Steven Harper's Blog, page 31
January 9, 2022
Shoulder Surgery 2 (Recovering)
I woke up in the recovery room with a nurse named Bob looking down at me. My arm was in a heavy, immobilizing sling. I was in a lot of pain, though not nearly as much as I could have been. The anesthesiologist had administered a nerve block that shut off all sensation in my shoulder, arm, and hand.
"Time to wake up, my friend," Bob said cheerily. "You're all finished. The operation worked."
I was disoriented and semi-delirious, of course. Bob checked me over and made notes while I faded in and out of consciousness. Meanwhile, the doctor was out in the waiting area talking to Darwin. I asked him to record the conversation with his phone because Darwin rarely asks questions of doctors, and I want to know exactly what the guy says anyway. Darwin did this. The doctor said they had repaired a tendon on my rotator cuff, sanded a bone spur off my clavicle, and reattached both my bicep tendons, which had been partially torn off.
In addition to the sling, I had a huge dressing on my shoulder. I later learned there were four incisions under it, each about half an inch long and stitched shut.
My recorder was still running. I switched it off.
When I was awake enough, the nurse got me dressed and I got first-hand lessons in managing the sling. It's a dreadful thing. It feels like I'm wearing a steampunk artificial arm, heavy and clunky. Darwin was allowed in at this point so he could get final instructions about my care at home (the sling had to stay on constantly for at least two days, I needed to take regular pain meds, I needed to ice my shoulder as much as I could stand, I would have to sleep sitting up for the foreseeable future). And then Darwin took me home.
It was awful, folks. The nerve block kept me from feeling the worst of the pain, but as time passed, the block began to fade and the pain came roaring in. I took steady doses of opiate painkillers, and they made me dopy and lethargic and dried my mouth out. And every single thing became major effort. Getting up for the bathroom was a major chore. And the pain, pain, PAIN. As most of you know, it's exhausting, both physically and emotionally, to be in pain all the time.
And do you know the worst of it? I couldn't sleep with Darwin.
It's a standard phrase in our household that bedtime is the best time of day. Darwin and I sleep piled on top of each other most of the night and it's a time for connection and emotional warmth for both of us.
But the sling requires me to sleep upright on the couch. (I tried sleeping in the bed propped up with pillows, but getting in and out was so laborious and painful that I was forced to abandon the practice.) This isn't a good position for sleeping under any circumstances, and it's an irony of this particular procedure that, at a time when you most need your sleep, the procedure stops you from getting much of it. Not only that, opiate painkillers make me lethargic but awake--I don't sleep well when I take them. All this was made worse by the fact that I was separated from Darwin. I sat in the living room, feeling alone and scared and in pain. Dinah curled up on the other end of the couch, on the other side of a pile of pillows. I spent the first week this way.
After two days, the nerve block was gone except, strangely, for my thumb and part of my hand. They're still numb even now, two weeks later. With the nerve block gone, pain became my constant companion. A representative from a medical company arrived and I was surprised to learn the doctor's office had arranged for an ice pack machine. (No one had mentioned this to us anywhere.) The machine is the size of a large shoe box and is awash in cords and hoses. The hoses connect to a flat black pad designed to fit the curve of the shoulder, and the machine pumps colder-than-ice fluid through the pad. It's much easier to use than ice packs.
Darwin soldiered forward with my care. Here it turned into a good thing that he's between jobs and could stay home with me all day. He's not a nurse, though, and many things were difficult for him.
On the third day home, I said I needed to shower. We took the sling off, and this created an unexpected roar of pain, even though we kept my arm cradled. In the shower, Darwin had to wash me. I couldn't do anything but concentrate on keeping myself upright. And then he got me dried and dressed and every movement was screaming pain. The entire ordeal took nearly an hour, and it exhausted both of us.
The operation was on a Monday. By Saturday, the pain had lessened, though I was still on steady doses of opiates. I was doing doctor-prescribed "exercises," which consisted of stooping over and letting my arm swing in a circle and then sitting with the ice pad.
On Sunday, I felt well enough to download the sound file. And I got a shock.
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"Time to wake up, my friend," Bob said cheerily. "You're all finished. The operation worked."
I was disoriented and semi-delirious, of course. Bob checked me over and made notes while I faded in and out of consciousness. Meanwhile, the doctor was out in the waiting area talking to Darwin. I asked him to record the conversation with his phone because Darwin rarely asks questions of doctors, and I want to know exactly what the guy says anyway. Darwin did this. The doctor said they had repaired a tendon on my rotator cuff, sanded a bone spur off my clavicle, and reattached both my bicep tendons, which had been partially torn off.
In addition to the sling, I had a huge dressing on my shoulder. I later learned there were four incisions under it, each about half an inch long and stitched shut.
My recorder was still running. I switched it off.
When I was awake enough, the nurse got me dressed and I got first-hand lessons in managing the sling. It's a dreadful thing. It feels like I'm wearing a steampunk artificial arm, heavy and clunky. Darwin was allowed in at this point so he could get final instructions about my care at home (the sling had to stay on constantly for at least two days, I needed to take regular pain meds, I needed to ice my shoulder as much as I could stand, I would have to sleep sitting up for the foreseeable future). And then Darwin took me home.
It was awful, folks. The nerve block kept me from feeling the worst of the pain, but as time passed, the block began to fade and the pain came roaring in. I took steady doses of opiate painkillers, and they made me dopy and lethargic and dried my mouth out. And every single thing became major effort. Getting up for the bathroom was a major chore. And the pain, pain, PAIN. As most of you know, it's exhausting, both physically and emotionally, to be in pain all the time.
And do you know the worst of it? I couldn't sleep with Darwin.
It's a standard phrase in our household that bedtime is the best time of day. Darwin and I sleep piled on top of each other most of the night and it's a time for connection and emotional warmth for both of us.
But the sling requires me to sleep upright on the couch. (I tried sleeping in the bed propped up with pillows, but getting in and out was so laborious and painful that I was forced to abandon the practice.) This isn't a good position for sleeping under any circumstances, and it's an irony of this particular procedure that, at a time when you most need your sleep, the procedure stops you from getting much of it. Not only that, opiate painkillers make me lethargic but awake--I don't sleep well when I take them. All this was made worse by the fact that I was separated from Darwin. I sat in the living room, feeling alone and scared and in pain. Dinah curled up on the other end of the couch, on the other side of a pile of pillows. I spent the first week this way.
After two days, the nerve block was gone except, strangely, for my thumb and part of my hand. They're still numb even now, two weeks later. With the nerve block gone, pain became my constant companion. A representative from a medical company arrived and I was surprised to learn the doctor's office had arranged for an ice pack machine. (No one had mentioned this to us anywhere.) The machine is the size of a large shoe box and is awash in cords and hoses. The hoses connect to a flat black pad designed to fit the curve of the shoulder, and the machine pumps colder-than-ice fluid through the pad. It's much easier to use than ice packs.
Darwin soldiered forward with my care. Here it turned into a good thing that he's between jobs and could stay home with me all day. He's not a nurse, though, and many things were difficult for him.
On the third day home, I said I needed to shower. We took the sling off, and this created an unexpected roar of pain, even though we kept my arm cradled. In the shower, Darwin had to wash me. I couldn't do anything but concentrate on keeping myself upright. And then he got me dried and dressed and every movement was screaming pain. The entire ordeal took nearly an hour, and it exhausted both of us.
The operation was on a Monday. By Saturday, the pain had lessened, though I was still on steady doses of opiates. I was doing doctor-prescribed "exercises," which consisted of stooping over and letting my arm swing in a circle and then sitting with the ice pad.
On Sunday, I felt well enough to download the sound file. And I got a shock.
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Shoulder Surgery 1 (Preparation)
For more than a year, my right shoulder has been bothering me. I started noticing during the early days of the pandemic, when I kept a bag of masks in the back seat of the car. When I reached back with my right arm to grab one, I got twinges of pain. These grew in both frequency and intensity, until I finally was forced to move the masks to the front seat. But as time passed, the twinges cropped up other times--when I reached at a certain angle above my head; when I stretched in the morning; when I moved my arm too quickly; or for no reason at all. These weren't little "eek" twinges, either. Some of them were "have to sit down a minute while the spots in my vision cleared" moments.
I went to a joint specialist and got an MRI. The MRI was inconclusive, and the doctor recommended physical therapy, since it would be less invasive than an operation. I attended PT faithfully for months. The pain actually got worse. I finally went back to the doctor, who said it was probably time for surgery. Exactly what I might need--rotator cuff repair, bone spur shaving, bicep tendon repair--would depend on what the doctor could see through the arthroscopic camera when the operation began. The surgery was scheduled for December 27, which at the time was several weeks away.
Regular readers of this blog know about my history with traumatic medical procedures. These days I'm usually fine--anxiety attacks have become increasingly rare as more time passes. But I haven't had an operation in a couple years. Now I was facing another one. (Two, actually, but more on that later.)
When the doctor talked operation, I braced myself for an anxiety tidal wave. But none came. This was a good thing, I told myself. I was dealing. And the anxiety-inducing procedures from three years ago were forced on me. If the kidney stones weren't dealt with, I could die, either of pain or from kidney failure. This operation was my choice. My life wasn't endangered without it. The choice, I figured, must be making all the difference.
Turned out not.
As the day of the operation grew closer, I became more and more anxious, more and more fixated on it. I watched videos of similar operations over and over, read medical articles and papers on the procedure. I was taking Xanax more often. But I was determined to do this.
I got out my recording device. It's a small, black stick the size of a USB drive, and it records everything in its radius very nicely. I've found that bringing it into an operating room makes me feel more in control. I can at least hear what happens when I'm unconscious, even if I can't see it. I also have a brace for a sprained finger. I put the brace on, slip the recorder into the brace, and switch the recorder on with a little tap when no one's looking. Later, I download the file and listen.
The first time I did this, I heard nothing of interest, which was a relief and encouraged me to continue the practice, including this time. I had no idea what was coming.
The day of the operation arrived. It was at a clinic in Rochester, not at a hospital. Darwin drove me to a low brick building on a busy road, and we walked in to what looked like a combination school cafeteria and doctor's waiting room. There were seats and booths and vending machines for family members while patients underwent procedures in the back. Because of COVID, no one but the patient was allowed in the recovery room. This was already causing me worry. When I wake up, disoriented and in pain--there's always pain--Darwin's presence calms me immensely. But there was nothing for it.
The anxiety is still with me even now. Writing this blog consists of bursts of writing intercut with breaks so I can calm myself. But one of the ways I deal with this stuff is to write it down.
In the prep room, it was undressing and gowning and IV inserting and meeting with medical staff. The nurse asked about the brace on my finger.
"I popped it and have to wear that for another day or two," I said blithely, and she accepted this without further comment.
One of the first people I talked to was the anesthesiologist, whose actual name I don't remember. My anxiety was growing, which makes me snappish and difficult to deal with sometimes. It gets worse without Darwin there to keep me calm. My last therapist advised me to tell the medical staff that I'm a trauma survivor, that operations and anesthesia cause me more than the usual amount of anxiety, so they know it's me and not them, and they can use this information to help me through.
"I need to tell you," I said to the anesthesiologist in a kind of canned speech, "that I'm a two-time survivor of sexual assault, and anesthesia and operations, when I'm drugged and helpless, create a lot of flashback anxiety. If I'm freaking out, it's not you--it's my background. I wanted you to know this."
The anesthesiologist nodded and made sympathetic noises and left.
Eventually, the surgical nurse wheeled me into a chilly room (kept that way, I guess, because it helps with the procedure). The other staff, including the anesthesiologist, was there. They got me onto the table, lying on my side, and the anesthesiologist put me on oxygen and said, "Here comes the anesthetic."
And time blinked.
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I went to a joint specialist and got an MRI. The MRI was inconclusive, and the doctor recommended physical therapy, since it would be less invasive than an operation. I attended PT faithfully for months. The pain actually got worse. I finally went back to the doctor, who said it was probably time for surgery. Exactly what I might need--rotator cuff repair, bone spur shaving, bicep tendon repair--would depend on what the doctor could see through the arthroscopic camera when the operation began. The surgery was scheduled for December 27, which at the time was several weeks away.
Regular readers of this blog know about my history with traumatic medical procedures. These days I'm usually fine--anxiety attacks have become increasingly rare as more time passes. But I haven't had an operation in a couple years. Now I was facing another one. (Two, actually, but more on that later.)
When the doctor talked operation, I braced myself for an anxiety tidal wave. But none came. This was a good thing, I told myself. I was dealing. And the anxiety-inducing procedures from three years ago were forced on me. If the kidney stones weren't dealt with, I could die, either of pain or from kidney failure. This operation was my choice. My life wasn't endangered without it. The choice, I figured, must be making all the difference.
Turned out not.
As the day of the operation grew closer, I became more and more anxious, more and more fixated on it. I watched videos of similar operations over and over, read medical articles and papers on the procedure. I was taking Xanax more often. But I was determined to do this.
I got out my recording device. It's a small, black stick the size of a USB drive, and it records everything in its radius very nicely. I've found that bringing it into an operating room makes me feel more in control. I can at least hear what happens when I'm unconscious, even if I can't see it. I also have a brace for a sprained finger. I put the brace on, slip the recorder into the brace, and switch the recorder on with a little tap when no one's looking. Later, I download the file and listen.
The first time I did this, I heard nothing of interest, which was a relief and encouraged me to continue the practice, including this time. I had no idea what was coming.
The day of the operation arrived. It was at a clinic in Rochester, not at a hospital. Darwin drove me to a low brick building on a busy road, and we walked in to what looked like a combination school cafeteria and doctor's waiting room. There were seats and booths and vending machines for family members while patients underwent procedures in the back. Because of COVID, no one but the patient was allowed in the recovery room. This was already causing me worry. When I wake up, disoriented and in pain--there's always pain--Darwin's presence calms me immensely. But there was nothing for it.
The anxiety is still with me even now. Writing this blog consists of bursts of writing intercut with breaks so I can calm myself. But one of the ways I deal with this stuff is to write it down.
In the prep room, it was undressing and gowning and IV inserting and meeting with medical staff. The nurse asked about the brace on my finger.
"I popped it and have to wear that for another day or two," I said blithely, and she accepted this without further comment.
One of the first people I talked to was the anesthesiologist, whose actual name I don't remember. My anxiety was growing, which makes me snappish and difficult to deal with sometimes. It gets worse without Darwin there to keep me calm. My last therapist advised me to tell the medical staff that I'm a trauma survivor, that operations and anesthesia cause me more than the usual amount of anxiety, so they know it's me and not them, and they can use this information to help me through.
"I need to tell you," I said to the anesthesiologist in a kind of canned speech, "that I'm a two-time survivor of sexual assault, and anesthesia and operations, when I'm drugged and helpless, create a lot of flashback anxiety. If I'm freaking out, it's not you--it's my background. I wanted you to know this."
The anesthesiologist nodded and made sympathetic noises and left.
Eventually, the surgical nurse wheeled me into a chilly room (kept that way, I guess, because it helps with the procedure). The other staff, including the anesthesiologist, was there. They got me onto the table, lying on my side, and the anesthesiologist put me on oxygen and said, "Here comes the anesthetic."
And time blinked.
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The 2021 Holidays, Condensed
We had a full slate of holiday activities planned this year, but along came a spider. Or a virus.
Christmas Eve was meant to be Darwin's side of the family over at our place, close to twenty people. Then we learned that a couple people in the family hadn't been vaccinated, and some other people had potentially been exposed to COVID. Several people expressed worry and concern, including us, and we reluctantly pulled the plug. Darwin and I decided to spend Christmas Eve playing Santa Claus and Mother Berchte. We drove around the Detroit Metro area delivering presents and holding distant conversations in driveways and on porches. It was a pleasant way to spend the holiday, though not what we'd been expecting. Darwin, I know, was especially disappointed.
Christmas Day was just Darwin and me. We exchanged our own presents and enjoyed each other's company. Kala dropped by for lunch, and we had the roast that had originally been slated for Christmas Eve. Roast beast!
The day after Christmas was for my side of the family at my mother's. It was a small group, and we know everyone had been vaccinated and boosted. I brought a carload of food and drinks, including home made carrot cake and ice cream and piragi. Aran and Sasha drove up together, and it was wonderful to see them. Max couldn't come--he had to work. :( But it was a successful event, and no one came down with anything afterward, so hooray!
The next day, I had surgery . . .
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Christmas Eve was meant to be Darwin's side of the family over at our place, close to twenty people. Then we learned that a couple people in the family hadn't been vaccinated, and some other people had potentially been exposed to COVID. Several people expressed worry and concern, including us, and we reluctantly pulled the plug. Darwin and I decided to spend Christmas Eve playing Santa Claus and Mother Berchte. We drove around the Detroit Metro area delivering presents and holding distant conversations in driveways and on porches. It was a pleasant way to spend the holiday, though not what we'd been expecting. Darwin, I know, was especially disappointed.
Christmas Day was just Darwin and me. We exchanged our own presents and enjoyed each other's company. Kala dropped by for lunch, and we had the roast that had originally been slated for Christmas Eve. Roast beast!
The day after Christmas was for my side of the family at my mother's. It was a small group, and we know everyone had been vaccinated and boosted. I brought a carload of food and drinks, including home made carrot cake and ice cream and piragi. Aran and Sasha drove up together, and it was wonderful to see them. Max couldn't come--he had to work. :( But it was a successful event, and no one came down with anything afterward, so hooray!
The next day, I had surgery . . .
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December 12, 2021
The Return of Fisto
So I'm watching Netflix's reboot/continuation of MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE, and one of the old minor characters shows up. He has a metal hand that can punch through a wall. His name? Fisto.
Of course it is.
I didn't watch the original show very much. Even as a kid, I couldn't get past the idea of a hero named "He-Man." And animation was awful, and the stories were cringe-y. So I didn't watch much. The new version, though, is way more interesting. Especially now that Fisto showed up.
In the latest episode, Fisto is fighting a bunch of guys (of course), and he shouts, "I'd like to fist him!"
Dearie, dearie me . . .
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Of course it is.
I didn't watch the original show very much. Even as a kid, I couldn't get past the idea of a hero named "He-Man." And animation was awful, and the stories were cringe-y. So I didn't watch much. The new version, though, is way more interesting. Especially now that Fisto showed up.
In the latest episode, Fisto is fighting a bunch of guys (of course), and he shouts, "I'd like to fist him!"
Dearie, dearie me . . .
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December 6, 2021
My Arm Hates Me
So I have this super-power. It's called "hyperflexive joints." We used to say "double-jointed." What this means in everyday terms is that I can touch every part of my own back. I didn't realize this was anything strange. My brother and sister can both do it, after all, so why was this weird? It wasn't until I was wrestling around with some friends in my twenties and I pulled one guy's arm around behind him, causing him to yelp with pain and immediately give up. When I expressed surprise, he turned me around and lifted my arm behind my back until my hand was up to my shoulder blade.
"Doesn't that hurt?" he asked, shocked. (Actually he said, "Tut das dir Weh nicht?", since we were in Germany.)
"No," I replied, and that's how I realized I had a super-power.
However, this particular super-power comes with a price. Human joints aren't actually made to withstand this kind of flexibility. Sure, my shoulders and elbows are loose, but my muscles and tendons are just like everyone else's. And over many years of using my arms the way I'm used to--stretching and moving in abnormal ways--I've put stress on things.
Now I'm in trouble.
My arm started hurting a few months ago when I moved it in certain ways. Not little twinges, either. These were heart-stopping lunges of pain. I went to the doctor, who ordered an MRI. The MRI came back inconclusive, but the doctor said I would benefit from physical therapy. I went three times a week for three months.
The pain got worse, not better.
It expanded to include more motions and gestures. Reaching up to get a glass from the cupboard. Turning the steering wheel hard over left. Stretching when I got up in the morning. And sometimes for no reason whatsoever.
I went back to the doctor, who said it was time for laparoscopic surgery. I either had a bone spurs which needed to be sanded off, or torn bicep tendon, which needed to be reattached, or both. They'll know for sure when they put the camera in there and can look around. I'm scheduled for December 27.
I don't take to surgery well. It's not the surgery so much as the anesthesia, really. Being drugged and having my memory played with makes me anxious. This isn't as bad as the kidney stone operations made me feel--shoulder surgery doesn't make me think of sexual assault. I'm . . . unhappily resigned to this, I suppose.
Lately, though, the pain's been getting worse. My arm hurts a lot, even when it's not moving. Today, I woke up with a steady pain that went on all day. I called the surgery scheduler and asked to be put on their waiting list. If someone cancels or reschedules a surgery, call me to take their place. I'm on that list now.
In the meantime, my arm hates me.
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"Doesn't that hurt?" he asked, shocked. (Actually he said, "Tut das dir Weh nicht?", since we were in Germany.)
"No," I replied, and that's how I realized I had a super-power.
However, this particular super-power comes with a price. Human joints aren't actually made to withstand this kind of flexibility. Sure, my shoulders and elbows are loose, but my muscles and tendons are just like everyone else's. And over many years of using my arms the way I'm used to--stretching and moving in abnormal ways--I've put stress on things.
Now I'm in trouble.
My arm started hurting a few months ago when I moved it in certain ways. Not little twinges, either. These were heart-stopping lunges of pain. I went to the doctor, who ordered an MRI. The MRI came back inconclusive, but the doctor said I would benefit from physical therapy. I went three times a week for three months.
The pain got worse, not better.
It expanded to include more motions and gestures. Reaching up to get a glass from the cupboard. Turning the steering wheel hard over left. Stretching when I got up in the morning. And sometimes for no reason whatsoever.
I went back to the doctor, who said it was time for laparoscopic surgery. I either had a bone spurs which needed to be sanded off, or torn bicep tendon, which needed to be reattached, or both. They'll know for sure when they put the camera in there and can look around. I'm scheduled for December 27.
I don't take to surgery well. It's not the surgery so much as the anesthesia, really. Being drugged and having my memory played with makes me anxious. This isn't as bad as the kidney stone operations made me feel--shoulder surgery doesn't make me think of sexual assault. I'm . . . unhappily resigned to this, I suppose.
Lately, though, the pain's been getting worse. My arm hurts a lot, even when it's not moving. Today, I woke up with a steady pain that went on all day. I called the surgery scheduler and asked to be put on their waiting list. If someone cancels or reschedules a surgery, call me to take their place. I'm on that list now.
In the meantime, my arm hates me.
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Oxford
I was on my out of the school building Tuesday afternoon when I learned about the shooting.
Oxford is a medium-sized town just up the road from Wherever. Darwin grew up there. Like Wherever, it's mostly a bedroom community, a suburb of Detroit. Nothing special, really, unless you happen to live there. And now it's joined a very small, terrible club.
At home, I scanned social media, looking for information. Lots of rumor and speculation, a few facts. Terrifying tragedy. A lot of people in Wherever, including my students, know people in Oxford. And, of course, there was (still is) a lot of nervousness that it could happen again.
Wednesday was a half-day for students, with staff development for teachers afterward. A lot of students were absent for the first half, and there was a lot of discussion and speculation among the teachers during the second half.
I went to bed Wednesday evening, tired and stressed. I'm not--never have been--worried about a school shooter. The odds are so very, very low that I'm better off worrying about a meteor strike. Really, I'm at more risk of life and limb every time I drive through a crowd of student drivers every day before work. No, I worry about how my students are handling this and what impact all this has and will continue to have on our school. I worry about the victims and their families. I worry about living in a society that allows these things to happen.
There's no real playbook for this. A lot of people think schools and teachers have some kind of list or something, what to say or do when something like this happens. The truth is, we don't. No one knows what the best or right thing to say or do is. We only have a best guess, based on what we know about our students. The district gives us talking points and advice, but no one really knows what we're supposed to do. I honestly don't know if there =is= a right thing to do.
At about 3:00 AM my phone rang. It was a robo-call informing everyone that Wherever Schools were closed on Thursday "out of an abundance of caution." Students were making false copycat threats and the school took a better safe than sorry stance. Later, this closing was extended to Friday as well. More than sixty other school districts in the area were doing the same.
On Thursday, I sat around not doing anything, and I realized just then how TIRED I was. I was so tired, I couldn't do anything but sit. The pandemic was already a huge source of stress, both at my job and in my personal life, and now this piled on top of it.
I was glad of the day where I could just sit. And then I felt guilty about the reason for the day at home.
Now we're back at school. The students are nervous and subdued. And me? Still tired.
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Oxford is a medium-sized town just up the road from Wherever. Darwin grew up there. Like Wherever, it's mostly a bedroom community, a suburb of Detroit. Nothing special, really, unless you happen to live there. And now it's joined a very small, terrible club.
At home, I scanned social media, looking for information. Lots of rumor and speculation, a few facts. Terrifying tragedy. A lot of people in Wherever, including my students, know people in Oxford. And, of course, there was (still is) a lot of nervousness that it could happen again.
Wednesday was a half-day for students, with staff development for teachers afterward. A lot of students were absent for the first half, and there was a lot of discussion and speculation among the teachers during the second half.
I went to bed Wednesday evening, tired and stressed. I'm not--never have been--worried about a school shooter. The odds are so very, very low that I'm better off worrying about a meteor strike. Really, I'm at more risk of life and limb every time I drive through a crowd of student drivers every day before work. No, I worry about how my students are handling this and what impact all this has and will continue to have on our school. I worry about the victims and their families. I worry about living in a society that allows these things to happen.
There's no real playbook for this. A lot of people think schools and teachers have some kind of list or something, what to say or do when something like this happens. The truth is, we don't. No one knows what the best or right thing to say or do is. We only have a best guess, based on what we know about our students. The district gives us talking points and advice, but no one really knows what we're supposed to do. I honestly don't know if there =is= a right thing to do.
At about 3:00 AM my phone rang. It was a robo-call informing everyone that Wherever Schools were closed on Thursday "out of an abundance of caution." Students were making false copycat threats and the school took a better safe than sorry stance. Later, this closing was extended to Friday as well. More than sixty other school districts in the area were doing the same.
On Thursday, I sat around not doing anything, and I realized just then how TIRED I was. I was so tired, I couldn't do anything but sit. The pandemic was already a huge source of stress, both at my job and in my personal life, and now this piled on top of it.
I was glad of the day where I could just sit. And then I felt guilty about the reason for the day at home.
Now we're back at school. The students are nervous and subdued. And me? Still tired.
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Thanksgiving 2021
A large chunk of the family this year couldn't be at a Thursday Thanksgiving, so we had ours on Friday.
This turned out rather nice, actually. I had all day Thursday for Thanksgiving prep. Much better than cramming it all in on Wednesday after work!
I also picked up my sister Bethany from the airport that evening. She reported that if you want to travel over Thanksgiving, the best time to do it is on Thanksgiving itself. No crowds at the airport, and everyone was in a low-key, mellow mood. She helped with Thanksgiving prep, too!
We had about twenty people, all told, including three small children. It was a full house! But our new condo was up to the task--it had all the room we needed for everyone.
I had an addition to the Thanksgiving festivities: drinks!
A while ago, I took an online class in the basics of mixology from Tammy's Tastings. I really didn't know anything much about mixing drinks, and I thought it would be a fun to learn. Adds to my interest in cooking. The class taught the basics and gave us recipes for a margarita, a Manhattan, and a mojito. As it happens, margaritas are a favorite drink in my family, so I decided to add them to the rotation.
The margaritas were a big hit. I made them with fresh limes and tequila with agave and glasses rimmed with kosher salt. Good stuff. My brother Paul also likes Manhattans, so I made him one of those, and he said it was wonderful.
Big piles of food were consumed, grandchildren played with, so much talk exchanged. It was our first family gathering since the pandemic began, but we've all been vaccinated, so we felt safe about getting together. There was a lot of pent-up socializing!
Afterward came the epic cleanup. But now it's all done--until Christmas...
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This turned out rather nice, actually. I had all day Thursday for Thanksgiving prep. Much better than cramming it all in on Wednesday after work!
I also picked up my sister Bethany from the airport that evening. She reported that if you want to travel over Thanksgiving, the best time to do it is on Thanksgiving itself. No crowds at the airport, and everyone was in a low-key, mellow mood. She helped with Thanksgiving prep, too!
We had about twenty people, all told, including three small children. It was a full house! But our new condo was up to the task--it had all the room we needed for everyone.
I had an addition to the Thanksgiving festivities: drinks!
A while ago, I took an online class in the basics of mixology from Tammy's Tastings. I really didn't know anything much about mixing drinks, and I thought it would be a fun to learn. Adds to my interest in cooking. The class taught the basics and gave us recipes for a margarita, a Manhattan, and a mojito. As it happens, margaritas are a favorite drink in my family, so I decided to add them to the rotation.
The margaritas were a big hit. I made them with fresh limes and tequila with agave and glasses rimmed with kosher salt. Good stuff. My brother Paul also likes Manhattans, so I made him one of those, and he said it was wonderful.
Big piles of food were consumed, grandchildren played with, so much talk exchanged. It was our first family gathering since the pandemic began, but we've all been vaccinated, so we felt safe about getting together. There was a lot of pent-up socializing!
Afterward came the epic cleanup. But now it's all done--until Christmas...
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November 24, 2021
The Giving Season
It's been a big year for giving.
Every year at this time, Nameless High School runs a gift drive. The school pairs with an elementary school that has a high incidence of students who receive free or reduced lunch. These students often have few or no Christmas presents. The young students make a list of things they need and things they want. The lists are then distributed to volunteer families at Nameless, and they buy presents. The student council delivers the presents with the help of UPS, and while the kids are out at recess, they set them up around the kids' desks. When the kids come in, they find a pile of presents waiting for them. It's a huge, huge event that always ends in hugs and emotional moments.
This year, Nameless decided to expand the program to include teachers and staff at the elementary school, and they wanted teachers and staff at Nameless to get presents.
I went down and selected a teacher from the list, though about it, and decided also to select a custodian. So we'd have two people. Darwin and I spent most of a Saturday afternoon shopping for them. The custodian's information said he rode his bike to work every day, but it's in bad shape and he'd like a new one. So we found one for him.
When I brought the presents into the student council's storage area, I checked the list and saw there were a whole lot of unclaimed staff and teachers. I consulted with Darwin and we decided we could take on a couple more. So we did--a tutor and the school librarian. I delivered those gifts this morning.
Meanwhile, a few days ago, Darwin and I were out having breakfast at a local diner. While we were waiting to be seated, a woman who was there with (I assume) her husband and grand-daughter was trying to pay her check, but her card wasn't going through. She was becoming more and more unhappy, and she was asking if there was a nearby ATM just as the greeter was showing us to our table.
"I feel bad about that lady," Darwin said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "She's in a tough spot. I don't think her card was being declined because there's a problem with it. I think she has less money than she thought or something."
"I'm going to go take care of it." He got up and left. A few minutes, he came back and reported that he had paid the woman's bill. She was in tears.
That's why I married him, folks.
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Every year at this time, Nameless High School runs a gift drive. The school pairs with an elementary school that has a high incidence of students who receive free or reduced lunch. These students often have few or no Christmas presents. The young students make a list of things they need and things they want. The lists are then distributed to volunteer families at Nameless, and they buy presents. The student council delivers the presents with the help of UPS, and while the kids are out at recess, they set them up around the kids' desks. When the kids come in, they find a pile of presents waiting for them. It's a huge, huge event that always ends in hugs and emotional moments.
This year, Nameless decided to expand the program to include teachers and staff at the elementary school, and they wanted teachers and staff at Nameless to get presents.
I went down and selected a teacher from the list, though about it, and decided also to select a custodian. So we'd have two people. Darwin and I spent most of a Saturday afternoon shopping for them. The custodian's information said he rode his bike to work every day, but it's in bad shape and he'd like a new one. So we found one for him.
When I brought the presents into the student council's storage area, I checked the list and saw there were a whole lot of unclaimed staff and teachers. I consulted with Darwin and we decided we could take on a couple more. So we did--a tutor and the school librarian. I delivered those gifts this morning.
Meanwhile, a few days ago, Darwin and I were out having breakfast at a local diner. While we were waiting to be seated, a woman who was there with (I assume) her husband and grand-daughter was trying to pay her check, but her card wasn't going through. She was becoming more and more unhappy, and she was asking if there was a nearby ATM just as the greeter was showing us to our table.
"I feel bad about that lady," Darwin said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "She's in a tough spot. I don't think her card was being declined because there's a problem with it. I think she has less money than she thought or something."
"I'm going to go take care of it." He got up and left. A few minutes, he came back and reported that he had paid the woman's bill. She was in tears.
That's why I married him, folks.
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November 11, 2021
Minor Exploration
Today I had a minor exploratory procedure done in the doctor's office that was nonetheless going to be a trigger, so I took a hit of Valium beforehand. I was wobbly and partially incoherent throughout, which was good because the doctor said, "This may sting a little," and we all know that when doctors say that, it's going to hurt like fuckfire. And it did. At least it was quick.
The procedure revealed a need for minor corrective surgery, which will be scheduled Real Soon Now.
Darwin and I stopped for tacos on the way home at a new (for us) taco place, and everything was wonderful.Now I'm home and half stoned still.
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The procedure revealed a need for minor corrective surgery, which will be scheduled Real Soon Now.
Darwin and I stopped for tacos on the way home at a new (for us) taco place, and everything was wonderful.Now I'm home and half stoned still.
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November 7, 2021
Weight Loss Side-Effect
Last Monday, I left my writers group meeting and stepped outside into a lovely 39-degree evening. I had my jacket and hat on, and the air was light and crisp. By the time I got to my car, one block up the street, the chill was biting me. By the time I got into my car, my teeth were chattering. It took me a long time to warm up.
The next day I was at my computer at home. I felt chilly, despite wearing a heavy sweatshirt, and I was getting chillier. I checked the thermostat. 71 degrees. I turned it up, and didn't feel warm until we hit 73.
What was wrong with me? I'm from MICHIGAN. When it hits 50 in April, we put on shorts! A 20-degree day in January is "pretty nice."
And then I realized--I've lost 30 pounds. I have a flat stomach for the first time since high school. That was some serious insulation, and it's gone. It's an . . . interesting side-effect of losing weight.
Our heating bills this winter are gonna take a leap!
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The next day I was at my computer at home. I felt chilly, despite wearing a heavy sweatshirt, and I was getting chillier. I checked the thermostat. 71 degrees. I turned it up, and didn't feel warm until we hit 73.
What was wrong with me? I'm from MICHIGAN. When it hits 50 in April, we put on shorts! A 20-degree day in January is "pretty nice."
And then I realized--I've lost 30 pounds. I have a flat stomach for the first time since high school. That was some serious insulation, and it's gone. It's an . . . interesting side-effect of losing weight.
Our heating bills this winter are gonna take a leap!
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