Sigrid Weidenweber's Blog, page 10

Funny Story

People who know me know that I like to laugh. They know that I enjoy a broad range of humor, seek it out and pass it on. However, like so many of us, I unfortunately have a hard time turning something into a really funny phrase. Therefore, everything I write is mostly serious. Well, today I feel funny and will attempt to tell a true story that can make me laugh thirty-five years after it happened. So, I better write it down before my fingers won't move anymore and my brain is addled. I hope that I find the right words to show how how comical the situation was and I hope you will let me know if you liked it.

 When I was young, I had two children, five and seven years old; I had a collie dog, three cats, two horses and a husband, who provided for this zoo. And then, to complicate my life even more, my daughter decided that we should also have chickens. If you know my daughter, you also know that she is very persuasive and strong-willed and usually gets what she wishes for. "We should have chickens," she reasoned, "because we have already the barn to house them. The horses spill grain sometimes and we could have fresh eggs every day." I felt another chore creeping up on me and obejected strongly. "No, no, I have enough to do already. No more creatures for me." "But, mom, you won't have any work with them. I will do all the work and most of the time they just run a round and scratch." I know that you are guessing by now how this debate ended.....Five small Rhode Island Red-chicks later we all did.

The chicks were truly wonderful chicks. Four girls and one rooster grew within weeks into glowing-red, shining feathered teen-hood. Then they began to lay: gorgeous, large, brown eggs. They were amazingly well behaved chickens. The rooster had grown into a masterful protector and, for some unknown reason, kept the hens out of my flower beds and the garden. Everyone called him Big Red and he acted accordingly, strutting about like a Texan on his ranch. He was incredibly protective, taking on diving haws, dogs, a racoon and the neighbors when they came too close to his flock. To the family, he knew each one of us in the special we interacted with him, he was downright sweet. We could always pick him up and carry him. He rode on my daughters arm, and on occasion on her head. Our horses, not known for having patients with interfering creatures, liked Big Red. They allowed him to steal grain straight from their crib and fly onto their backs. You can well imagine that we loved that crazy rooster as if he was part of our family

So far, so good. And then--tragedy! One day I walked to the barn and saw Big Red reeling about like a drunk at the fair. Blood was streaming thickly from his half-severed comb over his eyes, rendering him blind. I knew instantly that he would not be long of this world if the blood-flow would not be stopped pronto. In those years it was my luck that no one was ever around in an emergency and, of course, there was no one to aid me on this day either.  

I will finish tomorrow. This is becomming a much more involved tale than I thought it would, and so far it is not really funny. Is it? I will get to the funny--I hope.

 

The writer recoils!!!

The writer's husband has reviewed the blogs and remarked that the writer has once again posted blogs with obvious mistake. How can that be? The writer is to be a writer--and therefore has to be mistake free. Hah!! The witer is somewhat dislexic. Also English is the writers third language. And as the innocent is entirely self-taught, I never had an English lesson, except for English literature, I have nothing but appologies to offer. More than once it has been proven that the writer can write but not edit, because the very prson reades over typos and small mistakes as if they do not exist. Why is that so???? Because the writer concentrates on context not on mistakes. So there! I will do better if I get a spell-checker on this site. Until then forgive the warts on the blogs.

I must go back to the blog on Hygiene. I remember a time of autoclaves, these wonderful mosters in the basements of hospitals, where infectios materials were sterilized under pressure and heat. I wish we could use at least a few of them for the worst offending debris. Of course, I know that most problems of infection have been taken care of with disposable syringes and many disposable materials, they all add to mountain of disgusting land-fill that we al dread. But is wrong with the simple things we all can do entering a patients room. Wash your hands. Make sure your shoes are clean, for the cleaning person might not wash the floor with desinfectant. Do not caugh into the direction of a patient--as I have a doctor do onto my son's prone figure after a liver transplant. At the moment I worry about a husband with a leg-infection, but fortunately we work with people at Cedar Sinai who actually listen.

 

Has Hygiene become a "dirty" Word?

At this point in my life hospital visits have become frequent. I walk down clean polished to patent's rooms and after greeting the loved patient, begin to take inventory of the room. In a former life I was a medical technologist, working bacteriology, histology, henatology and as an x-ray technician. Through all these years I never forgot the immortal words my professor for hygiene imparted to us, the young, careless audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned time and again, followed by, "the fastes way to kill a hapless patient is to infect him/her with the horrible bacterium that you carry with you from your visit to the patient next door." God bless him, he was a great bacriologist, who foretold the discovery of bacterium Helicobacter pylorum and the appearance of retro-viral illnesses and excpriated us to uphold the highest hygienic standards. This was about fifty years ago and he has been proven right, although at that time he had his detractors.

So when I cast my eyes about a hospital room I expect, at the least, cleanliness. I understand that immaculacy is hard to acchieve, but plain clean should be possible. I freeze when my roving eye detects dirty streaks along the baseboard; I recoil when debris like floatsame and jetsame of the ocean collects under beds and I want to strangle the cleaning woman who enters the room of a transplan- patient with a chestwound, bringing along a pail of filthy, gray water which the innocent from a foreign place liberally smears over the floor. I just was trapped in an emergency-room, clean in the middle, with a two foot edge toward the walls in which dust-bunnies seemed to multiply as I was watching. What the hell has happend to American hospitals. When I came to this country forty-seven years ago hospitals were wonderful. I had two babies in different cities and my rooms were crisp, shining and clean. But then.. we also had another thing that is missing now. We had head-nurses, matrons or whatever they were called in different states. Those gals were the hygiene dragons; breathing fire down the backs of cleaning staff and nurses in training. They are gone! Instead we have supervisors sitting in offices removed from the immediate floor. But more of this tomorrow.

Advice for a Party

 There is nothing better than going to a good party with great music to dance to. Dancing is the most wonderful stress relief doctors will tell you, besides being great exercise. Age should not keep you from enjoying wonderful movement. I am especially saddend when I see young men and women sit almost bored at the sidelines when great dance tunes are played. Some of the young, gorgeous girls wear shoes with such enormous heels that they can hardly walk without breaking an ankle, never mind dance. You have to be able to move your feet rapidly in order to enjoy dance, and by that I do not mean the antics and gymnastics you see on "Dancing with the Stars." No, I am talking about the great dances that seem to be natural to most nations. I have danced to native music in most places of the world and enjoyed the musical gifts and dances of other cultures. So, here is my advice: men (young and old,) take courage, ask a girl and move to the great rythms.. 

The Reading Public's Believe of Entitlement: Read without paying the Author

Why do certain people believe that a writer should lend them, the esteemed reader, the fruits of their research and labor for their enjoyment without a penny changing hands? These people would not expect a sausage maker to lend them their product with the proviso: "I will return it to you when I have digested it." How would they feel if their boss expected a certain amount of free labor from them?

I have heard this sad complaint from many writers and other artists, and experienced it myself a hundred times over.  For some reason the public believes that creative works are not worth paying for, but should be open to all. My very first book had not sold a hundred copies yet when I heard that already one second-hand copy was available on amazon.com. No wonder bookstores close and publishers only want to publish what they perceive to become a guaranteed bestseller. And so many fine manuscripts are rejected and never see the light of day. I for one think that it is a smart move to publish on line, for then the reader has to at least provide the paper and ink if he/she wants pass on the book.

Perhaps I gripe because I belong to a generation that treasured books. We had, and some of us still do, have extensive personal libraries containing the the great classics, our favorites and research works. We lent books begrudgingly and only to special people we wanted to introduce to a great author. And if our trust in this person was betrayed and the book was not returned within a reasonable time, we  hunted the precious book down because we did not believe that a great book should be circling about like a prostitute, for these ladies were paid, at least.   

The Insanities of the Publishing World

Recently I became aware of the unpleasant fact that historical fiction is not perceived with kind regard. Only connoisseurs of history are drawn to that sort of novel, and many of those do not like novels at all, preferring the pure historical accounts. Since I am not bound bound by any constraints because I do not write formula, I thought I would play with interesting notions that drew my attention. Well, that seems to be the wrong kind of thing to do, for now I get the complaint, " How could you change your genre and your style? You must stay consistent with your subject matter--the public expects it. Really??? I personally find myself put off by fabricated formula novels. I might like the first and the second novel in a series but then I tire of the whole concept, for I know already what the novelist is going to present me with next. I often could write the whole story for him or her. Boring!!!! I am sorry gentle reader, sorry to disappoint you, but not two of my books will ever be the same. 

Living with a Loved one fighting Cancer

Many people in my age group carry two burdens caused by our age. The first one, and almost harder one to deal with, is our upbringing which drew boundaries around us very tight, imposing almost complete silence about personal problems on us. I remember it was gauche and ill behaved to talk about ones illness, mental and otherwise, about psychological stresses of any kind, most of all merital problems. The saying went, "We do not wash our linenes n public," which of course meant that dirt stains had to remain hidden. Marriage had to be perfect, conforming to the ideal of the time. Fortunately we all grew up in a culture that allowed change and we broke the constraints holding us captive, but only barely. I still must admit to hang-ups of this kind, and I know that many people in my co-hort still harbor the same reserve.

The second burden stems from the free choice of family members to refuse our often very valuable advice. It makes us feel painfully inadequate and under-valued when our patients freely accept doubtful hints from a mere acquaintance with a two-digit IQ, while rejecting good useful help from more than qualified persons, just because they are family and, therfore, are viewed as controlling. Whenever I see this happening, I am forcefully reminded of the old adage, "familiarity breeds contempt." Of course, this sort of rejection hurts both parties. The rejected one and the patient who probably does something stupid to his body, following the advice of the outsider. 

Dear Commentators

Dear Commentators: I just checked if anyone has made remarks on the context of the blogs. Lo and behold there were five very nice comments. They, however, do not show up as approved notes, because you did not properly log in with your e-mail address and the little mathproblem that is required to keep machine-generated attachments out. I would dearly love comments and ideas from readers--good or otherwise, so that the blog stimulates dialogue. Do not be shy kind reader, let us hear your thoughts. Also, do not worry that you might make mistakes. We are forgiving. Lately I have found gross errors in even the best publications. When an editor does not know how to use the proper case for I and me and we and us, we should not worry our heads over a typo.

Real Readers are going the Way of the Dodo

For days now I did not update the blog. Why? Who cares what I write. I have been to a few book shows lately and been appalled by people's book choices--if they chose books at all. Many chose to buy the gadgets sold at these events and gave the books a wide berth. And what has been chosen to be read can make one weep. Perhaps our time is so tumultuous, unstable, uncivilized and fraught with anxiety that the public must addle their minds with fantasies, supersized horrors and spicy perversion. I for one have found more enjoyment in the essays of WSJ and their book reports than in the books themselves. And with that poor plaint I shall quit. 

From the Notable & Quotable of the Wall Street Journal

I am always enchanted with this post in the WSJ. I find in there something that expresses my thoughts on current politics, ethics and morals. How nice that can bathe in the soothing, cleansing waters poured forth by great minds. And so it happened again last Sunday, March 19, 2011. Whom did they quote but St. Augustine of Hippo(354-430), in "The City of God." Augustine goes all out by accusing governments: "Justice taken away, then, what are kingdoms but great robberies? For what are robberies themselves, but little kingdoms. Ouch!! Augustine's knife cuts straight to the hart of the matter. When we are governed without laws we are governed by robbers! When government defies the will of the majority of its citizens, forcing upon them a system of health care, taxes and rules that the people abhor, it is nothing but a band of robbers enslaving citizens by brute force.

Augustine ended his admonitions thus: "Indeed, that was an apt and truly reply which was given to Alexander the Great by a pirate who had been seized. For when that king had asked the man what he meant by keeping hostile possession of the sea, he answered with bold pride, "What thou meanest by seizing the whole earth; but because I do it with a petty ship, I am called a robber; whilst thou who dost it with a great fleet art styled emperor."

How clever and how true. The difference between the robber or the pirate and the emperor is embodied only in the law and the administration thereof. Without ethical and moral codes in government, citizens are nothing but victims of robbery.