute work removing other fat deposits without damaging any of the fine layers of connective tissue or membranes, or, worse, getting into the muscle fibers. I have to say I actually enjoyed that. It was a chance to give my surgical delicacy a workout, for hours.

The human body is absolutely a gorgeous thing and a wonder to begin to try to understand. Each muscle is there with a purpose, crossing over others, serving several different processes. Connective tissues grow in varied striations as they move from rib to rib to provide better flexibility in breathing.

My friend brought along some of her dissection and anatomy books so I could reference, and she’d quiz me along the way as well. Of course, I had to turn the pages with some big tweezers since my gloved hands were a little… messy.

Another reason she brought me along was so I could do the nasty parts, like the cutting away with the bone saw. “Whatever you do, don’t open your mouth,” she warned. We were setting everything up to be a multi-layered teaching scenario, which meant avoiding cutting through many places, laying or pushing tissues aside to be replaced, which also signaled a need to be even more careful with each knife stroke, each pull, each movement.

Once inside the chest it was easy to find tar deposits on the surfaces of her lungs. She was left handed, most likely. That was the hand with the nicotine stains on the fingers. A couple of the black spots were larger than others, and more solid, the start of cancerous growths on the lung surface. Later, my blog-daughter managed to come by. If anything hadn’t convinced her to not smoke, this seemed to work.

After finally labeling all the appropriate muscles, tendons and other pieces, we folded each layer back. I found myself resting my hand on this fine woman’s forehead a number of times as if she could feel the care and thanks I had for her, the assurance that we were learning more about her but knew enough to know she was a generous soul and her donation was not in vain.

I wonder about the thoughts in the minds of those learning on cadavers hundreds of years ago when there was more faith in the supernatural, far less atheism, when the soul was a known fact, when the body was riddled with unknown and occasionally evil humors. Would I have held the same fascination and respect were I alive back then? I would hope so. It’s part of the reason the Hippocratic Oath for physicians was so significant. Other people knew bodies and studied them well. Often undertakers were seen as the one in the town with the most medical knowledge. They could help, but they were also employed by the governments and leaders as professional torturers. While the soul does not leave the body easily, a clumsy torturer could kill someone too early for the satisfaction of the interrogator or prince. Other times torture-until-death was the goal, but it needed to be as prolonged as possible. Someone with a strong understanding of anatomy could cause tremendous, irreversible damage and pain for days if need be while keeping the subject alive and conscious. Amazing how deliberately cruel humans were to each other as a matter of daily course.

Such musings passed through my head all day as I worked removing tiny pieces of fat and exposing delicate, fragile muscles of the neck for easy identification.

As we wrapped her hands and feet and then covered her again with the shroud and sprayed her down, my friend turned to me and asked, “In two weeks we’ll be farther along in the course and I’m going to want to get into the heart and some of the other organs. Interested?”

Consider it scheduled on my calendar.

Oprah has founded and opened a school for girls in South Africa. Wow. Yes the woman has loads of money and can do whatever she wants. So can a number of other media and sports celebrities. She earned her money fair and square and can spend it where she sees fit. From what I understand she was involved in the planning and construction as well, not just making a donation from afar. Get that? She was involved. And this isn’t some donation to a foundation whose main purpose is to “educate” which really means to lobby governments to spend more money on hot button issues like Global Cooling Warming. I’m sure those issues will be covered at her school and I might not like the presentation, but I also think that she will be ensuring these girls become women with judgement and critical thinking skills.

A private school created with private funding. Already, of course, there are critics who said the school “was elitist and unnecessarily luxurious.” Too bad, people. It isn’t government owned and run. As long as her school meets the academic standards the universities are looking for, they can do as they please. You don’t get to put your government-control paws on this, even in South Africa.

However, in all my reading today why is it that the ONLY place I have read about this has been in a military publication? Is good news THAT hard to come by? One thing pointed out by media defendants is that the news is made up of those things that are not everyday and commonplace. How many people are opening their own schools to provide real education with private funding throughout the world? (or without the assistance of the US Military and supplies from US churches and charities, another story we never get to read.)

I have faith this school will be criticized in the years to come by muckrakers looking for scandal and I have faith that this school will produce some of the best and brightest women to lead their nation.