Jangle Bells

Readers please note: In this post, I express a number of minority, and perhaps heretical, opinions. If you disagree with me, that's fine, but please don't flame me for having a different take on things.

Okay, so: The last few days have been a bit stressful. Yesterday my sister called to talk to me about closing out Mom's estate before the end of the calendar year, which the lawyer had recommmended. I hadn't seen this coming, and although the procedures she outlined on the phone weren't that complicated, they sent me into a tizzy. I went totally into scarcity space: hyperventilating oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-starve-to-death-in-a-cardboard-box mode.

On the face of it, this makes no sense. Why would one feel a sudden surge of panic on learning that one's acquiring several thousand unexpected dollars? At the time, I couldn't analyze it past the point of recognizing that financial matters always send me into a cold sweat. To calm my nerves, I went to the gym and swam for an hour. That sort of worked, although the perky Christmas music in the lockerroom left me with the strong and un-Christian urge to take a flamethrower to Frosty the Snowman. (I heard two other women complaining about the music, so I wasn't alone in my reaction.)

After the swim, I managed to get more of a handle on why I'd gone off the deep end, so to speak. After this, there will be no more estate. This is really the end, finis, the last money I'll get from my mother, and it's coming at the darkest time of the year, and on the heels of a conversation Gary and I had with a financial advisor who told us that I have to work for at least another fifteen years; I'd hoped for only ten. (And yes, I know: at least I have a job! And I'm indeed grateful!)

Once I'd figured that out, I started organizing my Christmas packages to the East Coast. It always amazes me how long wrapping takes; I'd economized -- probably unwisely -- by packing the wrapped gifts in old boxes we had in the garage, which meant that I had to wrap the boxes in plain brown wrapping paper to cover old Amazon labels and so forth.

I thought I had enough brown wrapping paper. I did, sort of, but only if I covered each box in two or three pieces of the stuff, which led to lots of fun with packing tape -- our only roll was playing "let's hide the end so you can't find it!" -- especially since Bali and Figgy had gotten into my study and were prancing through boxes and wrapping paper, getting themselves stuck to the tape, and so forth. The upshot of this ridiculous situation was that I spent all night wrapping two frigging boxes and went to sleep in a really bad mood.

I woke up this morning, feeling only marginally less cranky, to find the promised e-mailed documents from the attorney. I printed them out, ran around getting stuff notarized and mailed (the post office lines were shorter than I expected, and the boxes should arrive next week), and dashed home for lunch. I called my sister to tell her that I'd mailed the legal stuff, and discovered that she'd just been in a minor car accident -- she'd skidded into another car in snow -- and was very shaken up, despite no damage to people and only minor damage to cars.

That conversation made me a few minutes late for my beloved annual mammogram, which I've been superstitiously nervous about because my mother's breast cancer was diagnosed the Christmas after her father died. (This was in 1987; obviously she survived it, although the cancer was far advanced even though the mammogram supposedly caught it early.) No one I know enjoys these procedures, anyway: a friend who refuses to undergo them says, "I'll let them do that to me when men start having annual cancer screenings in which their testicles are smashed between two plates."

I don't agree with this sentiment, but I sympathize. Even for modestly endowed women like me, mammograms hurt. Also, I recently taught Barbara Ehrenreich's scathing and brilliant Welcome to Cancerland to my freshman-comp class, so her critiques of breast-cancer culture were fresh in my mind. Ehrenreich is deeply alarmed by the consumerization of breast cancer, which normalizes it and helps transform it into a rite of passage rather than a huge injustice perpetrated upon women's bodies by environmental toxins. (My completely non-activist mother's first words, after her diagnosis, were, "Well, that's what I get for living in New Jersey all these years." Even she got the environmental connection.) Ehrenreich cites studies that call into serious question the efficacy both of current screening methods and current treatments, and points out that if people gave their money directly to cancer research -- rather than supporting runs, walks and rallies with large overhead costs, or buying pink-beribboned teddy bears, jewelry, etc. and so forth -- we might make more headway against the disease. She's especially withering on how the rhetoric of breast cancer, with its pink everything, infantilizes women. In short, she thinks women are being lulled into complacency, whereas anger at the situation might result in more effective action (think Act Up).

Ehrenreich dislikes the color pink. So do I. So does my friend who refuses to get mammograms, who was ecstatic when I told her about the Ehrenreich essay. She hadn't known that anyone else felt the same way.

So I was thinking about all of that while sitting in the very crowded waiting room. I waited over thirty minutes, and finally all of us in the outer waiting room were summoned into the inner waiting room, which was warmer and more comfortable. There we found a large bin of hideous pink plastic Christmas ornaments in shiny purple mesh gift bags. A beaming hospital employee invited each of us to take one home.

I saw pink. Channeling Ehrenreich, I said to the beaming hospital employee, "I have a question. Wouldn't the money that went into manufacturing these ornaments be better spent on actual cancer research?"

She didn't even blink. "Yes. Yes, it would." (Good for you, lady!)

I gave her a brief overview of Ehrenreich. A woman at the other end of the room looked interested and asked me some questions as she cradled her pink ornament. Everyone else ignored us. ("If we don't look at her, maybe she'll go away.")

The hospital employee told me about various hospital projects that do contribute directly to research. Good for them! She and the patient with the ornament decided, between them, that the point of the ornaments was to "give people hope." Hey, if a tacky plastic ornament gives them hope, good for them. I, personally, don't find Christmas trees festooned with kitschy reminders of serious illnesses profoundly hopeful, but we all know how weird I am.

Finally they called me in. I got squashed. The tech was very deft; everyone was very nice. This is the place I always go, because they're very deft and very nice, and the one time I got called back for further scrutiny of an "area of concern" (which turned out to be a shadow), the male doctor was immensely kind and spent much more time talking to me than the situation actually warranted. That interpersonal skill is worth dumptrucks of plastic ornaments.

I went from the mammo place to the gym, where I worked out for forty-five minutes on the elliptical, traveling 3.3 miles and burning 350 calories. I was very pleased with myself, but leaving the gym, I discovered the lobby festooned with pink and white balloons and "See Pink!" banners, as more and more people (including musicians with instrument cases) piled into the building. Some kind of breast-cancer fundraiser was underway. The club staff assured me the money would go to research, which makes me wonder if the refreshments and music were donated.

I blew my workout on three yummy cookies from the tables piled high with treats. I went home to find more treats from my sister: a box of chocolate-dipped fruit. Yum. Goodbye, workout.

At least, thank God, my sister's okay after her accident. And Gary and I will now have a slightly larger financial cushion during my sabbatical. And -- this is the really exciting news -- I just performed my first felted join in a knitting project, and am thoroughly enchanted. No ends to weave in! Yay!

Fluffy Goes to Boot Camp

Mom: Don't read this. You'll hate it.

Yesterday evening I went for my walk and got to pat any number of excellent dogs. On my way back to the house, I heard a horrible caterwauling, the sound of a cat in mortal terror. It was coming from an open garage across the street. I went to see what in the world was going on -- was the cat trapped under a car somehow? -- and saw a couple standing, smiling, in the garage. The wife, hugely pregnant, was holding the screaming cat.

"Are you trying to put your cat in a carrying case?" I asked, wondering why in the world anyone would try to do that with the garage door open.

"Oh, no," the woman said brightly, still smiling. "She's just scared of being outside."

"Ah," I said. We all stood there for a minute, as the cat continued her piteous wailing. Then I said, cautiously, "So, um, why is she outside?"

"Oh," the woman answered in that same cheery tone, "we're just trying to get her used to the garage, so she'll know it's safe."

With the garage door open? Huh?

"She hates going outside," the husband chimed in now, with that same Stepford affect. "She'll only go out on our balcony."

"Please don't let her out," I said, alarmed. "There are coyotes around here." Not to mention dogs and cars. "We lost one of our cats to a coyote. It isn't safe to let them out."

The couple nodded, looking suitably sympathetic, and then the woman held the cat up facing the street, and said, "See, sweetie? The cars are far away!" The cat didn't seem reassured by this (let me add that she was well fed and looked very healthy; she was just scared out of her furry little wits).

I stood there, staring at them, until finally the wife said, "Well, we'd better get inside now!"

Yes, please. And let the poor cat stay there!

What are these people thinking? Do they care about their cat's emotional and physical health? Do they even like their cat? Do they have a psychotic veterinarian who recommended traffic-desensitization therapy? Do they just enjoy tormenting animals? What the hay is going on here?

And is anyone else deeply worried about how they're going to raise their child?

Renewed Faith

I didn't go to the hospital yesterday, because I was sick. I went today instead, because I was feeling better. Yesterday I was annoyed that my massive allergy attack kept me from volunteering, but today, I think I know why that happened.

1.

The minute I get to the ED, one of my favorite nurses asks me to speak to a patient who's about to be discharged. I go into the room, blink, and say, "I know you!"

I'm terrible at names, but I remember yours. That's because I've thought about you and prayed for you many, many times since our first meeting. I tell you this, and you seem puzzled, but pleased. You're impressed that I still remember your name.

You're here because you fell. I ask some questions, and it sounds like you really did fall, not like you were pushed. But when I ask if your partner's still hurting you, you start to cry.

You're still afraid to tell anyone. You beg me not to tell anyone. I tell you that we know here: we know from last time, remember? You insist that you can't leave your home, because of your animals. You tell me about them. There are quite a few, of different kinds. You love them. They depend on you. You rescued some of them from dumpsters.

I tell you that there are animal-rescue organizations. You insist that no one else can take care of your animals. You have to do it. I ask if your partner has ever hurt your animals, and you say, emphatically, no.

And then I say, "Think about what your partner has done to you. If that had happened to your animals, would it be okay?"

Your eyes widen. You look horrified and shake your head. "No!" you tell me. No, it wouldn't be okay at all. It would be unspeakable. You'd want your partner to die if your animals had suffered like that.

"Then it's not okay for your partner to be doing that to you, either."

"But I can run away," you say, and then stop. We both know you haven't.

The nurse comes to discharge you. I talk to a case manager, who sighs and gives me a flier for a domestic-violence hotline. We gave you a list of shelters last time, and it didn't help, but as long as you're still alive, there's still hope.

By the time I finish talking to the case manager, you're already outside, sitting in the sunshine, waiting for your partner to pick you up. I give you the flier. "Can you put this where your partner won't see it?" You nod and tuck it into a pocket. "Will you call the number?" You frown and don't answer. "Can I do anything else for you?" You ask shyly if I can get you some water. I'm happy to do that.

When I come back with the water, you squint up at me and say, "Well, maybe I'll call. My nose has been broken twice, and my collarbone three times."

"Please call," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "You don't deserve that. No one deserves that."

You smile and hold my hand. You still can't believe I remembered your name. I tell you that I'll never forget it. I ask you again, beg you, to call the number, to call for help.

And then I have to go back inside. All I can do is pray that you'll call the number, but at least now I know why my allergies were so bad yesterday: So I'd be at the hospital today instead. So I'd see you again. So you'd know that there's someone who remembers your name.

2.

When I'm back inside, something else happens that bolsters my faith, but this time in people rather than in God.

You're my second patient of the day. You're homeless. You're from somewhere else, and need money to go back home. I talk to someone from social services who reminds me that we don't give out money. I already knew that, but it couldn't hurt to try.

I go back into your room. "No luck. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Food?" you ask hopefully. "I'm hungry."

"I'll have to check with your nurse," I tell you. Patients who might be surgical candidates, or who are waiting for certain tests, can't eat. There's also the problem that some staff actively resist giving homeless patients food, because they don't want the ED to be seen as a soup kitchen. "Do you know if you're being admitted?" If you're being admitted, we can order a meal tray.

You don't know. I find your nurse, who's another of my favorites. "Can Patient X have food?"

The nurse looks at the chart. "Sure. That patient just got here, but I understand the situation, so sure."

I gather my courage. "Any chance we can get a meal tray, or should I just hand out a bunch of crackers?"

"I'll order a meal tray."

I blink. We don't even know if you're being admitted yet. "Thank you! A lot of people wouldn't do that."

The nurse shrugs. "Yeah, well, I won't watch anyone be hungry. I'm a hardass in plenty of other ways, but I won't stand there and watch someone be hungry. That's not okay."

I dance back into the room and tell you that we're ordering a meal tray. You thank me, but seem puzzled about why I'm so happy.

I hope you enjoyed your meal. It may have been lousy hospital food, but it represented a triumph of human compassion over bureaucracy.

Productive Day

You may not want to read this post if you're extra-squeamish about distasteful medical procedures.

Today I did a couple of small chores on which I've procrastinated: filled out some paperwork at work, arranged to step down from a departmental service assignment I haven't been enjoying, switched primary-care providers. My former PCP and I have been having some communication problems, and Gary and I used to see an MD we really liked who started his own practice. I checked, and he's taking new patients, so we're going over there. I called his office to make an appointment; they e-mailed me paperwork to fill out, including the form for transfer of medical records. I called our insurance to make sure he's on our plan (he is), and learned that Gary and I can reduce our deductible by 50% by filling out an online survey. So that was all good news. This physician is farther away than our old doctor, but it had gotten to the point where former-doc was chalking all my symptoms up to psychological issues which I don't think I have. I was probably getting thorough care anyhow, but I didn't feel like I was. When I realized that I dreaded going back there because I didn't want to hear the same old mantra, I decided it was time to get a new doc.

Of course, maybe I'm in denial. But I discussed this in detail with my shrink, and she didn't think so (she thought former-doc was being inappropriate). So that's one vote of confidence.

My shrink has also been nudging me to go back to my GI doc for some mild but possibly worrisome symptoms (former-doc was nudging me about that too, come to think of it), and I finally did so last week. GI Guy was very kind about the fact that I hadn't been in for so long, but said gently, "I want you to have a colonoscopy. You knew I was going to say that, right?"

"Why do you think I waited so long to come in?" He laughed, and I said, "Everything's going to be normal, you know. My tests are always normal."

"Yeah, I know. But if we didn't do them, that would be the one time things wouldn't be normal. So we'll do the test, because that way we know it will be normal."

I like this guy. He thinks the way I do.

We're throwing in an endoscopy for the heck of it, but the two procedures will be at the same time, and they're at the end of May, so I have a while before I have to worry about the Dreaded Prep. I've done this twice before -- lucky me! -- so at least I know what to expect.

A friend of mine needs a colonoscopy too, as it turns out, so I gave my prep briefing. (For the love of God, make sure you get the Half-Lytely, not the Go-Lytely!) Talk about areas in which I never expected, or wanted, to be an expert!

Getting old. It's not for anyone who cares about dignity.

But, as I was saying, all of that was last week. Today was a good day. So, despite the fact that we just got a dental bill for ninety zillion dollars -- okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a bit -- and despite the fact that we don't know how many extra mortgages we'll have to take out to pay for the May procedures, I celebrated by ordering a pair of new shoes.

Oooooh! you say. Sexy red high heels? Elegant black boots? Darling little rhinestone flip-flops?

Nope. Dansko Narrow Professional Clogs: great arch support, which with luck will help out my aching hip and knees! I can alternate those with my beloved Keens.

I gave up on sexy shoes a long time ago.

Beautiful Dead Animals

Okay, Dear Readers, this is a post about disturbing stuff. Consider yourselves warned.

Let me begin by saying that I'm not ashamed to be a carnivore. ("Top o' the food chain! Top o' the food chain!") I eat meat and wear leather. I know and like people who hunt, and I have no trouble with hunting if people do it responsibly and eat what they kill. In fact, I often think that those of us who eat meat ought to be reminded where our food comes from by having to, oh, kill a chicken once a year. I've eaten and enjoyed venison, and I understand that hunting can be a very important part of culling animal populations (although those populations are often out of whack because of other ways humans have messed with the food chain, but never mind). I know that most people who hunt are sane individuals who are rigorous about gun safety. Okay?

Okay.

Today Gary and I went shopping. I needed a new pair of hiking boots for Kaua'i. Usually we go to REI or Patagonia for that stuff. REI and Patagonia are, of course, populated mainly by NPR liberals like us, who trek into the wilderness to improve their cardiovascular health and take pictures.

But last week, Gary had said, "Oh, there's a big new outdoor store that just opened. We should go there to look for your boots." So this morning, I suggested that we try out the new place.

The new place is Cabela's. It's huge. And it's full of dead animals.

When you enter the gigundo building, the first thing you see is a taxidermy exhibit of African animals, including an elephant, a lion and a leopard. That bothered me so much that I made a beeline for the shoe department, where a stuffed turkey and a stuffed wolf, among other critters, watched me shop from their wall mounts. There were more deer heads (and bodies) in this place than I could count, but I know that deer become real pests in places they overpopulate. Also bearskin rugs from formerly live bears. Those were hanging on the wall; I don't know if they were for sale.

Some of the animals bothered me more than others. I eat turkey, but who eats wolf? Much less leopard? (Excuse me: Aren't most big cats endangered? Am I missing something?) Gary told me later that he'd seen lots of stuffed fish -- okay, I can deal with that, mostly -- as well as a stuffed polar bear. Polar bears are definitely endangered. I'm sure this one was either a clever fake or had been killed before the bears became endangered (or had been killed in self-defense in some Alaskan village) but it still bothered me. The store cafe serves game meat like elk, and that bothers me less.

I found a pair of hiking boots, although the selection of women's shoes wasn't very good. I wandered around trying to find Gary, and instead found myself blinking at displays of what looked like hunting camouflage for infants. (Turns out I wasn't hallucinating. Now, class, let's discuss gender stereotypes. Look at the baby boy wearing a camo t-shirt that says, "This is what a real hunter looks like." Now look at the baby girl wearing a camo dress -- with lace and ribbon -- that says, "Cute as a button.") The store was mobbed, and there were lots of kids.

I finally found Gary, who told me that the gun and ammo selection more than made up for what the women's shoe department lacked. He also said there were lots of toy guns, and lots of kids playing with them, presumably so they'll be ready for their first .22 when they're eight and their first hunting rifle when they're twelve. (Yes, I know: most hunting families are obsessive about gun safety for kids, and good for them.) Also, the store sells blowguns: what the hey? Are these used for hunting? (Silly me! I should have checked on Google before I wrote that question. Yes, blowguns are used for hunting. Also fishing.) The store also sells archery equipment, which is really kind of cool. Gary and I agreed that anybody who can sneak up on a deer and kill it with an arrow has our utmost respect: that takes skill and also gives the critter a fighting chance, unlike hiding in a tree until the beastie shows up and then blowing it to Kingdom Come with a high-powered rifle.

The store had an archery range -- Gary told a funny story about a salesman trying to teach a ten-year-old girl not to shoot her arrow straight up in the air -- but no shooting range, thank goodness. There were laser guns people could use for target practice, though.

It all made me very queasy. I kept thinking about the leopard. I kept thinking about the couple Gary and I met about ten years ago who were in Reno for a Safari Club International convention. The woman told us brightly that one of her life goals was to kill a leopard. The man explained that the organization's very active in wildlife conservation: they don't want leopards to become extinct, because then there won't be any left to kill. (Okay, he didn't exactly phrase it that way, but that was what I heard.) Gary and I just looked at each other. Why would anyone want to kill a leopard? If it were attacking you, okay, you might have to, but why would you pay big, big bucks to fly halfway around the world to find a leopard and kill it?

I don't get it.

Killing deer for food in your own neighborhood, I get. Really, I do. But the "Fly to exotic non-Western countries! Trek through gorgeous landscape! Find beautiful animals -- and kill them!" thing just goes right over my head.

When we were leaving the store, I said, "I don't think I want to come here again."

Gary said, "This is the mainstream. Welcome to America."

I said, "I'll stay on the margins, thanks. The next time I need hiking boots, I'm going to REI or Patagonia."

As we were leaving the parking lot, we passed a group of Goth kids headed towards the store. They were dressed all in black, and one of them, a tall young man, was making rat-a-tat-tat shooting motions with his hands while the others laughed. Gary said, "Don't worry. I don't think the store sells semi-automatics or assault weapons, so if they're planning to shoot up their school, they'll have to go somewhere else."

I don't buy into stereotypes about Goths, who are consistently among my best and most personable students. I'm sure the kids were going to the store to write an article about it for their school paper or something. But it was still a disturbing image.

Meanwhile, speaking of hiking and disturbing images, the other day I took a walk on the paved paths that wind between the housing developments in our neighborhood. There are strips of wild land here, and we have coyotes in these parts, so when I see the remains of small animals, I usually figure some coyote has just had a meal. But yesterday I passed a dove or pigeon that had been shot and was lying dead on the asphalt. A little later, I passed a lump of fur that looked like the tail of some animal (I'd say fox, but I don't think we have those here). A little after that, I passed a doll lying on a rock. Sometimes people find toys and put them on rocks or walls where they'll be visible if kids are looking for them, but this doll looked odd because it seemed to be doing a pushup: it was lying face down, but with arms extended, so it was propped up on its hands.

I picked it up and turned it over. The doll's face had been burned off.

Cute as a button.

Gahhhhhhh.

I wonder if I'd be less sensitive to all this if Brianna Denison hadn't just been murdered.

I've never felt unsafe on the paths between the developments before -- for one thing, there are almost always folks walking dogs there -- but I have to admit that this time, I turned around and hightailed it for home. The walk was just starting to feel a little too much like a horror movie.