I want to journal!

Let's see, where to start - how to start, it has been so long.  I joined the gym.  Granted, I've only been twice in the last week, but it's a start.  I'm hoping it'll help the aches and pains after the initial aches and pains from all the exercise...seems like something new pops up every week.  I haven't been able to get out and weedeat or take care of the yard very much, and it doesn't look like the surgery will be affordable any time soon.  How can one person blow both rotater cuffs at once?  not sure, but it can be done.

I went to the store today.  It's very different than it was when the Parks family ran the place.  I paused in the parking lot and tried hard to envision Daddy walking to his truck, or imagine Mom was inside waiting for me to help her.  Couldn't do it.  I guess that means I'm finally moving forward.  My God, it took a long time, but things like that do.  It's natural, I hear.

It has rained almost every day this summer - never have seen anything like it.  We're usually in drought this time of the year - in July, you can't buy a rain drop or coax one from the sky.  I remember summers gone by that I would leave the car windows down or hang out laundry in hopes of enticing whatever evil little devil that brings the rain at inopportune times to do his thing.  Sometimes, it worked! Now, we have trees uprooting from the sodden ground seemingly of their own volition.  Crops are drowning, but the grass isn't, and if you wait a week, you can make it through the back yard with a machete or a bush ax.  We can call this one our soggy summer.  I'm waiting to see what the rest of the month and August bring.  And I'm hoping the fall colors will be spectacular.

Well, I journaled.  Like the gym, it's a start.  And now to close this, and try again tomorrow for something that flows more easily.

Letter to Steve

I went to your grave today.
It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be...it's the first time in about a month that I had visited, and it was easier. I'm finding it easier to laugh about things you did that made me so mad when you did them. Remember the time you and Jimmy Martin took my Boston album?? I never did find that, but if you enjoyed it, it's ok with me. Remember the time you stopped the truck on the railroad track with me in it - and the TRAIN was coming? It's a wonder, little brother, that Dad didn't have a big brown stain in the seat I was sitting in - you honestly scared the hell out of me that time. Never did understand why you did it. Now, I'm not laughing about that one, just shaking my head. Which brings to mind the time you took me out on the Gator - how long ago was it? Maybe a year ago...and that cliff, just before we reached the sandpits - you stopped on the very edge of it. I was afraid to move for fear we'd topple on over, but you laughed...Apparently, you liked living on the edge more than I do. You got a rush from things like that. You said so, yourself. I'm not like that...I prefer a little safety and a lot of sanity!
Remember when you took me one Thanksgiving to the tree stand you used for deer hunting. We climbed up in that thing, and you told me how much you liked the peace of it all, even when there were no deer around. You watched the birds, racoons...whatever happened along. I remember how nice it was to be there, to connect with nature.

I remember the birdfeeders you bought, and filled, and enjoyed. I remember the trees and flowers you planted. The twisted filbert is still living, just up the driveway. Your bearded irises have bloomed, and now a hundred others that I don't know the names of are springing up and out and decorating the back yard.

I was afraid I would forget the sound of your voice and the things you did, but you know what? I won't. I thought I would need this journal to maintain a connection with you, but I don't need this, either. It still isn't easy, but it's a tremendous sight better than the initial shock of your death, and the deep pain that ensued after the numbness of it wore off and reality and finality set in. I'll only see your face in photographs and videos. I know we'll never sit across a table from each other and laugh again, and you'll never take me around your yard and show me everything that's growing or tell me how beautiful you think it all is. But you did those things already, and I remember and will never forget. And when the wisteria blooms and its fragrance fills the air, I'll think of you. You'll always be a part of us, you just won't be here, physically.
I'm not deserting you, and don't love you a bit less than I did when you were here, but I don't think I need to write letters to you.

This was just a bookmark, a place to put all that love that some think has no place to go after the loss of someone important in their lives. Steve, I know where that love goes - right where it always was, and higher and deeper, and a universe wide.

September 1

I used to kid Steve about his birthday being a holiday (sometimes it was) and we all kidded him for being born on Mom and Dad's anniversary. 

Well, today would have been his 43rd birthday.  He is very much on mind, and this day is another hurdle to overcome.  I have learned a few things since April - one is that love goes very, very deep, and two, grieving and healing is a long process.

Raising my coffee cup in salute to the life that was.  I wish he could be here.

If

..that transfer coordinator doesn't come her rear back to work, I'm going to Winston-Salem, putting her in my backseat and driving her to prison myself so she can take her job back.

TODAY:

abunchofstuffthatdidn'tquiteregisterinmyfoggybrain, but we got through it, anyway.  Spoke to the DA's office, a sheriff's department, a clerk of court, 200 DOC employees (seemed like it), put the release packets together, called inmates in to sign the release forms, and did the shippers list.  Around 2:00, the system went down.  The shippers list doesn't close until 3:30.  So at 3:30, I was on the phone with another unit asking them to please let me come over and run the final list and the trip tickets for bus day.  And they said yes!  So off to the hospital I went, ID in hand, and to the sergeant's office to do what I could.  Only problem is, the rpm's on my computer wouldn't print the list on my printer at our unit because the system was down and the printer in that office didn't have rpm's.  Shoot.  However, Medical Records welcomed me with open arms, let me log in and do my thing.  By 4:15, I was on the way back, list and tickets in hand.  And when I arrived there...

the most amazing thing was happening.  My supervisor, one of the case managers and the records room lady were pulling the field jackets from the partial list I had run earlier in the day.  I was floored.  NOBODY has ever done that for me before - not medical, not medical records...

I ran 14 copies of the list and the dental hygienist stapled them.  I only had to stay 20 minutes overtime...

and tomorrow, Deborah wants me to sit in on the disciplinary hearings so I can see how they're done.."Just in case you have to do it one day."  Aha.  I feel a position upgrade coming on.

 

swamped

Busy day today...filling in for the transfer coordinator and getting the first taste of what it's like to be directly involved with paroling inmates.  Contacting the officers who are to pick them up, getting an ETA to pass on to operations.  The first arrives for one inmate, turns out he's a friend of my brother's.  We chat until our CO brings the (ex) inmate in to sign his papers and get his transition folder.  I witness the signatures and get some of my own, turn over the transition folder to the newly free man.  He gives me the willies, staring hard at me with no particular expression on his face.  And they set this man free.  Hard to imagine.

James, the maintenance guy, stops me in the hall.  He's a friend of Mike's, too, and he has made it his business to check up on sis every time he comes to the facility.  Always has a kind word and a weird little grin on his face.  Today he asks me about Daddy.  I tell him Dad is in pain.  He makes a sorrowful face.  I quickly ask him how he's doing, he says fine, and walks away, taking the inmate helper in green clothes with him. 

The second PPO arrives for the second inmate. He isn't as thorough as the first PPO...they and the inmate are out of there in less than 10 minutes.  On my way back to the office, Dr. E from the hospital comes through the lobby.  We chat for a minute.  It's only the second time I've seen one of the doctors since leaving the hospital.  It was good to see him.

Working on the releases for the weekend...I have to break the news to this rotation that the one who is being released Sunday will have to be driven 70 miles to a shelter.  He doesn't want to go there, but that's where he's going because none of his family want him to live with them.  He insists on a bus ticket and to be let off at the court house in his home county, but it's too late, since he agreed days before to the shelter.

The system is back up, finally, and I backlog the 47 who transferred in on regular and special buses.  Chilly calls, asking about records and extending an invitation for Vinnie's Famous Nurse's Station Cinnamon Coffee.  No time.  There's work to do.  And the work is good...and the people are good, and I'm where I want to be.

Busy.  I like it.  It's a different world than the one I go home to.

Let It Be.

In three days, it will have been one month since Steve passed away.  It seems like it was just a few minutes ago...odd, how time stands so still and flies by so fast at the same time.

I had to step away from everybody for a couple of nights this week, to try and come to grips with the loss.  It's kind of hard to do that when you keep finding out things that make it seem as senseless as it was unreal.  Like he wouldn't let anyone call the rescue squad for him, saying he was just tired.  That he was taking Oxycontin and other drugs because he was in pain and wouldn't (couldn't) see a doctor about his health problems because he had no insurance.

Damn it all.  If he had let us, we would have helped him.

And then there are the unexplained things that kept happening after he passed.  The front door at his house opening by itself - it scrubbed on the carpet.  Patience and I saw that.  The garage door opening by itself.  His phone number on a sticky note jumping off of the refrigerator at Dad's house.  A message from beyond?  A spirit caught between earth and the Universe?  I don't know...my logical self tells me we're human and look for signs after a loved one has passed on, anything that would reassure us that death is not the absolute end.  And my emotional self tells me, he's still here...

Everyone was talking about how Steve had "visited" them.  With Dad, it was a dream that Steve came to him and said, I can breathe now.  With Patience, it was the candles blowing sideways and the doors opening.  With Mike, it was a warm hand on his shoulder as he was driving.

I can't for sure say that Steve has come to me, except for the song that popped into my head as I was going over and over all that had happened and questioning why.  Out of nowhere the lyrics came...Let It Be.  I remember nodding, as if to say, Okay, I understand.  But I didn't.  And then last Saturday I visited Patience, and she and I were talking.  She was having a really good day, but still, I broke down and cried.  And from the radio came the music...Paul McCartney singing Let It Be.

Is that what I wanted?  To let it be, to just accept it and to stop torturing myself with all the why's and what ifs?  Or was it a message, for me.  Was it my visit.

The middle of last week, I went to Steve's grave for the first time since the day after the funeral.  I had no idea why I was compelled to go there, but I had to.  For a while, I just stood there and stared down at that long rectangle of bare earth.  And then I started talking.  I told him I didn't understand why he refused help, why he didn't come to any of us.  Why he wouldn't let anyone call an ambulance - three people had tried.  I told him that maybe he didn't have to die, that if he had let somebody - anybody - help, maybe he might still be with us. And I told him I was so MAD at him, but that was because I do love him..not because I didn't.  That little monologue ended with my hope for him that wherever he might be that he was free from pain and that he didn't need anything of this world anymore.  And I left.

Driving down the road...with the radio on...still somewhere off in the distance, not really paying attention to anything except how I was feeling...the music came over the radio.  Paul McCartney singing Let It Be.  Maybe I really had had a visit from Steve.  Perhaps not.  But if letting it be is what has to be done, then that's what I'll do.

Namaste.

When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree,
there will be an answer, let it be.
For though they may be parted there is still a chance that they will see,
there will be an answer. let it be.

Let it be, let it be, .....

And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light, that shines on me,
shine until tomorrow, let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music, mother Mary comes to me,
speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

This morning

I have to take a little time for myself, to be alone and remember Steve in my own way.  I wish there were a way to make people really know him, because he was such a presence, and one that a person could not help but like or love.

Last night, a small group of my immediate family gathered in the back yard at Mom's and Dad's.  That was Steve's domain - he was the gardener, the king of the grill at cookouts, the one who filled the birdfeeders and prepared nectar for the hummingbirds.  He loved nature.

One memory very personal to me is the night Steve and I went spotlighting for deer.  We climbed into the pickp truck and he took me to the peach orchard.  We parked on a lane and he pulled out the spotlight from behind the seat.  "Now watch this," he told me, and the light he shone glinted off of eyes all over the place.  In a few minutes, the deer began running.  One leaped over the bed of the pickup truck and Steve just laughed...Would you look at that! 

Another is the night he called me from Atlanta.  It was 11:00, the phone rang, the operator asked me to accept the collect charges, and I - thinking the worst, of course - accepted.  GIRL!  He told me.  You won't believe what I just did!  He had been jamming with Bad Company.  That was one of the highlights of his life.

He was a musician who played with local rock bands.  I remember how he used to drive me crazy, playing those drums every single night and every single day..but after a while, I didn't even hear them anymore.  He was an incredible talent - taught himself to play guitar, drums - he had a voice that would stop me still in my tracks, so rich and beautiful.
His last big gig was with Roy Roberts, a blues musician.  He traveled up and down the East Coast with them, and the highlight of that gig was playing his drums on stage with Eddie Floyd, of Knock on Wood fame.

He was the only person my dog, Buddy, ever bit.  When he made his way home from being on the road once, he came to my house, came straight to my kitchen and hugged me.  That didn't set well with Buddy, who immediately went to Steve's ankle.  But Steve won Buddy over, too, just like every person he ever touched.

He was the primary care giver for Mom and Dad.  His days of CNA work with group homes prepared him well for giving shots and taking care of feeding tubes during my father's cancer treatment.  And Steve never complained.  All his life, he wanted a place in Mom's and Dad's lives - an important spot.  He had no idea that spot was already his because he was Steve.  Stevie Poo. 

He had a personality that would not quit.  He could make you laugh, want to smack him and want to kiss him all in the same instant.  And if you dared lock in a battle of wit with him, you could count yourself out before the first words left your mouth.  He was quick and creative.  A bubble of laughter waiting to burst.

A few years ago, he met a lady - a real lady - from Canada, via the internet.  Their friendship grew and somehow turned into love.  He proposed to her first on the internet - and when Patience laughed at him and said it wasn't a real proposal, he told her - if you want the real one, get down here.  She did, and he proposed.  They were one of the happiest couples I have ever seen.  They loved each other immensely.

I take a lot of comfort in knowing that she was with him at the end.  He had not felt well for a few days and had come home from work early.  He asked her to take a nap with him.  She did, had her arm across his chest.  She kept a check on him because she was worried...and then fell asleep with him.  She told us she was not sure what woke her.  The first thing she noticed was that his chest was not rising and falling.  She couldn't wake him.  He died with her arms around him, peacefully, in his sleep. 

Oh, my baby brother...if it had to happen so soon, too soon, I'm glad it was this way, with your love beside you and with peace. 

I will never, ever forget your caring, your heart, your love for so many.

The house has been full of people since Monday night, and I know the church will be overflowing.  The aisle between the family pews and the friends pews might as well be erased, because everyone you touched considered you their family.  Rest well, brother.  I love you.

coming down to earth

It seems longer than five years ago that I accepted a position at another unit.  I loathed leaving the hospital and the warmth of the people there.  It was almost a family atmosphere with the folks who had been there under human resources before it became a prison hospital.  But leave, I must, if I wanted a permanent position complete with benefits and retirement.  So I went...

to a place that was gray and concrete.  It had clanging doors that custody had to open for you - everything was locked - and on the mental health side, Christ roamed the halls and Satan was locked up in seg, my boss despised me and made no bones about it.  But I was trapped - it was stay or quit, and I couldn't afford to quit, with a sick husband at home who was depending on my health coverage to pay his hospital and physician's bills.

So I sucked it up.  I was a nervous wreck that first year.  The job itself was as huge a responsibility as the sick husband who became psychotic on his medications. I stayed - and worked damned hard because I had something to prove and a reason to be there.  But, oh, how I missed my former workplace and the atmosphere there, and vowed to go back if I could.

And then something happened.  I met an old man at the prison - a psychologist - who was very kind to me.  We became fast friends, and when things became overwhelming, I'd trip down the hall to his office to borrow a cup of his calm.  And then something else happened.  Somewhere between south unit and central, I made friends with the custody staff.  They gave me something that I whole-heartedly returned - respect.  I looked out for them the best my job would allow, and they did the same for me.  I was one of them.

And then other things happened - my boss decided I was a pretty-good-okay secretary after all, and our relationship became one of mutual respect.  I met a nurse from Trinidad - "the islands", as she put it.  And she was my charge nurse who depended on me and called me elephant brain because I knew the patients and their ailments as well as she did and she depended on me to know.

Then came the opportunity I had prayed for the first year of my employement - a position at my old unit.  I took it, though I loathed to leave my other team.  But I was tired and had taken an emotional beating over the past few years.  For a while, my time was split betweenboth locations - mornings were spent at the hospital and afternoons were spent as secretary to the nurses.  I didnt mind, actually.  And when that ended, I was full-time hospital medical records girl.

The place had changed.  All who had been there under human resources had left.  There was no responsibility, none of the adrenaline I had become used to - and addicted to.  Our office had become a gathering place for gripefests and the discontent among the employees under a new regime was loud and battering.  And there was no respect.  None.  There were loud arguments between my boss and the social worker, and on more than one occasion, I had to "testify" in an investigation.  Oh, how I longed for the place I had left and the old man's cup of calm.  For the respect.  For the team I had left behind.

And I vowed that one day, I would go back there.  I vowed it every time one of the officers from that unit came over and asked if I was ready to come back to them yet.  Every time they jokingly called me a traitor.  I would block out the sights that had driven me away and made me cringe every time someone mentioned the word "shower." 

And on occasion, I would see the old man in town and he would say - We miss you.  It feels like something is missing.  And I didn't tell him that there was something missing in my days, too, but I thought it, and hoped that the old man would still be there when I made my way back.

It was more than two years before the chance presented itself.  I pulled up the OSP jobs website one Tuesday morning an audibly gasped.  An opening there!  How very rare.  I spent the morning typing out my application and faxed it in that very day.  For  two weeks, I held my breath, wondering if they would even consider me for an interview after I left them.

And then they called me.  I had the interview.  I was so nervous I botched it - I wasn't professional at all, I was simply me, earnest with my answers to people who had once been my team.  I shook their hands as I prepared to leave and told them it was good to see them again.

And I heard nothing for two more weeks.  I had given up - if you have the job, usually, you know within a few days, and I knew nothing.  Then one night while I was laying in bed between sleep and waking, the small voice spoke to me from nowhere.  It said - You got the job. And I said - Aww, get outta here, dismissed it and fell asleep.

Two days later, my boss was reading her email and said - Did you know about this?  When were you going to tell me?  I was puzzled.  Know about what, I asked her.  She read the email aloud.  It said - We have just received approval for Ms. Broadaway to assume the position and would like for her to start as soon as possible.  Is March 17th all right with you?

I almost fainted.  I rose from my chair with the phone in my hand and told the person on the other end - I GOT THE JOB!!!!

In a building just down the road from the hospital, there is a lieutenant who will undoubtedly grin and say - what did i tell you? Now don't leave us again.  And there is a new supervisor and section head who have a faith in me that amazes me.  They chose me for a position they plan to expand.  They told me the job is a good place to start with their department, and that tells me they have plans for my future.  More importantly, there is an old man in that building who is waiting for me to come back to share a cup of calm, some laughs and a little philosophical conversation. 

I'm coming, Dr. H.  I'll be there soon.

test

this

obsessing

our office is very high traffic because we have our own copier and fax machine.  there is a string of people in and out all day.  the problem there is countless interruptions, and because out boss is such a social creature, our office has become the dumping ground for all the negativity against the workplace and also the break room.  we can't even have a department meeting without someone coming in, plopping down in the middle of it and starting a conversation about something totally irrelevant, and the boss's way of handling it is to allow it.

a while back, roberta and i tried again to talk to her about the disruptions and were attempting to explain to her that it affects our job performance when in walks monika and boss's full attention turned to her.  roberta and i threw up our hands and decided we would just have to deal with it.

until yesterday, when i blew.

my transcription desk is in one of the file rooms, put there because the outer office had way too much traffic and the former transcriptionist there finally threw a hissy fit, yanked off her earphones and said - will y'all just SHUT UP!  we recently archived all the records in the outer file room, and the boss has decorated it nicely for christmas.  it's very pretty, and we have enjoyed it immensely.

well, someone suggested that it be turned into a break room...and then they brought all their lunch goodies - pies, cakes, etc and laid them out on the table back there.  and during lunch yesterday, when they said they had claimed it as their lunch/break area, i politely said - well, except between 1 and 4:30.  that's when i'm transcribing. and i explained to them that between 3 different foreign accents, background noise on the tape and the intercom system in the building that it took some concentration to decipher the word esophagogoduedenoscopy spoken in korean and whatever language egyptians and afghanistani's speak.

around 2 when i was transcribing the psych clinic, monika started creeping around the table.  i don't mind that.  then she started bringing people in and their conversations began.

i'm all for laughter and gaeity, but i had asked...

and it was the final straw.  i went out, grabbed my purse and was headed for home. what was the point in staying, anyway?  and then roberta stopped me.  it made no sense to quit, right?

and so we gathered up the food an moved itto my OTHER desk in the outer office.  monika said, did we disturb you?  and that's when i really blew.  i told her - i asked you not to do that, and you felt compelled to do it anyway.  i need you to respect my work area.

what did the boss do?  nothing.  in the workplace, there has to be a boundaries.  there has to be.  i'm not really looking forward to going in today, but the saving grace is, i'm on vacation for the next 7.

Lahoma.

I got an email from Kim today, telling about Lahoma.  I had no idea.  Somehow, I had lost track, wasn't getting journal entry alerts and assumed she had stopped journaling, or made a private one.

Lahoma was the first to make me feel at home in aol journals.  She always stopped by, had interesting emails, the most interesting stories.  She had a hard life, but she didn't let it get her down.  When I first read her, she was going to school and had already battled cancer twice.

Ah, I do believe I told her a time or two how inspiring she is, but that seems so small, now. I wish I hadn't lost track of her.  She was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, and Kim's letter said she had maybe 48 hours to live.

I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Lahoma, and am glad you had the support of the journalers here, because I know how priceless that is. 

And I don't understand why these things happen, just that they do.  Every prayer I have is with you.

 

 

 

Omigod..

What is this horrid thing called Monday but a cruel joke perpetrated by whichever of the gods the days of the week were named for?  Actually, the Greeks named the days after the sun and moon and planets - which were all given the names of Greek Gods.  Monday is Moon's day - hemera selenes.  Makes sense.  I want to sleep when the moon is about.

Friday, on the other hand, is the day of Aphrodite.  Freya - the Teutonic godess of love.  There must be something to this.  I love Fridays.  I adore Fridays and live for them. 

Saturday is hemera Khronu, day of Cronus, who was worshiped as a harvest deity.  Makes a little sense...We toil all week, hemera selenes through day of Aphrodite.  The harvest most of us reap is Day of Cronus.  Oh, how i long for it this instant!

I Do Not Want To Go.

I just want to ramble.

I have just finished reading Illusions:  The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah for the second time.  Richard Bach published the book in 1977 - the year I graduated from high school.  I remember reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull and how I impressed the socks off of English Teacher Sara Baucom with my insightful book report.

I can't help it.  There is a spirituality that pervades Richard Bach's works - at least, those two - that speaks to me. It seems to go a little deeper than other works by different authors.  In the book, Richard is a mechanic who encounters Donald Shimoda, the Messiah who will be his teacher.  He gives Richard the Messiah's Handbook, a work filled with maxims that leap from the chapters like a Truth.

Argue for your limitations, and sure enough, they're yours.

You are never given a wish without also being given the power to make it true.  You may have to work for it, however.

The original sin is to limit the Is.   Don't.

In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom.

Every person, all the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there.  What you choose to do with them is up to you.

They make perfect sense to me, even taken out of the context of the book in which they were written.

I am not a theologist, and certainly not a reviewer, but  Illusions, to me, is a book full of what we already know at some level,  a guide to finding our own spirituality, and enough answers to make the reader question the questions.  If it makes you think at a deeper level, then it is good.

The book progresses with Richard's learning, and ends the ultimate ending - or is it an ending? - that stirs the reader.  Whether you believe it a guide or a pile of reshaped cliches, it is also a masterful work of pure art that has the honesty and power to touch and inspire examination.

The world is your exercise book, the pages on which you do your sums.  It is not reality, although you can express reality there if you wish.  You are also free to write nonsense, or lies, or to tear the pages.

We already do, don't we?

 

This is not a morose entry. 

It really isn't.  I have decided anything I write about my mother or father will be upbeat and celebrate their living instead of mourning them ahead of time. 

I called my mom before bedtime the other night to make sure everything was ok.  We chatted a bit, then she said - hold on!  i'll be right back.
 
So I held on.  I could hear her in the background.  She stepped on the puppy's foot, apparently, because it yelped and she was cooing to it, "Poor baby.  I'm sorry.  It's ok, it's ok."  Now, you should know, my mother does not like dogs.  Well, she does - but outside only.  But this one she particularly likes because it's so small.

So I waited for her to finsish comforting the dog.  In a bit, I heard her doing dishes.  She had forgotten she had me on the line.  I waited a few more minutes and decided, well, she'll have to hang up the phone.  I'll get her attention.  So I whistled.  Loudly.  Nothing.  I whistled again.  Nothing.  This went on for about 5 minutes, and finally, I shouted into the phone:   JAN!

And she shouted - WHAT??

PICK UP THE PHONE!

I have no clue whose shout she thought she was answering, but "phone" jogged her memory.  She said, You scared me!  I've been outside trying to find where that whistling was coming from!

She laughed, so I figured it was ok if I did, too.  It was funny, but not funny, if you know what I mean.

And now she wants to play bingo online with me, so I will close this. 

The Dogs

woke me at 5 a.m. - perfect timing.  I don't even know if it was my dogs, but it scared the hell out of me and George, too.

At any rate, it's Tuesday.  Only 3 more days until my interview, and you know...I don't care if I get the job or not.  Monica, who drives me nuts (there are very few people who drive me nuts, but she is one of them because of her incessant chatter and she knows everything about everything), came rushing to where I was transcribing, burst into the room, interrupted Dr. E in the midst of a very complicated-to-interpret term and said - "You didn't tell me you had applied for the position!"  She has an interview, too, and has made it her business to eavesdrop outside of doors to find out who else is on the list.

No, I didn't tell ANYbody, because it's nobody's business but mine.  But through Monica, I have become aware of who is in the in-house interviews, whether I wanted to know or not. 

I like the ladies who are on the list.  One of them is miserable in her current position, and I wish her well.  When Monica heard that particular woman was going to interview, she ran to the HTMA and said she might withdraw because she wanted that lady to get the job.

That was sweet, but you know what?  I figure that if someone else is right for the job, my interview won't make a bit of difference.  The job is already theirs.

In the meantime, Monica is plying the HTMA with cake and picking up his mail, having decided she won't withdraw, after all.

And in the meantime, she was in my little transcription cave, keeping me from doing my work by spouting off about the upcoming questionfest, and she said - I'm enjoing this little competition between us all.

I looked her dead in the eye and told her - I'm not competing with you.

And I'm not.  I have an interview on Friday.  I will answer their questions and ask some of my own, but I'm not particular about the job.  The only reason I applied was because I thought I could be of use there, and if one of the other ladies gets the job, I will be thrilled for them.

Even Monica.  I guess.

quote

change is a subtle creature that winds around the soul.  often, its presence is discovered with a contrasting thunderbolt of realization, and a sense of wonder at its stealth.

- me

letters to nobody....just emptying the clutter.

I don't care which way the time change swings, it messes with your body clock.

I'm accustomed to going to bed around 11, so when midnight rolls around, I'm just starting to wind down.  It caught up with me last night, though, and I was out like a light before 8:30. 

My boss, who knows everything about everything that ever happened, existed, or will happen in the future and how to make a phone book better than the phone company, asserts that daylight savings time originated in europe.  it may have, i'm not so fascinated by the topic that I've been spurred to research.  All I know is, I wish the time would be left one way or the other.

Perhaps it's the static jet lag, but I am in a strange mood this week.  I feel a bit detached.  Others have said - you seem a bit distracted.  Nooooo, I'm not distracted.  I'm concentrating on getting my work done, preparing for the Big Inspection that's coming up (we were told to clear out desk drawers of stuff that isn't Kosher - like what? ketchup packets?).

 I admit, when I first came back to the hospital, I discovered that all the "real" scissors had been confiscated and replaced with safety scissors - which is understandable.  It IS  a prison.  But while rummaging through my new/old desk drawer, I found REAL scissors.  Scared the hell out of me.  What if we should have an inspection and they discovered the contraband cutting instrument in my desk drawer?  I was all about turning them in when my boss said - no, don't.  Keep them!  BULL.  I locked them in the closet, wrapped up and hidden under a few boxes and ink pens.  I should have wiped my fingerprints off.

But I am in a strange kind of mood.  I just want to get my work done.  I don't care to hear the word "stupid" used to describe a situation, a person, or a task.  I don't want to hear the names of people I like/respect being used in denigrating sentences that go on  and on and on...and I'm struggling to remain positive. 

Y'know, I like people, mostly.  There is something good in almost everybody, and it isn't that hard to feel respect, and to realize that there are aspects of their jobs that 1. I don't know about.  2.  Are none of my business.  And it isn't fair for anyone presume or proclaim that other departments do nothing all day.  How could anyone know?

It could be a lot worse.  A LOT worse.  So I'll wash my hair, do my makeup, go to work and seem to be distracted all day.  For all anyone else knows or presumes to know, I could be in a zone where negativity does not affect me.

Made it!

It wasn't such a bad day, after all.  The census has been low at work, not many discharges and hardly any admissions for the last few days.  That seems to be the part of my job I like least - taking care of the census.  Pull the card or assign a medical record number, type in the information, make ID labels and bracelet and create a folder for admissions.  For discharges, you pull the folder from the filing room, tag it with the year sticker...type the info on the card and tag that.  Doesn't sound hard, does it?

I hate it.  I don't know why.

The best part of the job is transcription.  Man, can my fingers fly...it's a challenge, too, with the different accents and some of the terminology.  Neisseria meningitidis - a causative agent of meningitis.  See what I mean?  It's interesting.  It's meaty.  Makes me wish I had gone into some field of medicine, but I'm happy with the terminology, and I study from there, just so I'll know what the doctors are talking about, and because I am curious.

And now dinner is out of the way, and it's unwind time. 

Day 11 of the diet.  Sticking to it!

crash...

i am so tired.

if i could call in, i would, but don't want to use up hours that will be needed later when my parents will need me to take that time for them.

and there's so much that needs doing.  finish the transcription.  get ready for the inspection.  fill out applications.  get charts ready to send to health services.  do the filing.  help ms. horton.  i swear, carol would run the woman to death.

but it's so hard to get going.  some days, i feel every bit of my age + some.   yet, 48 isn't old...not TOO old.  is it?

gotta get ready to go.  damn it.