Lotsa Stuff

Hi, everybody! Sorry not to have posted in a few days; I'm spending a lot of time over at FB these days. It really is a fun way to keep in touch with people.

A few items of note:

* For those of you in Reno: On Saturday August 13 at 2:30, I'll be giving a talk and reading at the Nevada Historical Society. This is part of a Worldcon promotion. The curator says that after my talk, "we will show the bad sci-fi movie 'Godmonster of Indian Flats' for Nevada-themed sci-fi." Mark your calendars! Bring popcorn!

* I now have 71,000 words of the rough draft, with completion of same estimated around August 10.

* I love weaving on my new Cricket loom and can't wait to try different techniques. My first scarf was short and ugly; the second, currently in progress, is longer and less ugly.

* It's really wonderful to be going into August without having to worry about prepping fall classes. I needed this sabbatical!

* Caprica is well; she goes to the vet for her FIV/FLV tests tomorrow, and, we hope, will be "released to GenPop," as Gary puts it, soon thereafter.

* Last night we watched a TV special about the Serengeti. As a baby elephant and mom traipsed across the screen, James Earl Jones praised the devotion of elephants and said, "The bond between mother and daughter can last fifty years." My first thought was, "Lucky elephant. I only had my mother for forty-nine." I'm doing better, but still miss her.

* There was a wildfire across the street two nights ago, about half a mile away. We watched it from Gary's study; when someone started pounding on our front door, I thought maybe we were being evacuated, but no, it was two friends who'd come over to watch the fire. Summer sport in Reno! (Cars lined the street, too.) Luckily, they got it under control quickly, and there was never any threat to structures.

I think that's about it. Hope you're all well!

Well, Nertz

Tonight I took a cute video of Bali playing with a toy; I was going to post it, but the "add video" button doesn't seem to exist on the post editor anymore. I did a bit of research and discovered that I'd have to switch back to the old editor to post videos, but I'm not sure how to do that, so at the moment, you'll just have to imagine a fluffy black cat romping around chasing a small green pom-pom. It's adorable, honest.

Our Fourth was very quiet, which is how we like it. I'm not a big fan of explosions or Festivals of Drunken Driving (yeah, I know, some people are just no fun), so we stayed home and watched a few episodes of True Blood. I loved the first two seasons of this show, but two-thirds of the way through the third, I'm seriously annoyed with it.

For one thing, it's turned into one of those shows where hardly anyone isn't some sort of supernatural beastie. As I often tell my writing students, just sticking a label of "vampire," "werewolf" or "fairy" on someone doesn't automatically make that character interesting. One of my classroom mantras is, "If you can't write an interesting story about a mailman, you won't be able to write an interesting story about an elf, either." Having Sookie turn out to be a fairy who flits around in a white dress through a sparkling meadow with other fairies waving flowers -- talk about kitsch! -- makes her character less interesting, not more, at least for me. (I haven't read the novels on which the series is based, but I believe this is Charlaine Harris' doing, not Alan Ball's.)

And anyway -- as I'm also constantly reminding my students -- having too many vampires in town just doesn't work. Vampires are major predators. They need food. If their prey don't outnumber them by a fairly substantial order of magnitude, a lot of them are going to have to move on. In fact, I'm slightly suspect of highly organized vampire societies: seems to me much more likely, given the population biology of the situation, that they'd hunt on their own and spread themselves out very widely.

Then we have the infamous vampire-versus-werewolf feud, which has become such an old story that I yawn every time I see it. Then we have the really excessive amounts of gore, which has lost whatever shock value or interest it once had. Then we have the fact that every supernatural beastie on the planet seems to have settled in Bon Temps, and don't local law agencies suspect anything? Buffy at least explained this with the Hellmouth trope, and even had characters fantasizing about moving to non-Hellmouth locations (and, in some cases, actually doing it, as when Buffy moves away from Sunnydale at the end of Season Two).

To be fair, Being Human has a lot of these same problems too, but I think that series acknowledges them more honestly (and I find the characters more interesting). Right now, the True Blood characters I'm most interested in are Tara and Lafayette, who are still human (as far as I know) and dealing with interesting conflicts. The Tara/Franklin subplot this season was worth the price of admission, even if it was just a tiny bit reminiscent of Spike and the Buffybot. The most appealing supernatural at the moment is Jessica, who's trying to figure out how to get along with a human, fang-phobic coworker, instead of getting caught up in succession struggles and internecine bickering and Ye Old Nazi Werewolf Conspiracy Plots.

Nazi werewolves? Please! Has anyone else noticed that writers who don't know what else to do invoke the Third Reich? This really bothers me. For one thing, it's lazy writing. For another, it ultimately trivializes the subject, which I -- for one -- find problematic.

Okay, I'm done venting now. I still think Alan Ball is a genius, but at this point, I'm basing that on American Beauty and Six Feet Under, not on True Blood.

Back to Knitting

Two years ago, I think, when I was completely infatuated with knitting socks, I distributed sock questionnaires to everyone I know. Yesterday, my mother-in-law's completed questionnaire arrived in the mail. She'd just found it on her desk. Luckily, I already had some sock yarn of exactly the weight, type and color she wanted (orange cotton, sport weight), so that worked out very well. I started her first sock this morning.

I'm continuing to research weaving; today I was tempted to buy a small, inexpensive loom, but then my clips and clothespins arrived and I decided to go back to Plan A for the scarf, mostly because I'm curious about whether it will actually work. I'm not going to start with the Sedona scarf, though. I'll do at least one other first, and will tackle the red rock scarf when I feel like I have at least a clue about what I'm doing.

The hospital was very slow today, but after last Friday, that was relaxing. I came home, took a long nap, and then wrote a bit. Now Gary and I are going to watch some television on DVD (True Blood, one of our favorites), and I may have a smidgen of my Kahlua.

Oh, speaking of over-the-top genre narrative, last week we saw Super 8 and thoroughly enjoyed it, although the image of a truck causing a train derailment was a bit too close to recent events here in Nevada. We highly recommend the movie, however: it has a solid story and believable, interesting characters, something of a rarity in these days of yowsa special effects. (It has those, too, but they're secondary to the story and characters.) I'm always grateful and relieved to see any film that doesn't make me leave the theater shaking, or scratching, my head and asking, "Why did anyone decide to spend the GNP of a small country on that?"

Mary Sue on the Moors

Tonight we went to see the latest film version of Jane Eyre. Gary suggested it since I'm an English professor, which means it should be just my cup o' tea.

Please note: I love Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. I love the little-known The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by the least famous Bronte sister, Anne (in fact, I wrote part of my doctoral dissertation about it). But Charlotte Bronte bores me. I find both Jane Eyre and Villette dull and humorless; both of their heroines strike me as utterly self-involved drips.

A Victorianist colleague who loves Jane Eyre, and hates Wuthering Heights, once informed me that most people hate one and love the other, and strongly implied that smart people prefer JE whereas ignorati with no taste prefer WH. I stand by my guns.

I'd hoped to like the movie anyway, but neither Gary nor I enjoyed it. The actress playing Jane gave her all the personality and character of a doorknob. Her two suitors are both despicable and unconvincing. Even Bertha was boring. I mean, c'mon: if you can't make the madwoman in the attic colorful and compelling, something's wrong!

Watching the film, it suddenly struck me that Jane's a classic Mary Sue. She's an orphan who suffers terrible, unmerited abuse, but rises above it to become very accomplished, but of course is totally modest, but is nonetheless so fascinating that all the men she meets fall in love with her while most of the women turn snippy and jealous. She endures angst, unrequited love, rejection and exile, but nobly and selflessly forgives all the despicable people who done her wrong, and then -- surprise! -- discovers that she's really a wealthy heiress (previously defrauded by the despicable people who done her wrong), at which point she gets the guy.

In other words: too good to be true, which means boring. Aaaah: so that's why I've never liked her!

And yes, I know, Jane Eyre's an important book that captures the oppression of women in nineteenth-century England. That's fine. But Emily Bronte and Anne Bronte and Jane Austen do the same thing, and -- for my money -- are a lot more entertaining. They can laugh at their characters. Their characters can laugh at themselves. They're just more fun to read, okay?

Your mileage may vary, as does the mileage of the author of this blog post, who ponders the issue of whether JE is an MS, and decides she's not. The author of this review, on the other hand, agrees with me. Granted, it's a review of the film, which probably suffers from the problem much more than the book does, although I don't intend to reread the book anytime soon to find out.

Surreal

We had a bad code at the hospital today, one that shook staff as well as family. "This is so surreal," a sobbing relative said later. "You know this day has to come sometime, but you never expect it now."

There were other surreal elements of the shift: a bewildered adult clutching a brightly colored pamphlet entitled "A Parent's Guide to Child Protective Services!"; the two nurses who begged me not to visit a difficult patient who'd finally dropped off to sleep; the patient who, when I said I was the chaplain, said rather crossly, "I just want to know where I'll go after I die."

"Are you afraid of dying?"

"No."

"Are you afraid of where you'll go when you do?"

"No! I just want information!" This was said in a tone suggesting that I ought to be able to hand over a brightly colored pamphlet ("A Patient's Guide to the Afterlife!") with precise directions, if not schedules and fares.

I launched into a rather lame disquisition about how nobody really knows anything about the afterlife, but people who've had near-death experiences often report feelings of profound love and peace. The patient responded with eye-rolling and loud sighs. "Forget it! I'm sorry I asked!"

The patient may have been looking for comforting Bible verses about heaven, but cozy piety isn't my style (and I truly believe that's usually a strength in this work). I have no illusions about having all the answers, and I don't pretend I do. That patient needed another kind of chaplain.

All in all, not one of my better shifts. Luckily, a staff chaplain and at least two other volunteers were in the building to do some of the heavy lifting. And next week, weather permitting -- although we're now expecting more storms, oy! -- I'll be on vacation.

Some friends are coming over later for movie night; we're watching "You Only Live Twice" as part of our Bond series. That kind of silliness is exactly what I need right now.

Chaplain Sighting

Y'know how I gripe a lot about how TV medical shows rarely show chaplains, and when they do, the depictions aren't very accurate?

Gary and I just watched the HBO documentary Baghdad ER. It's an incredibly powerful film, and you'd better believe that ER has a chaplain. Of course, it's a documentary, not fiction, so that's why.

If you know anyone who still has a romanticized view of war (is that even possible now?), make sure that person sees this film. For good measure, show it as a double feature with Alive Day, which shows what severely wounded soldiers -- saved by dedicated medical personnel and remarkable technology -- face when they get home.

Dawn Treader

So we indeed saw the new Narnia movie today. I enjoyed it more than Gary or our friend Katharine did, just because I'm so fond of the book. No film can capture the magic of Lewis' prose, and special effects by themselves don't do the trick.

Most magical moment for me: When the dragon's eye opens and we see Aslan reflected in it. Following closely on this was the slightly later scene when Caspian and the children are walking across the sand and the lion's shadow joins them.

I liked the treatment of the Eustace subplot the best; the stowaway child -- was she even in the book? -- seemed completely extraneous and unnecessary, and Lucy simpered entirely too much.

I'm glad I went, but I feel no need to see it again. I've downloaded the first three Narnia books from Audible, though, and look forward to listening to them!

Christmas Gift

Last night I got a little weepy, a combination of missing my parents and disappointment that we aren't going to San Francisco. I told Gary that to console myself, I want to see the new Narnia movie sometime this week. (We find 3D merely annoying, but have found theaters where it's playing in good old 2D.) I don't expect the film to be anywhere near as good as the book, but I read a review that said that this one's better than the other two, with more moral weight. I'm listening to an audiotape of Lewis' Surpised by Joy at the moment, so I'm in the mood.

I grew up on, and at least partly in, Narnia. My sister read me The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe when I was pretty small, and I went on to devour the others on my own. I haven't reread the books for many decades now, although the boxed set my mother bought me when I was a child sits loyally on my bookshelves, but a typed copy of Puddleglum's famous quotation from The Silver Chair -- the long speech that concludes, "I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it" -- is taped above my desk.

I was completely smitten with Aslan when I was a kid, partly because he was such a great character and partly because I loved cats, big or small, anyway. I think I've written here before about how my own imaginary world, called "Aleia" (complete with maps, including the annexed territories of Narnia and Oz) was populated with my favorite characters from other stories, as well as a number of my own. Chief among the residents were Aslan and Elsa, the lioness from Born Free, who married, mated, and had litters of rollicking cubs.

My aunt and uncle went to Africa when I was a kid, and I begged my uncle to bring back a picture of a lion for me. I was grievously disappointed when he sent me a postcard of a lion: I'd wanted him to meet a lion, talk to it, and take a snapshot. A few years later, when I learned that the real-life Elsa had died some time before -- and I hadn't even known it -- I sobbed for days. It was my first taste of real grief.

In fifth grade, when my mother moved to a larger apartment and I was terrified over the move (have I mentioned that I was a strange, neurotic little girl?), Mom put a poster in my new room to reconcile me to the space. The poster was a large black-and-white photograph of a male lion with a tiny tabby kitten curled between its paws. I loved it.

I'm more than half-convinced that my immersion in the Narnia books made me a sleeper Christian decades before I ever dreamed of going to church. I'm sure C.S. Lewis would approve.

So, anyway. Last night I babbled about all of this to Gary for a while. An hour or so later, when we settled down to watch our current DVD -- the fourth season of The Tudors -- he came downstairs with a rolled-up poster and said, "Here. This is your Christmas gift." (Hours earlier, when we'd decided not to go to San Francisco, almost his first words were, "This doesn't mean we have to buy each other Christmas presents, does it?" We'd decided that the trip would be our gift to each other, and Gary loathes everything to do with the holiday.)

It's the poster of Aslan shown at the top of this post. Gary had snagged a free copy when he went to another movie, and had forgotten he had it until last night.

How perfect is that?

Boxes

On Monday -- still with no word from the Coast Guard -- Liz and I set out on a tour of local yarn and bead shops. She bought yarn. I bought a bracelet (on sale) and some beads to put on another bracelet. (I realize as I write this that in my earlier entries, I left out at least one shopping trip, to REI.)

On Monday night, Liz took us out for a fabulous thank-you meal at one of our favorite Thai restaurants. Then we had dessert at a bar specializing in chocolate. We all ate too much.

As a result, I overslept on Tuesday, and didn't wake up until 8:30. Liz and Gary and I went back to a craft store Liz and I had visited, where Liz got some new knitting needles and Gary and I got a wooden coffee table, on serious sale, for the deck. We went to a movie, a foreign film called "I am Love." Gary loved it. Liz liked it. I hated it.

At some point on Tuesday, we finally heard from the Coast Guard. I got e-mail from a publications officer who said the chaplain had asked her to send me photos of the burial at sea of John Doe (not his real name). There were twelve lovely photos, including snapshots of the box containing John Doe's ashes, surrounded by the red carnations I'd requested for Dad.

I kind of lost it. I shot back an e-mail saying that I didn't know John Doe. I was Alan Palwick's daughter. Did the publications officer know anything about Alan Palwick?

She sent me a contrite apology: yes, there'd been two burials at sea that day, and the photos had gotten mixed up, but both Guests of Honor had been treated with all due reverence and respect, and all of the John Doe photos also applied to the other guest, except of course for the photos of the box with John Doe's name on it.

By now completely rattled, I wrote back and asked her to confirm that the second guest of honor was indeed Alan Palwick, and not someone else. She answered that yes, that was correct, and the chaplain was getting on in years and the weather had been a bit rough, so I had to excuse any confusion.

So here's a red carnation floating in the water behind some ashes. It's a lovely shot. I wish I knew if it had anything to do with Dad: is this Dad's carnation, or John Doe's? I know it doesn't matter, except it feels like it does.

I was absolutely delighted, though, by this shot of pelicans. Dad and Liz and I always enjoyed the pelicans in Mississippi, so I'm happier than I can express that he was scattered in a place that also has them. (And these aren't even covered in oil, thank God.)

Here's a nice shot of someone playing taps while someone else, presumably the chaplain, salutes. It's a lovely picture. I'm sad that the service couldn't happen on a sailboat, but I know the weather was rough, and a motorboat's safer. Dad would understand that. The important thing is that he's in the ocean, with the pelicans and the red carnations.

I know that. I really do. And John Doe's family has my deepest condolences. I just wish I had a photo of the box holding Dad's ashes.

I really do have to call the chaplain, but I'm going to wait until I feel less numb.

Meanwhile, sometime on Monday or Tuesday -- I don't even remember when -- Liz helped me unpack the boxes she'd sent me of Mom's things. I now have some of her parents' artwork, several of Mom's own needlepoint pieces, some family furniture, and the collection of cat gargoyles I gave her over the years. Emotionally, this was very heavy lifting. The piece that hit me the hardest was the framed sampler embroidered by Mom's mother Della. I never met Della; she was killed in a car accident when Mom was twelve. They'd had a fight that morning before Mom left for school. I can't remember a time when Della's sampler hasn't hung over Mom's bed.

Now it's hanging over the sofa in my study.

My grandmother's hands shaped each stitch. We never got to meet each other, but I own something she made. This makes me happy, but it also tears me apart.

This morning I dropped Liz off at the airport. She'd woken up at 1 a.m. with a migraine and felt wretched, although she e-mailed me later to say she had landed safely and felt much better. Then I came back home, reassembled my study, got a bit of fall prep done, swam, retrieved the sunhat I'd left in the movie theater yesterday, and picked up the coffee table we hadn't been able to fit into the car while Liz was with us.

I'm really glad everyone was here. I loved seeing my sister and nephew. But I'm also looking forward to getting back to normal. And I'm looking forward to our new fridge, which arrives next week.

This afternoon, though, metallic screams started emerging from the dryer.

Be very afraid.

Quiet

It's a sleepy kind of day. Gary's downtown at a Met opera simulcast; I stayed home t work on various projects. So far I've knkt a bit more on Marin's second sock and practiced the fiddle for an hour. Today I finally managed to sound out one of the themes from Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade, the first piece of classical music (other than the mandatory Nutcracker) that enchanted me as a child.

When I was ten or twelve, one of my father's legal clients came over for dinner, listened to me enthusing about Scheherazade and Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije, and turned up his nose. I liked those two pieces because when I listened to them, I could see stories unfoling in my head. But they were lowbrow compositions, the client informed me, as my father and stepmother exchanged glances; I should work on forming more sophisticated tastes. He drew up a list of "better" music -- I don't remember now what was on it -- and I dutifully wrote down his suggestions.

The minute he left, my father harummphed and said, "He's a snob, Suz. You go right ahead and keep liking what you like."

Sounding out the tune today brought all that back. These last few days, I've been thinking a lot about Dad in general. A year ago, we'd just learned that he'd been randomized to the control group in the Stanford study, dashing our hopes for a new heart valve for him. Looking back on it, I think a new valve wouldn't have mattered, or would only have maintained him in relative misery. But a year ago, we were sad, and shortly to embark on a hectic few weeks of Fran deciding to leave, followed by Dad's move into assisted living. In the middle of all that, my mother was in the hospital, too. It was a crazy time, and I'm very glad to be past it.

Oh, speaking of hearts, my test yesterday went fine. I don't have results yet, but suspect everything will be normal. Afterwards, Gary and I went to see Avatar; we even, on the recommendation of friends, sprang for the 3D version. It's a visually stunning film, and we both enjoyed it, even though the story's completely derivative and predictable (Gary commented that Kevin Costner should sue for the rip-off of Dances With Wolves). Even though I saw all the plot developments coming five miles away, I didn't care, because it was so much fun to watch.

I wonder if my father's client would have appreciated my favorite music more in new, startling interpretations. A jazz or bluegrass Scheherazade? Has anyone done that?

In other news, the periodontal putty's still in place. Yay!

Same Old

I'm a little blue tonight. We've had a great visit with Gary's mom -- who's still blessedly fit, and blessedly herself -- but she leaves tomorrow. Next week I'll see my own mother, of course, but that's likely to be a bittersweet experience. My phone conversations with her tend to be . . . well, strange. She knows who I am, but still makes odd comments indicating that she doesn't quite understand what's going on. She ends every conversation, though, by saying, "I love you, baby."

I told Doris about that, and she said, "I think loving people is the last thing to go."

Meanwhile, I've really been missing Dad these last few days. This afternoon, Gary and Doris and I saw Up, the latest from Pixar. It's a beautiful movie, and the three of us didn't really see it as being a kids' movie, although kids will enjoy parts of it. The first section is about an old man losing his beloved wife, and it's tremendously poignant. The film really captures that sense of half of your life being gone. It made me think of Dad, and I'm sure it made Doris think of her husband Adrian. Also, there's a kid in the film who's mourning his absent father, so of course that got to me. (On a lighter note, the film features the best talking dog ever. Ever.)

Afterwards, we splurged on dinner at La Vecchia, one of our favorite resturants. It was absolutely delicious, as always. I showed Doris some pictures of Dad on my phone, and wound up crying a bit.

When we got home, I learned that a dear friend and spiritual mentor is having cancer surgery next Wednesday. According to her e-mail, it's "probably noninvasive," but the news is still plenty upsetting. She sounds optimistic, but I'm extra-sensitive to potential loss in through here. I guess that's no surprise, huh?

On a brighter note, I've been having fun customizing my Google page. Quote of the day from J.R.R. Tolkien! Art! Poetry! Moon phases! Lotsa news! Feeds to medical journals! Infinite ways to waste time! Yee-hah!

I downloaded Skype today, since Sally has a built-in webcam, but I can't find anybody I know in their directory. Bummer. I'll keep looking, though.

Also, the cats have been extra-affectionate, probably because of our weird weather. It rained again today. A solid week of rain, in Reno? I'm starting to wonder if we should start building an ark. I wore a wool sweater today and was chilly! I think the cats are so cuddlesome because they crave our body warmth, not necessarily because they adore us (although in the world of cats, it's probably the same thing).

Gotta go to bed now. Maybe the sun will be out tomorrow?

The Egg Tree

As previously advertised, we watched Jurassic Park again last night. It's a very silly movie, and also oddly paced: very little happens for the first hour, and then it's all-scary-dinosaurs-all-the-time. Also, we didn't see as much Kaua'i scenery as we'd hoped, although of course the waterfall was very pretty.

But remember the scene when Alan finds the dinosaur eggs between the roots of a tree? As we watched it, Gary suddenly said, "Hey! That's at the botanical gardens! We were there! That might even be the tree where you took my picture!" (See my Kaua'i Kitty post for the shot of Gary.)

And then I remembered the tour guide telling us that the scene had been shot there, although he wasn't sure which tree it was.

Well, cool. Although I'm sure Kaua'i Kitty's delighted not to have to dodge dinosaurs.

Bad Mental Hygiene

Yes, I know, I've been a slug, not posting for so many days in a row!

I was really swamped last week and this weekend: meetings, grading, grad committees, more grading, a visit to a local book club -- which was very enjoyable, but did take time -- yet more grading . . . you get the idea. (My students, of course, would say, "If you don't want to have to do all that grading, don't assign the papers!" They have a point.)

I got everything done, but my usual self-care disciplines went somewhat to pot in the process. Specifically, I haven't exercised for the last two days.

Which is why I woke up this morning -- too late to exercise today, either -- feeling like a clump of dirt that had been scraped off someone's shoe. This is very familiar depression territory: when I'm off meds, I tend to feel awful in the morning and gradually improve throughout the day. Even though I'm now on meds, lack of exercise is a sure way to trigger a relapse. So I knew what was going on, which didn't make it any more fun. I even found myself doing my little "twenty-five people who'd miss me if I were no longer on the planet" regimen, which I haven't had to do for several months now, probably since the last time I missed this much exercise. (Off meds, I wind up making my little list at least once every few weeks.)

It was all very tiresome, and I was annoyed that I'd allowed myself to get back into such bad shape, but at least I had a healthy cognitive perspective on the whole thing. And, sure enough, the day got better: both of my classes went well (my students were being very funny and made me laugh, which helped), and when I got home, I found a lovely gift from the Boston couple who were in Kaua'i with us: a copy of Oscar and the Pink Lady, a book they'd read in its original French and loved, and recommended to me. They sent it as a thank-you gift for the fact that we'd included them in the trip, and I was very touched.

Tonight, Gary and I are going to rewatch Jurassic Park, so we can see all that interior-of-Kaua'i scenery we missed because we weren't willing to shell out $270 for the helicopter ride. I'll knit. Tomorrow, I have a meeting in the morning, but then I'll definitely swim.

So I know that things will get better. I must say, though, that there are times when Life gets in the way of exercise, and I kind of resent not being able to take a few days in a row off, the way most people can. On the other hand, I'm grateful to have found something that's actually good for me that helps my mood so much!

Only Two Prayers

My hospital shift this week began very uneventfully. There were a lot of patients, but everyone seemed fairly cheery. I got lots of requests for water and blankets, but none for prayer.

Three hours into the four-hour shift, I still hadn't been asked for prayer (athough the water and blankets had been flowing at a merry pace). I was starting to think that I was about to have my first shift, in the three-plus years I've been doing this, with no prayer requests at all.

Then, forty-five minutes before I was due to go home, there was a code in another part of the hospital.

I went to the code, as all chaplains are supposed to do, and found two staff chaplains already there. They stayed in the immediate area to be with the patient and several relatives. I went to a waiting room to comfort another relative.

I can't go into specific details about the case, both because of HIPAA and because this situation would be hard to disguise or fictionalize. I can't think of any fictional version that would come close to the awfulness of the actual scenario.

So do this: imagine the most contrived, tear-jerking, improbable medical Movie of the Week you've ever seen. Now up the improbability, tear-jerking and cosmic-injustice levels by a factor of, oh, ten thousand. That's what this case was like. This was one of those cases you'd never believe if it were fiction, one of those cases that would make you roll your eyes, throw the book across the room, and groan, "Oh, come on!" to the absent author.

Remember the scene in GalaxyQuest when Gwen and Jason are running through the chompers, and Gwen (played brilliantly by Sigourney Weaver) sputters at Jason, "I hate this episode! This is a badly written episode!" This was like that, only not funny. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Sometimes I think God's a really bad writer, because so many of the things we label divine intervention would seem simply ludicrous if someone put them in a story. And when the plot's tragedy and not comedy -- even though Christians cling to their faith in Easter through the worst Good Fridays the world can throw at them -- well, then the stories don't just make us roll our eyes. Then they make us furious.

Sitting with the sobbing relative, I was furious, ranting (silently) at God, "What are you thinking? Come on! Surely you can do better than this!"

The relative, on the other hand -- the entire family, it turned out -- had rock-solid faith. "I've been telling myself two things through all of this: God loves us, and God has a plan, even if we can't see it." And I nodded and made encouraging noises and tried to look pastoral, while inside I was thinking, This is a plan? My cats could come up with a better plan! And if this is your idea of love, I'd hate to see the alternatives!

Deep down, I know better. Honest. I've seen coherent plots spring from bewildering chaos, in life as in fiction. I always remind grieving families (if they're Christian, as this one was) that we don't worship a God who promises to remove all suffering: we worship one who promises to be with us during it. We worship a God who watched his own Son suffer and die, who understands that agony. And we worship a God who promises that new life will arise from tombs.

I said all that to the relative. I said the right things, but I sure wasn't thinking them.

A minister I know likes to remind people that raging at God is a form of prayer. I pass that along to patients all the time. This time, I needed to remember it myself.

And yes, the relative asked for prayer, the first of the shift. I think I managed to do a credible job.

Meanwhile, the medical staff was amazing. A nurse came out to give us regular updates, and was absolutely awesome with the relative: she did a far better job on the pastoral side than I did. And eventually, the patient stabilized just enough -- still in dire shape, but alive against all expectation -- that I felt able to leave. In the meantime, the family had fervently thanked everyone in the vicinity. It was obvious from listening to them and watching them that they have a robust support system: not only are they people of strong faith, but they're close to their doctor (who's also a person of strong faith), and they have lots of family and friends in the area.

Waiting for the elevator to go back downstairs, I saw someone else crying. I introduced myself and asked if I could help. This person, it turned out, also had a relative in bad shape in the hospital (although in less serious condition than the code patient). This person also asked for prayer. But the second scenario included none of the support systems of the first: in this case, there were no other family, no friends, no faith community, no strong connections with caregivers. I do know that the relative had been referred to social services, so that's a step in the right direction. But although the second patient seemed to be in less critical shape than the first, I suspect that the second family will have a harder time coping, because there are so many fewer people to help.

I only offered two prayers at the hospital this week. I wish I hadn't had to offer either of them.

In her book Traveling Mercies, Anne Lamott observes that there are really only two prayers that any of us ever offer: "Help me!" and "Thank you!" This week, I helped two people pray the first. I pray that one day -- sooner rather than later -- both of them will be able to pray the second.

Postscript here.

Fine Trip to Philly

I've arrived safely in the City of Brotherly Love, where my sister's cats have cheerfully attempted to eat both my dinner and my knitting (but they're so cute that it's okay).

The trip was absolutely painless; it couldn't have been more different from my epic journey last April. It hadn't even started raining when I left the house this morning; it was raining when we took off, but the ascent wasn't turbulent. Both flights left on time and arrived early, and on the second flight -- the long one from Phoenix to Philly -- there was an empty seat next to me! I was in the window seat; the young man on the aisle was wearing a Day of the Dead t-shirt, so I told him that my husband loves zombie movies, and that led to a long and lively conversation. It turns out that this young man, David Conway, is a) lead singer and guitarist for a punk-rock band called What Remains, who've released a CD called Destroys All Monsters!, b) a stand-up comic, c) a huge comics fan, and d) a mortgage banker. We talked about Joss Whedon and Heroes and science fiction. It turns out that some of his friends go to UNR. He asked me my name and the names of my books, and said, "It's not every day you're sitting next to a published author on a plane." I asked him the name of his band, and said, "It's not every day you're sitting next to a performing singer on a plane." He explained to me his very cogent theory about the deeper existential meaning of zombie movies. All in all, it was definitely the most enjoyable airplane conversation I've had in ages.

I also got lots of knitting done: finished one Secret Project, photos of which will probably appear here shortly, and started a shawl for Gary's mom, on which I now have four inches. (The shawl's not a secret, since she knows I'm making it.)

At my sister's house, my brother-in-law made a yummy hamburger dinner, followed by an equally yummy ice-cream and fresh-strawberries dessert -- he'd thoughtfully bought soy ice cream for me -- and my sister gave me an absolutely gorgeous yarn-and-bead bowl she made for me, and I chatted with her and my mother and knit some more. After I finish blogging, I'll go to bed, since I got up so early Reno time!

Tomorrow: real bagels with salmon pate for breakfast, and then the gym (not as nice as mine, but a short walk from here, so very convenient).

I hope the rest of the trip goes this well!

Excellent Xmas

Christmas was quite wonderful this year, after several years when it was emotionally difficult.

My homily went very well, thank goodness. I hadn't been conscious of being unduly nervous about it; nonetheless, I woke up at 5:00 a.m. yesterday after a night of intense anxiety dreams. But many people, including our bishop-elect, told me that they enjoyed the homily very much, and its metaphors wound up being knit throughout the rest of the service. Our deacon prefaced the Prayers of the People by asking us to pray for those who are disconnected from the fabric of society; Bishop-elect Dan, before beginning the Eucharistic Prayer, talked about how the eucharist is one way the infinite God takes intimate form. When it was time for the blessing, he discarded the traditional Christmas blessing and instead offered an extemporaneous (and quite rhetorically dazzling) wish that all of us discover how tightly we are knit to God, each other and our own depths. This man knows how to take an image and run with it!

I think a few people thought the homily was merely cute; nevertheless, I didn't embarrass myself or my parish, which was what I'd been worried about.

I also got a great deal of really wonderful Christmas loot from Gary, including a gorgeous set of interchangeable circular knitting needles from Knitpicks. The needle tips are multicolored, laminated birch, inspired by multicolored wooden cooking spoons. They look beautiful and feel fabulous, very smooth. They also join very smoothly to the cable, which has almost no memory and thus stays nice and straight right out of the case: no dipping in hot water to try to get the coils out! I love working with these needles, and since I now have every tip size from 4-11, I'm sure this set will serve me for many years. The only drawback, noted in other reviews I've seen, is that the length and size aren't printed directly on the cables and needles. This isn't an insurmountable problem, but it is annoying.

Gary also got me the DVD of that 1980 cult classic, Flash Gordon. This is the unbelievably campy one with the Queen soundtrack, newly rereleased and subtitled, "Saviour of the Universe edition." I have especially fond memories of this movie because I wrote a paper about it for my "Bible and Literature" class in college, and the professor gave me an A+. Rewatching it last night, I caught scriptural echoes I hadn't been aware of the first time; turns out I also could have used it in the paper I wrote about Milton's Paradise Regained in grad school, although that professor was somewhat less enchanted than the first one with pop culture. (His comment on that paper was, "This is a great sermon, but only a so-so essay." At the time, I was devastated. Now I realize that he was talking about formal, generic issues; he would doubtless be amused by the fact that these days, I write more homilies than pieces of academic literary criticism.)

I was equally delighted to get more lavendar products from Ali'i Kula Lavendar in Maui: a new container of their wonderful body butter creme, since I was almost out, as well as some bath soap and liquid hand soap. This is truly yummy stuff. There's a lavendar store in Reno, quite close to our house, but while I love their dried lavendar and their hand balm, their bath products aren't as nice as Ali'i Kula's. And anyway, I love anything that reminds me of Maui!

Beginning with my last birthday, when he gave me a stethoscope, Gary seems to have started a tradition of giving me a medical gift every holiday. This Christmas, it was the Merck/Merial Manual for Pet Health, so that if I'm fretting about a kitty symptom, I can look it up. This edition was designed for pet owners rather than veterinarians, which means it's in everyday language.

I've been using Gary's wall calendar to track the progress of knitting projects, so he got me my own, a beautiful Nevada Wilderness Calendar. I can't seem to find an image online, but trust me, the photographs are stunning! Also: Leo Kottke's "best of" album, since I love his music, and a new pair of flannel PJs, since some of my old ones are literally threadbare.

Thanks, Gary! And I hope everyone reading this had a wonderful holiday!

Real Live Violence

My husband loves violent movies. As I've gotten older, though, I've become more and more bored and uncomfortable with them. As far as I'm concerned, there's too much violence in the world: I don't need to pay to watch it for entertainment, and I'm troubled by narratives that portray it as fun or cool.

Lest this make me sound like a prude, let me note that the blood, profanity, and occasional physical danger in the ED where I volunteer doesn't bother me. Partly this is because I feel safe there, between the presence of security guards and plenty of burly techs. But part of it is that in the ED, violence is a symptom, an unfortunate side-effect of various medical conditions or mental states. It's neither glorified nor encouraged: it's treated.

During a recent shift, we had a patient who did not want to be in the hospital and who proclaimed, loudly and often, his intention to leave. As is so often true in these cases, alcohol was involved, but when he wasn't raving, this patient was quite articulate. He also had a sense of humor. He was wearing a loud plaid shirt, and when he first threatened to leave, a tech called security and the ED doc, who marched up to him and said, "Okay, look, nobody here is going to hurt themselves chasing you. If you want to leave, leave. This is what will happen: we'll call the cops and tell them to look for a guy in a plaid shirt, and they'll find you and bring you back here, and then we'll tie you up. Okay? I promise you, those are your options."

The patient looked her in the eye, raised an eyebrow, and started unbuttoning his shirt. She said, "If you take your shirt off, we'll tell the cops to look for a guy without a shirt." He started laughing -- everyone else did, too -- relaxed, and let the security guards lead him to a gurney.

He swung back and forth between calm and tense for the next few minutes. I went over to talk to him, staying a few feet away. He had a lot to talk about, and real, heart-wrenching reasons for being as upset as he was. But something I said set him off: he became very loud very quickly, and lunged suddenly off the gurney (not towards me, necessarily, just to anyplace where he could work off his agitation).

I stepped back. Three security guards closed in on him. At one point, he was scrabbling at a wall and they were trying to pull him away from it; at another point, he was bent face-down over the gurney, with the three of them piled on top of him, trying to capture his flailing limbs. They must have been able to grab at least one limb, because he kept yelling, "You're breaking my f***ing wrist!" They kept saying soothing things, trying to calm him down: finally they succeeded in getting him in restraints. They did all this as politely as possible, and the nurse who came to give him a shot of Haldol explained patiently what the drug was, and asked the patient please to lift the sleeve of his gown to bare his shoulder. The patient complied.

I felt genuinely sorry for him. I think the medical staff did, too. As for the security guards -- especially the three who were there -- I've known for a long time that they're angels of God, superhumanly even-tempered and kind even with people who are behaving very badly.

All the commotion freaked out some of the other patients. One, around the corner, came up to me later and said, "Are you okay? Is everybody there okay?" Another, in a room very near the restrained patient, asked me if it was safe to walk in that part of the hallway.

Through all this, I paid detached attention to my own reactions. I'd been careful not to get too close to the patient at any point, and had security not been there, I might not have risked talking to him. But I was glad I'd talked to him, and when he became violent, I wasn't scared or startled or even particularly excited. I was just sad.

His fracas with the security guards wasn't fun. It wasn't cool. It wasn't a beautifully choreographed Kung Fu action sequence, or a thrilling military adventure with sexy weapons, or a tense stand-off between Good Guys and Bad Guys. It was an ugly, awkward, blessedly brief altercation between a very sad, angry person and a group of professionals who were doing their jobs as well and kindly as they knew how. There was no stirring soundtrack, no clever wrestling moves, no heart-stopping suspense. There was only a mass of moving limbs, the patient's hoarse yells, and the guards' sometimes clumsy efforts to keep him from hurting them, himself, or anyone else.

Whenever one of my writing students hands in a story with long combat or fight scenes -- all of it carefully choreographed and described in endless detail -- I say, "I'm not your target audience. Fight scenes bore me; they're just descriptions of physical mechanics. What I care about is the characters, what drove them into this and how they'll recover from it later."

Some of my students understand this. Many don't. I wish they could spend some lively evening in the ED (as protected bystanders, like I am), to see what real violence looks like, and how ultimately uninteresting it really is.

Happy Birthday, Guys!

Today is Bilbo and Frodo's birthday. You all knew that, right?

It's also the anniversary of Frodo's setting out from Bag End on the quest that eventually led to the destruction of the One Ring. Beware of tall, dark, hollow strangers on black horses!

Tolkien purists will of course excoriate me for posting a photo from Jackson's film, but hey, I liked the first movie. The second and third were increasingly better as films in their own right, but worse as Tolkien adaptations; I never recovered from what Jackson did to Faramir in the second film.

Okay, so here's something from the book I've never completely understood: Tolkien says that Frodo always experiences wanderlust in the autumn, wanting to set off on adventures. Does anyone else respond that way to autumn? Summer makes me feel that way, but fall makes me want to curl up indoors with a good book, a sweater, a cat, and a pot of tea. The idea of adventuring as the days are getting shorter makes me all chilly.

Adventures in Berkeley

Last night the video programming began with The Adventures of Prince Achmed, made in Germany in 1925. It's the oldest surviving feature-length animated film, made with silhouettes like the ones cast by Indonesian shadow puppets. We were watching it on a small TV mounted on a wall, which wasn't ideal; even so, the film was beautiful. (Also inadvertently hilarious in many places. The advantage of silent films is that you can heckle without worrying about detracting from anyone's enjoyment.) I found the visuals absolutely magical and mesmerizing -- much more so than most contemporary animation -- precisely because the images were otherworldly and mysterious rather than realistic. Gary and I are going to rent the film to watch at home (Netflix has it), and I highly recommend it to any of you interested in film or fantasy.

The second selection was Hush, one of our favorite Buffy episodes. (Last night's movie theme was "Shhhhh!") It formed an interesting counterpoint to Achmed; the stylized hand gestures of The Gentlemen are very similar to some of the silhouette movements in the first movie, and I think having seen Achmed made me even more sensitive to how much Hush accomplishes with gesture.

There were two more videos, but after that first double feature, we turned in for the night!

Other highlights from yesterday included a paper on Goldberry from LoTR; the author wasn't there, but a friend read it for her, and afterwards, the audience discussed Goldberry and Bombadil for a good twenty minutes. One person quoted LoTR from memory to make a point. Another pulled out a dog-eared copy of the book to find a passage that answered a question.

Ahhhhh! Tolkien geeks! My people!

The cafeteria food here is remarkably good. We had tasty ginger fish for dinner last night, and the coffee's not half bad -- much to our relief, since we forgot to bring our own.

There's an absolutely gorgeous tree on campus, near one of the entrances to the main programming building. Given how much Tolkien loved trees, that's fitting. I want to try to get some photos of it before we leave. I seem to find fantastical vegetables every time I come to Berkeley!

Also, I keep meeting people who glance at my name badge, beam at me, and tell me that they love my work. Most gratifying! And there are lots of cat people here -- we saw some adorable snapshots of someone's new cat over breakfast this morning -- but that's not too surprising at a fantasy gathering, is it?

Assorted Treats

Gary and I just got back from seeing Ratatouille, the new Pixar movie. We thoroughly enjoyed it, and recommend it highly. It's very clever, so much so that we wondered if kids would be able to follow most of it, although a little girl in our row seemed to be having a wonderful time.

We also enjoyed being in efficient air conditioning, since Reno hit an all-time-high of 108 degrees today. Our house has AC, but the theater's was better. The nice thing about being in the desert, though, is that the temperature drops when the sun goes down, so it's always cool enough to sleep.

I learned today that my sister and mother are coming to visit! They're arriving two weeks from today and staying until the 30th. My sister hasn't been here for three years, and it's been even longer for my mother; we didn't know if Mom would ever feel up to traveling again, so I'm really thrilled that she's coming out. We've changed a lot of things in the house since she's been here, and she's never met Figaro or Bali. Her activities will be limited -- she needs a wheelchair to go anywhere, although she can manage stairs -- but at least she'll get a change of scenery.

My sister's planning to bring their wheelchair. Gary and I could rent one, and of course there are wheelchairs in airports, but Liz is worried about getting stranded without one. I think wheelchairs can probably be checked at the gate, right? Anyway, she's going to look into all of that and let us know if we need to rent one. And we're planning to get a stool or chair for the shower in the guest bathroom. Our stairs have a landing halfway down, and we may put a chair there so she can sit and rest if she needs to.

Gary's pleased that he has a good excuse to subscribe to the Times' daily crossword puzzle: he and my mother and sister enjoy doing crosswords together, although I've never acquired a taste for them. But my sister will play Scrabble with me; my mother finds it too slow, and Gary won't play with me because he says I always win (which isn't true: he's an excellent player and has beaten me lots of times).

Mom and Liz leave right before Gary and I leave for Mythcon, so I'm going to miss three weeks at the hospital. After next week, though, I'll have volunteered 500 hours, and that seems like a good time to take a break.

Finally, please don't forget that the next Carnival of Hope deadline is a week from today: Thursday June 12 at 5:00 PM PDT.