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I took my daughter to dancing school today. To save gas since her school is over 40 miles away from my home and the traffic is a nightmare,I just hang out,watch movies in the car,then take her home when she's done.
Well today it reached 104 degree's so I decided to hang out at this stuck up mall not too far away for 5 hours not wanting to spend any money cause we're going to DisneyLand.
So there I was at the mall with my paperwork (client that lives with me tracking sheets and stuff) in hand and I sat in this comfy area and started doing my work. But then I was done in 30 minutes. There goes that plan. I still had 4 and a half hours left. What to do....what to do....
So I started window shopping,walking into every store,EVERY STORE that I went to a STAFF asked "May I help you?" in a tone of voice like I fucking don't belong in this ultra rich town of a whore mall. (Oh yea. I'm in this super rich part of town,man. John Elway's house is 5 minutes away. My car was parked next to a Diablo. No joke.)
So I just told them all "It's cool. I'm just looking" and there's these people that like FOLLOWED ME AROUND while I was in their store.
I just ignored it,man. I said fuck it. I'm killing time,absolutely discusted with some of these stores and their prices,man. Banana Republic store,Gucci store,Fuck. There's this one store there that had only...Handbags and there were like 4 shoppers in there.
So then I walked into the Discovery Channel Store (cool store,man.Cool shit.) and there's the staff person again asking if they could help me. That's it. I'm gonna fuck with this guy.
Sometimes to make my daughter laugh I talk to her like I'm Developmentally Disabled. I KNOW. IT'S WRONG. I fucking work with them for crying out loud but I don't do it out in the public.
UNTIL TODAY.
"May I help you?"
"Yaaar. I'm uh I'm uh I'm uh I'm rooking uh rooking for a...a..TOY for my my my SON."
"How old is he?"
" He's 4rrrrrrrrrrr."
"yes we have-"
"WHERE? WHERE!"
"Over there."
I fucking RUN to that corner and pick up this wood train set and started fucking playing with it and yelling"YES! YES! THIS IS WHAT I WANT! how much? HOW MUCH!!"
"It's fifty four dollars for the whole set"
"ooh kayy...ooh kay......"
"do you want to buy-"
"I'll pay you tomorrow!"
"So you'll come back to-"
"I'll PAY you TOMORROW!"
"But you can't take that"
"I'll PAY YOU TOMMOROW!"
He just looks at me.
"I'll pay you tom...morrow cause I ghet PAID tomorrow at my...agency."
"So you'll come back tomorrow?"
"....yes."
I had so much fun with that guy,man. What's weird is that I had no audience of my peers there so I wasn't impressing anyone. I was all alone. Sure some passerby's were looking at me cause I walked out of there all funny smiling from ear to ear and saying TRAINS! TRAINS!!
Wow. I'm going to Disneyland. My daughter has a National Dance thing up there. This is my first real Vacation since Niagra Falls family reunion three or four years ago.
Why the fuck did I do that? Jesus Christ these people thought I had issues.
I've been at my job for 14 years at the same place. I handle the same three every day with a van to make their lives worth living. I woudn't trade my job for all the money in the world. I'm dead fucking serious. I LOVE my guys,man.
Is it because these are the guys I talk with 8 hours of the waking day 5 days a week?
I don't know man. Could I be..tired of all this?
No way. No fucking way.
I just need that vacation. And Goddammit,I'm taking a picture with Mickey Mouse.
Those kids better move out of my fucking way.
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My wife's car is broken down at my daughter's dancing school. It's probably the starter or the relay or the fucking battery. I'm fucking tired on constantly fixing my cars. I'm fucking tired of always being broke. I'm fucking tired cause all this posting I'm doing every day cause I (fucking seriously,man) I really have no life so like a robot I just post away whatever the fuck pops into my little mind and yet after all these years as much as I would just LOVE to show my appreciation by clicking that little paypal button I can't cause I know what little change I have left may go for a tasty pack of cigarettes that now that my wife has quit every fucking body now thinks it's important that I quit and not just my family either but the ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD wants me to quit and I can't cause it's so tasty and I have no willpower and things that worry me every day beats me with a stick and I let the monster of worry win and it deplets my energy and sometimes I can't...I won't do simple shit around the home so I see the doctor and she tells me I'm having anxiety attacks but just in case let me give you this in case you're actually having a FUCKING HEART ATTACK Jesus Christ,man no fucking way can I have a Heart Attack now cause I need shit done and I'm not ready for that shit so I moderate what I eat and take my meds and check my blood sugars and I DON'T GIVE A RATS ASS how I look as long as I'm healthy and I'm really trying by taking the bus to work and eating like a fucking rabbit and I really don't care really cause all this stressing out has lost my appetite anyway and I count on my younger brothers and parents to save our asses all the time and I'm FORTY FUCKING YEARS OLD and I need to handle shit on my own yet I don't think they realise just how much I fucking love them and I'm gonna go watch my movies now and go to blockbuster where everyone there knows my name and probably will re-rent movies I didn't see all of then like every day on the weekends cry myself to sleep.
I'm not looking for sympathy,man. I just needed to write this shit out cause I want to feel better and I think it worked even for just a little while.
I need to count my blessings. Family that unconditionally loves me,19 years of marriage next month,Kids that are making a life of themselves so far,kick ass job....I'm blessed,man.
And yet.....
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the soviet souffle hunter tries to teach a lion to recognize its own reflection in the mirror.
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Big Red
Most all of these stories will be about dogs I’ve known, but there have been other animals that were notable characters in my life, and Big Red was one of them.
Shortly after we moved to the farm south of Molalla, we began acquiring animals. Dad was raised on a farm, he believed in raising his own meat and eggs, and also was firmly of the opinion that making children responsible for chores around the place was good for teaching discipline and responsibility. Looking back over those years, he was right.
Anyway, he got about 25 White Leghorn/Plymouth Barred Cross hens from a neighboring farmer, and a young Rhode Island Red rooster we soon called Big Red. My older brothers were made responsible for milking the cows, and slopping the hogs, so it became my job to feed and water the chickens, as well as collect the eggs.
At first, this was no real hardship. I’d put on my rubber boots, and go stomping off to the chicken house at the north end of the shop building every afternoon. Watering was easy, as Dad put a 20 foot section of roof gutter on the posts just inside the chicken wire, with caps on the ends. I’d get the hose, turn on the faucet, and fill it.
Feeding the chickens involved my wagon, as I’d fill 4 three pound coffee cans with chicken feed from the feed barrel, put them in the wagon, and trundle over to the chicken house door. The way the chicken house was set up (it was about 10 feet deep and 30 feet long, with the fenced chicken run covering 25 feet of the north side of it and extending about 50 feet to the machine shed) the man door was in the north wall next to the run. I‘d go in, shoo all the chickens out into the run and close their access door, then clean out the feeders and dump one can in each of them. After I’d collected the eggs and put the basket in the wagon, I’d open the chicken access door, leave the chicken house by the man door, and go wash the eggs. Easy enough.
Or, it was easy enough. By the time Big Red was a year old he could stand flat footed and look me in the eyes. That was one BIG damned rooster. The older he got, the bigger he got, the meaner he became, the more territorial he acted. He developed a virulent hatred for humans, especially me, the egg thief. Every afternoon it got more and more difficult to get him out of the henhouse to fill the feeders, and collect the eggs. He attacked me several times, flying up in my face, buffeting me with his wings, and spurring at me with the very wicked spurs he’d grown on his legs.
I told my Dad what was going on, and his response was to laugh at me and demand, “Are you scared of a damn chicken, boy?” Well, yes, frankly, that vicious bird scared the piss out of me, but that wasn’t something I was gonna admit to my Dad. No way in hell. When I asked for suggestions he just laughed some more and told me, “I hope to hell you are smarter than that damned rooster!”
There was nothing for it but to figure out some way to deal with Big Red myself. I took to carrying a broomstick when I’d go in the henhouse, to whack the miserable s.o.b. and drive him into the run with. That worked for a while, but Big Red was no dummy. He soon learned that stick hurt, and he’d dart around in the henhouse, trying to get past it to attack me. It was turning into all out war, and the bird was winning.
A chore that originally took maybe 20 minutes was becoming an hour long ordeal, and I had the spur and pecking scars to prove it. He nailed me on the end of the nose one afternoon, and left a hell of a puncture. I still have that scar. It got so bad that I was appealing to my older brother for help, which was a quick road to derision and scorn. The stories he told at school of me being afraid of a chicken caused me to be the butt of a lot of teasing and taunting by my classmates.
Alongside the chicken run there was an area about 80 feet by 50 feet that Dad just let grow up in tall grass – his reasoning was it was a haven for bugs that would find their way into the chicken run and get eaten, which he maintained was good for the chickens. One afternoon, after filling the water trough, I got a crazy idea. I hunkered down in the tall grass at the end of the run beside the machine shed wall, and starting crowing like a rooster.
As I said, Big Red was intensely territorial. He heard another rooster out there, and came tearing out to take up the challenge. Once I got him good and worked up, I dashed in the henhouse, rousted out the hens, and slammed the chicken door. Success! I’d outsmarted that nasty bastard at his own game.
For quite a while, that worked pretty well. Unfortunately, Big Red really wasn’t completely stupid, and he figured out that that other rooster was decoying him from his egg protection duties, and when I’d dash for the henhouse door he would as well. It became a race to see if I could get the henhouse access door closed from inside before he could get through it.
Pretty quickly, he was winning the race more often than not. It had been bad enough fighting him off in a henhouse with just the two of us in it, but add in 8 – 10 hens trapped inside and it became a feather filled maelstrom of frantic, squawking birds. The damned bird was winning again.
It was spring by then, and I really, really, REALLY hated that big red bastard. The hens started going all broody, and it became a real fight to collect the eggs. Finally, Dad said to leave off collecting eggs, as he wanted the hens to set clutches of eggs and raise chicks for fryers in the fall. Through the rest of the spring and most of the summer dealing with the chickens got easier, as Big Red appeared to loathe chicks, and was usually to be found perched on the end of the water trough as far from the henhouse as he could get.
By mid summer the chicks were mostly through their first molts, and the young cockerells were getting pretty bold and stroppy. Every time one of them would stretch his neck and try to crow, Big Red would hit him like a ton of bricks and tear him up. After he killed two of the young cocks, Dad caught him and penned him up in a temporary run at the bottom of the orchard lot, as far from the other chickens as he could get him. For two months I had it easy. Fall arrived, and Dad separated out the young chickens into a covered pen to be fed up for butchering, and put Big Red back in with the hens. War started again on the first day.
Big Red’s temper hadn’t improved with two months of solitary confinement, and he was determined to get me. Less and less often was he falling for my rooster imitation trick, and I was constantly getting pecked and spurred by that miserable bird.
One day in school we were making Halloween decorations for the classroom out of sheets of felt, and I got a flash of brilliance. I snagged some scraps of red felt, and yellow felt, and took them home.
I collected gimme caps in those days from the various farm supply and hardware stores Dad did business with. I had John Deere, Allison, Cat , John Browne, Purina, McCulloch, and various other caps hanging on the wall above my bed.
My Mom had taken one of Dad’s old red flannel work shirts, sewed up the button placket in front, taken the sleeves off and made it into a poncho for me to use in rainy weather. It hung below my knees, and I could tuck my hands inside and just about disappear under it when I wanted to.
Well, I took a Cat cap I had, and using Mom’s sewing shears I reshaped the bill into a curving point, then put a John Browne cap over it which was a rusty red. I used the red felt and some pipe cleaners to shape a nice big comb and two wattles, and got Mom to help attach them to the top of the cap.
With that on my head, hunkered down with my elbows sticking out from my sides inside the poncho, I could do a fair imitation of a really big, red rooster flapping his wings and crowing. That afternoon, after fashioning my costume, I went down to the chicken house. I filled the water trough as usual, then fetched the wagon with the feed cans and the egg basket. After everything was ready and in place by the door, I walked out into the tall dry grass by the far end of the run, and hunkered down. I sat there long enough that Big Red appeared to forget I was there, and then I began my act.
I crouched right by the chicken wire fence and began crowing, stretching up a little, and shaking my head to make the wattles and comb wobble around. Big Red wents nuts. Crowing, squawking, jumping up against the fence and trying to spur me through it. I egged him on, kicking at him through the fence and sending him into a maddened paroxysm of rage. At its height, I shed the caps and the poncho, dashed in the henhouse, and had the hens out and the hatch closed before Big Red realized I wasn’t there anymore.
Cleaning and filling the feeders, collecting the eggs, raking out the soiled straw and spreading clean was easy as pie. The whole time Big Red was raging up and down outside the henhouse, unable to get at me.
Smart as that rooster was, I was a lot smarter. He never did get to the place where he could ignore that huge rooster outside the pen, and my antics never failed to distract him long enough to get my job done in safety thereafter. We had that miserable bird for three more years, until I killed him one day with a garden hoe. But that is another story.
copyright March 2006
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The world is not so complicated a place. Make your decisions, deal with the consequences; things will flow much more smoothly that way.
Learn from your dog - When your ass itches, scratch it.
Music - There's nothing better than good music, and nothing worse than bad music.
The most important principle in life is cost-to-benefit ratio. If the prize assuming that you win is greater than the consequence assuming that you lose, then do it.
Embrace change, because eventually, EVERYTHING changes.
Honestly assess yourself. If you're stupid, don't reproduce. Please.
When manipulating styrofoam or any material that crumbles, close your eyes. Getting that stuff in your eyes sucks.
Guys - The battle over the toilet seat is crucial. Do not compromise. Either put it up or put it down, but don't allow both of these responsibilities to be pressed upon you.
Play something throughout your life. Be it sports, video games, musical instruments, role-playing games, or whatever, always play. When she starts driving you apeshit, THIS is to whence you will escape. Keep the road well-paved.
At all costs, my friends, avoid being "fwing"ed. Especially by a member of the opposite sex. "Fwing" hurts.
Peas and carrots DON'T go together. When Forrest Gump said that he and Jen-ny were "together like peas and car-rots," he was demonstrating that HE WAS HANDICAPPED.
Dislike all you want, but never hate anything.
Value the freedom and dignity and autonomy of all things.
Don't preach to those who do not listen.
Don't argue or debate religious topics. Even if you convince the other party of your position, all you've really accomplished is undermining whatever faith the other person had.
Life really IS like a box of chocolates. If you pay attention, you know EXACTLY what you're going to get. It's written in the top of the box.
If a psychic charges money, he or she is a fraud.
If you want to learn a subject in school, fall in love with the subject. Never fall in love with your teacher.
Optimism, taken to an extreme, is delusion. Likewise, pessimism grows to paranoia. Mediocrity is boring. Pick one and run with it.
Optimists live happier, longer lives, but pessimists are never disappointed.
Like beauty, the difference between efficiency and laziness is in the eye of the beholder.
Grilled cheese sandwiches are made with cheap cheese - nothing better than Velveeta. Buter the bread and sprinkle either with garlic (for sandwiches to have with soup) or with cinnamon sugar (for snacks).
Nothing is more unrealistic than reality television.
Learn basic psychology. If the difference between right- and left-brained people isn't in your repertoire, do some reading.
Always do the extra credit. Never depend on the extra credit.
Your television time needs to be evenly divided between news, cartoons, and everything else.
Loyalty, unfortunately, is no longer appreciated in the workplace. Always fight to improve your station without regard for the needs of your employer, because he can be expected to extend you the same courtesy.
Know your heart and follow it to the exclusion of all else.
Let your ear and your eye be new every day. What you didn't like yesterday may be different to your sensibilities tomorrow.
Eat lobster a hundred times in your own home before attempting it once in public.
Know your limitations. Try to overcome them. If you can't, accept them and joke about them. Rest assured, somebody else already is.
Everywhere you go, know the exits. Know which one is nearest you, and know when it's time to shut the hell up and go through it.
If you're in a monogamous relationship, and you fuck around, you are scum. Admit it, deal with it. Own your scumminess.
If you are in love for the first time, it is going to end. Nothing else to it, that wonderful god or goddess you're worshipping right now is going to do something evil. It's a growth experience for you. I'm sorry for your pain.
"Good Luck," as a quote, is basically a curse of failure. If you HAVE good luck, you'll eventually learn to DEPEND on good luck, and good luck WILL break.
Are you strong? Are you strong enough to kill for someone? Are you strong enough to die for someone? You may be, but are you strong enough to LIVE for someone? This is the TRUE test of your strength; to know that you have the power to continue in all this pain for the benefit of someone who needs you.
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It's been quite sometime since I did one of these. Perhaps I've been in a sour mood towards my job and didn't feel much like talking food. Since my last post I was doing the Chef de Brunch, and was feeling pretty hauled down by the pressure and work load. I was doing 50 plus hour weeks and not seeing any benefit. I've recently given my notice and hope to find a job that is less stress, until then I'm gonna take some much needed time off and do nothing.
Here's a recipe I've working on, I can't say I've had the chance to work it out completely, it's mostly guess estimates on measures, so if you try it yourself keep that in mind and give me some feed back so i can adjust it.
Sage Muscovy Duck with Yam and Black Bean Risotto
Feeds 4
Here's the basic mise en place of what you need to get started:
4 Muscovy Duck breast halves (cleaned)
2 cups Risotto Rice
1 Large Sweet Potato/Yam
1 Can Black Beans (drained)
Parmesan Cheese
4 Red Onions
2 Bunches Fresh Sage
White Wine
Red Wine
Sugar
UnSalted Butter
Olive Oil
Paprika/Cyanne/Corriander
Salt/Pepper
Cooking the duck is the easy part so we'll leave that for last. First we'll get the Rissotto rice done.
Risotto with Black Bean and Yam:
Melt about 2 tablespoons of butter in a sauce pot, at medium heat. Add your rice into this and saute for over a minute, this cracks the corn giving it a creamy texture.
Bring around 4 cups of water (or broth) to boil, and slowly add this to the rice stirring constantly until the rice is cooked. You'll be able to tell when the hard crunch is gone but it's still firm. Put this aside for now.
In a pan with a bit of olive oil, saute diced onion and diced yam until both are tender. Add the Black beans stirring. You'll mix this with the rice before serving. You can put it aside for now.
For add flavor we are gonna make Red Onion Marmalade as a toping for our duck.
.Red Onion Marmalade
2 Red Onions sliced thin (be sure to slice with the grain so it hold together), simmer this in about a Cup of red wine vinegar until the onions are tender. Then add about 1/2 cup of sugar and let it reduce. Don't let it burn, you want it creamy like a jam, add more vinegar if needed.
The duck we are going to sear then oven bake.
Sage Muscovy Duck:
Make a mixture of Paprika/Cyanne/Corriander and season your duck well. Heat a pan with olive oil until it is really hot. When it is smoking, add your seasoned duck and rotate them to cook them evenly, it wont take long to seal in the flavor. (We are not cooking them completely here.)
Remove them from the pan and make 3 incisions into the meat, width wise. Into the slits stuff it with fresh Sage leaves. Place this into a baking dishes, drizzle oil over them, cover in foil and place in the oven at about 250.
To finish up...
Reheat the rice with more water (broth) adding your Black Bean and Yams. When it's heated add a good amount of Parmesan Cheese to taste and butter for extra creaminess.
Your plate with have the rice mixture as it's base with the duck served on top. The marmalade (chilled) should be spread evenly over the duck, don't remove the sage. Enjoy.
If anyone has was to better this recipe please comment below. Many of the item can be substituted for other things. Let me know how it turns out
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before it happened, it used to be different. i cared about everything and not in the overload sort of way but in the "tell me more" sort of way. but it sneaked up on me. i didn't know. no one knew and everyone was so clever after. but it was too late, it made no difference. what's done is done.
open and content. and everything just flowed freely, through me, leaving no marks, no scars, no traces. eternal and beautiful. and maybe it still does. and sometimes i feel it but mostly it's just time. time ruins everything. pisses on it like a dog would. we became friends and brothers. we became me but then estranged ourselves. i know and i can bring it back but i forget. i need to remember. i need to remember again.
starts and stops in spurs and squirts. robs me of pride. and maybe that's how it should be. maybe it's about balance and not unity, i don't know. maybe it's both or there is no difference. i try to force it and it pushes right back with the force i know is mine. i wonder if words are mine or just repeated. adopted orphans melted together. is it talks and songs and books speaking through me or the other way around. i don't know and i don't care. sometimes it doesn't need to be much. a women, a thought, a sleepless night is enough and too much to make it flow again and into the void and back into me. i give nothing to you and you give nothing to me and yet we exchange so much. we trade and bargain. back and forth. your juice, my juice. it flows into the void, onto paper, forming sound. our skins hurt together, burning holes through waves of ecstasy. patches of pain to make me remember. the night is unforgiving. it's yours and mine.
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I have always believed that one of the biggest problems facing the world/society is fear of the "other". It produces so many misunderstandings, and causes so many of those misunderstandings to turn violent. I have been thinking about the source of that fear, and I am beginning to wonder if it might also be tied into the sort if incurious worldview that (it seems to me) is becoming increasingly common.
It feels to me as though more and more people are uninterested in the world around them, or in thinking about why things happen the way they do. I even wonder if this is the source of some types of religious fundamentalism--the world seems frightening and incomprehensible, and so it becomes easier to simply explain any occurrence as "God's will" and whomp anyone who says differently. Or, to use a less extreme but more common example, to simply not care about finding out why things work they way they do, and instead watch TV. Not that I object to TV...
In any case, I am beginning to think that fear of the unknown, religious fundamentalism, and anti-intellectualism may have a common cause, which is at its core a lack of faith that the world around us can be understood. If one can say reach the point of saying "Well, I see how phenomenon B seems to arise from process A. I wonder if phenomenon C comes from something similar?", and then decide to investigate (or read about others' investigations), one can come to the conclusion that the world is not hostile and inscrutable. Rather, one might decide that the world is complex and subtle, but one can gain increasing understanding of it by study.
That gentle faith--that the natural world is something worthy of investigation and curiosity--is what I would like to inculcate in my students, because I think it leads to other beliefs. I think--I hope--that it can lead to a belief that other kinds of people or societies are not, in fact, incomprehensible and hostile, but rather comprehensible and explicable. Patience, an open mind, and the humility to start from the assumption that there are things one does not understand can go a long way toward scientific discovery and towards peaceful coexistence.
It is important to note that this faith in reason does not exclude religious faith, although if taken to far it can lead to the kind of hostility to religion that we see much of the time. When taken that far, I think that one has lost the aspect of intellectual humility; one concludes that, because one does not see how something might be, that it therefor does not exist. To me, that seems to be a logical fallacy based on the assumption that one's understanding of the universe is complete. Agnosticism and skepticism ("I don't see how God could exist, so I will behave as if God does not exist, but I concede that I might be wrong") I can respect easily, but blanket hostility to any form of religious faith seems unfounded to me. Faith in reason can coexist with explicit religious faith or religious skepticism quite easily, though.
This is the attitude I would like to teach my students. If I can show them that they can understand something about biology, it is my hope that they will decide that maybe, with humility, patience, and openmindedness, they can learn to understand and accept other people as well.
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Couple of months ago, some stuff began going wonky. I began knocking over glasses, dropping things, stumbling, that kinda thing. Few weeks ago, got hit with some serious vertigo, episodes lasting anywhere from a few hours to a few days. The last one wasn't letting up after a day, so I hit the doctor's office. They ran the usual bloodwork and such, said I wasn't pregnant or fisilitic (sorry to ruin any fantasies about boinking someone whose pregnant cooter was rotting off). Doctors began running a bunch of tests on me to see if I could keep my balance, tested my strength, checked out my gaze, that kinda thing. Sent me packing to the neurologist.
Since then, I've not been able to walk outside my house without a cane. At times, it's difficult to turn a page, pick up a pen, reach for the television remote, type, stay awake, fall asleep, keep my food down, you name it. Numb sometimes, tingly at others. A floating feeling sometimes hits me, and sound and sight soften. My temper's never been particularly sweet, but it's getting really nasty now. No ears ringing (ruled out inner ear things and meniere's and such pretty early on). It's pretty funny to watch me try to do a toe-to-heel walk.
But I got to take my first MRI and VEP. The VEP was my favorite: they put electrodes on your head, and take pictures of your brain through your eyes. Getting shot up with gadolinium for the MRI was pretty cool, though; kept thinking, "Number 64 is coursing through my veins!" Bad luck, though: the neurologist is away on vacation for the next week or so, and in the meantime, I have no clue what's going on. Medical staff has mentioned everything from MS or a brain tumor to migraines or a mild stroke. I'm pretty sure that the MRI shots show a horseshoe crab eating its way through my white matter.
Oh, and the lovely new lad broke up with me the day after one of my appointments. No hard feelings, for the most part; we really hadn't dated long enough to get anything going, but I feel a sort of wistfulness at the same time that I'm grateful to have some space to myself to sort all this shit out. Part of my touchiness has to do with being hovered over, but I don't think that would have been a problem with him. It's best, though, that if I'm crabby, I have some time and space to myself to get a spot of control.
If y'all are interested, I can keep up on the blog what all goes down with doctors, tests, and horseshoe crabs. It's all pretty curious to me. Parents aren't doing too well when I make light of the whole thing -- big-mouth sister was supposed to keep it to herself so that if anything was actuallly wrong, I could tell them myself. Similarly, didn't want them worrying like this if nothing major goes down. I'm surprised ... she's usually much better than this at being discrete.
Either way, mock the new asylum gimp!
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What I am about to share is probably a violation of State and Federal law (HIPAA), but it's eating me alive like a cancer.
quote:
I happen to be in the position to work with someone in Terri's condition and just so happens to be profoundly retarded. Generally speaking there are only two people who are guardians of our residents: someone in their family, or a legally appointed guardian (which tends to be a direct care staff member that is willing to take on the task).
Either way each side is kept informed of the patient's health and overall quality of life. There are layers upon layers of policy and procedure that prevents your hypothetical. In fact, the farthest you can push the right to die with the retarded is a DNR order, or to order someone off of life support systems because they are dying. Which has to go through human legal rights, a physician, the social worker, and about a few thousand other overpaid "professionals" before the final okay is given. I've been through the death of two individuals in the last year. I know the process.
And now I can add that I am now going through a Schiavo.
The resident that I spoke of above wasn't 100% like Schiavo at the time, but his capacity of functioning in any way was reduced to blinking his eyes and feeble attempts at voluntary movement of a limb. He was that way because of a severe case of hydrocephaly had gradually destroyed his brain. Unlike Mrs. Schiavo, Jon was still very much there. No imagined responses on a video tape propped up by the Culture of Life. Jon could respond to yes and no questions through an established set of eye blinks (1 = yes, 2 = no), and tried to make contact with the outside world. With physical assitance he could still blow kisses to the staff, but only once or twice a day because it was so exhausting. He would even try to talk like he used to, and still tried to mouth the names of familiar staff.
A couple months ago Jon got unusually bloated around the abdomen. A bladder scan revealed his bladder contained approximately 1,000 ml of fluid. He was catheterized and the nurse reported an extracted total of 1,100 ml of urine in the charting and other assorted paperwork required by protocol. He started bleeding, but it was expected that some bleeding would happen. You just can't cath a man without running the risk of some bleeding. I've seen the quick-cath kit for both ladies and men, and let me tell you: you've got it good gals. So there was bleeding after the cath and nobody was all that excited. And then it continued into the next day. Slightly bothersome, but we were assured that it still wasn't outside the realm of normal. The day after caused more concern.
Every time Jon urinated his body was wracked with pain. The urine wasn't really urine at all at this point. It looked like a 60/40 mixture of blood and piss. Clots. The man was screaming (as much as he could, which was a faint groan) with every void. After a brief call with the doctor on duty it was decided that it would be best to place a Foley catheter in to help make urination more easy. The catheter would also prevent blood from clotting up in his urethra and causing more hardship.
I think it was only a matter of about 48 hours before the gritty stuff started coming. We were concerned and so we brought it up with our living unit RN. She said that those were just little blood clots and we shouldn't worry. This lady has gone to nursing school, has been a nurse for at least ten years, and I would make a better nurse than she is. I have no formal training as a nurse and even I know that the gritty stuff at the bottom of the drain bag is kidney stone precipitate. Of course nobody could convince her of that because she's an RN and we are just lowly DT staff. This is a fairly regular thing between the staff and her, by the way. She is always right even though she is patently wrong and there is empirical evidence to prove so.
We finally got the bug planted in enough ears that they got a doctor to order a scan of his urinary tract, and guess who was right? Not Merriam fucking Kelle the Infector of Urinary Tracts RN, that's who. The guy had kidney stones like traffic backed up on the freeways of LA. In the urethra, in the bladder, and every other place one could think they could be.
Time goes by. Consults are done. Finally they place the idea before his parents: We can leave them be and he can be in incredible pain for a very long time, or we can operate and there's like a 99.9999999% chance he'll die due to his condition.
Parents decided to go ahead with the operation.
He had the operation eight days ago. Things went reasonably well the first couple of days. Jon is incredibly resilient and has, up until now, lived for some 12 years longer than he was supposed to. His initial life expectancy was somewhere in his twenties and he is now somewhere in his thirties. Someone said 36, but I wouldn't know without checking his record. Then at some point he thought it would be fun to get pneumonia. In both lungs.
That brings us to sometime in the last couple of days. His parents have decided to stop all treatments with the exception of his pain medication and seizure medication, and to stop his g-tube feedings.
As I have made it clear during discussions about Terri Schiavo I'm am all for a person's right to die. I feel that if you run out of options and there is no hope you shouldn't prolong someone's life just because you don't want them to die.
I was fine with the decision until we were told they wanted to bring him back to our living unit to die. Hospice is only paid for five days with our people and if they haven't died by then, oh well. You were too slow to die. so get the fuck out.
There are staff that I work with that have taken care of this man for nearly the entirety of his life. Some of us haven't worked with him that long, but we still love him. They had the nerve to even ask if we would allow him back on the living unit. As much as I respect a person's right to die I will not be party to that person's death, even if it is my job by some twisted fate. The general response by the living unit staff was that if he came back to the unit we would: resume his tube feedings even if it means losing our jobs and serving jail time, or we would all quit en masse. It was made pretty clear that if he were brought back to the unit we could not guarantee that his family's wishes would be complied with, but that the hospital downstairs would be a far more appropriate place because the staff down there are largely people that have never worked with him.
I never in my life have ever thought I would be involved in such a situation. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I'm ashamed that I can't help my friend die in comfort because I'm so selfish that I can't bear to watch. Even if it is my job.
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