Tiny Treats

"There was coffee. Life would go on."

These lines are from William Gibson's brilliant short story "The Winter Market," and pretty much sum up my and Gary's take on mornings. (We use the quotation all the time; it's one of our tag lines.) So imagine our distress this morning when our industrial-strength coffee maker died. We have an emergency-backup French press, so we survived, although we consider the coffee quality inferior. Tonight we went shopping for a new coffee maker, though.

We got a Krups at Bed, Bath & Beyond. It was pretty pricy, but this is an essential home item, so it's worth the investment. Then we went next door to World Market, because Gary was thinking about getting more Adirondack chairs for our deck.

"Honey," I said, "we have enough chairs." In fact, we have chairs stacked in the garage we don't even use regularly. We used them for Dad's memorial service last July; we'll use them again for our Worldcon dinner party this coming August. We need them when we need them, but we just don't entertain that much.

So we didn't get any more chairs. Gary got a $29 side table, though, because he couldn't stand the idea of going into Memorial Day Weekend without any deck furniture to assemble.

Meanwhile, I browsed around the store. I love World Market because it has some of everything, and also brings back happy memories. In 2001, I spent Christmas with my father in Mississippi. He'd had quadruple bypass about a month beforehand, and he really needed me there. It was very much a turning point for the better in our relationship. Before I went down, I asked if he wanted anything from Reno for Christmas, and he said, "A baby elephant." So I went to World Market and got a bunch of elephant stuff: elephant ornaments, an elephant mug, an elephant wall hook, an elephant picture frame, and so forth. That shopping expedition was really fun -- one of my best Christmas memories -- and since then, the elephant items at World Market have always cheered me up.

I needed cheering up today. I'm fed up with the book (although I'm doggedly plowing through it), completely stuck on -- and panicking about -- the homily I have to write for Sunday, being pecked to death by small pieces of paperwork from a blizzard of sources, and basically out of sorts. I worked out on the elliptical for forty minutes before dinner, which helped quite a bit, but I was still cranky.

So I wandered through World Market, smiling at elephant soap dishes and paperweights and wall hangings and mosaics. I didn't buy any elephant things, though. There's just too much stuff in the house (including the elephant gifts I gave Dad that Christmas, and inherited after he died), and anyway, we'd just gotten the expensive coffee maker. I decided I could get a few very small items if they'd get used up, rather than sitting and gathering dust. So I bought two dark chocolate caramels with sea salt (a decadent little treat Gary and I shared in the car on the way home), a small box of fruit-shaped marzipan (because I love marzipan and my mother always gave me some for Christmas), a small tube of jasmine-scented hand lotion for my purse, and a slightly larger bottle of orange-scented body lotion to use after I shower.

Now my hands smell good, and I've eaten a little chocolate, and I have the marzipan stored away as a future treat. So I'm feeling better.

And there will be coffee tomorrow morning. Life will go on.

Scarf Info for Maggie

Since you asked, the pattern is Barbara Walker's Indian Cross Stitch (third down on this page) although mine doesn't look nearly as neat or pretty as hers. I only wrap three times rather than four, which may make a difference, because I found four times too loose.

It's an easy pattern: four rows of garter stitch, a row where you wrap the extra stitches, and a row where you slip them (dropping the wraps), cross and knit. That part's a little tricky, but not inherently difficult. It's not TV knitting, though.

The yarn's a variegated sock yarn with short color repeats. I don't remember what it's called; I got it on clearance at a yarn store in Massachusetts two years ago, and have long since lost the label. I think the pattern would work fine with any yarn, but the short color repeats really make it pop, producing the "school of tropical fish" effect mbj noted. Fingering's a good weight, too. I think it would work really well in Plymouth's Happy Feet yarn, for instance.

I'm really sorry that I don't know what this yarn is -- although I think it may have been the last skein of a discontinued style or colorway -- because I suspect I'm only going to have enough of it to make about twenty-five inches of this thing, which isn't long enough for a scarf. A short table runner? A collar fastened with a pin? I'll figure something out.

Meanwhile, the baby sweater is going tortuously slowly, because I have to rip one sleeve, and I hate ripping, so I keep working on the scarf instead. The baby was just born, but this is a six-month size, and I don't think I'll be seeing his mom for a while, so I have time.

In an act of supremely foolish self-confidence, I finally ordered the wool for Gary's sweater. He wants a cardigan, and it has to have pockets, and he'd also like cables. He says the cables are optional, but I found a cardigan-with-pockets pattern with cabled sleeves, so that's what I'm going to attempt. Given how long the baby sweater's taken me, I shudder to think how many decades I'll be working on this one.

This is one of those sweaters you knit in pieces and then sew together, and I can't sew to save my life, but the owner of my local yarn shop will help me (if I ever get the pieces finished). The other day I ran in there in a panic about the baby sweater, and called out, "Florrie! I need you!" the minute I got in the door. Another patron, sitting and knitting at the front table, started laughing and said, "You have no idea how often I've heard people run in here and say that exact thing! I've said it myself."

Thank goodnesss for yarn stores.

Woo-hoo!

I'm blogging on the new machine! It works fine. It even has Chrome pre-installed, although in an older version that won't let me use the apps store. It does everything I need it to do for a basic road machine, though.

Bad battery, but I'll just keep it plugged in. I'm happy!

New Scarf in Progress

It will look better when it's blocked, but I think it's pretty even now.

In other knitting news, the church group may not work out for scheduling reasons: between vestry meetings, choir practice, classes, and other commitments, I don't think we can get more than two people in the same place at the same time. So we may need to just meet with the quilting group after all.

Nertz!

Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie 7-Inch Computerini

Oh dear. That sounds obscene, doesn't it?

For lo these many months, I've been looking for a seven-inch technogadget -- something small enough to fit in my purse -- that will give me easy access to e-mail and the internet, especially Blogger and Google Docs. I wanted something ultra-portable and ultra-cheap for short trips (like Mythcon) and local coffeeshop jaunts, occasions when hauling my netbook around is just a bit more trouble than it's worth.

The obvious candidate would be a tablet, but I really wanted something with a physical keyboard (and without a pricey phone contract). I'd thought about unlocked versions of the Samsung Galaxy Tab or Dell Streak, combined with a Bluetooth keyboard, but playing with the tablets at local stores hadn't made me sufficiently enthusiastic to justify their price tags.

I love Google's Chrome browser and have eagerly followed news of Chrome-based netbooks, but the first ones being released are even larger than my current netbook, not to mention (as many people have noted) ridiculously expensive for something that's basically a smart terminal.

I really wanted a seven-inch netbook. ASUS used to make them, but doesn't anymore -- the smallest netbook currently available is 10.1", and I own one of those -- and I kept reading snarky articles asking why anyone would want a netbook now that tablets are here, anyway.

Keyboards, that's why. Some of us still type!

Tonight, lo and behold, I discovered on Amazon a pair of used ASUS 7-inch netbooks for $150, and after conferring with Gary, snapped one of them up. As he said, at that price, it makes sense to try the machine out. The customer reviews praise it for internet and e-mail, which is exactly how I plan to use it. Everyone says the keyboard's small, but so are my hands. The machine runs Linux, but I believe I can install Chrome on it (and if not, I'll still be able to get to gmail and Google Docs, which is what matters). If the thing sucks or completely doesn't work, I'll return it, but this may be exactly what I've needed. If it works, I'll have an upstairs desktop, a downstairs/deck netbook, and a purse netbook.

I'd still bring the 10.1 netbook on longer trips, especially if I'm working on resident files (the ASUS doesn't have much storage). But for cloud computing, this could be pretty nifty.

Making a List

I attended the early service at church today so I could be at the ministry fair afterwards. I can't remember the last time I managed to get to church at 9:00 a.m., so this was a small miracle. (Good prep for preaching, too, which I'm doing next Sunday, although then we'll be on the summer schedule of one service at 10:00 -- rather than two at 9:00 and 11:00 -- along with the evening service at 5:00.)

For some reason, probably just because I was tired, I got a little weepy during the service. Watching the deacon, who served at my old church and is now at this one, I found myself wondering if I did the right thing withdrawing from ordination. That hasn't bothered me for a long time -- like, years -- so I think it really was just my fatigue.

The ministry fair was fine. I got seven people to sign up for a possible knitting group, mainly by dint of snagging anyone who walked past my table and asking brightly, "Do you knit?" (One woman fell over in hysterical giggles: I gather she's tried, unsuccessfully.) If the person expressed even the slightest glimmer of interest -- as in "Well, ten years ago I gave half a second's thought to maybe learning one day" or, "Fifteen years ago I knit two stitches and then gave up" or, "I dunno, but yarn's kinda pretty" -- I beamed and produced my sign-up list. "Excellent! Sign here!"

I didn't even make them sign in blood.

Of course, I'll be happy if any of them show up at an actual meeting. I'm sure some of them signed the list just to get me to leave them alone. But the guy sitting next to me, representing Ushers, had a blank piece of paper (undoubtedly because he was much more polite than I was and didn't strong-arm anyone), and one of the priests walked by, glanced at my list, and said, "Hey! You got a lot of people!"

I laughed and described my tactics. This priest was in my preaching class, so we go way back. "Ahhh," he said, grinning. "It's that diaconal gift, even though you decided not to be ordained." (As I've said before, priests bless and deacons nag.)

I promptly teared up again. "Y'know, for some reason I was thinking about that today. I still think I made the right decision, but . . . ."

"I know," he said, looking sympathetic, and patted my arm and moved on.

I'm curious to see if this new regret/nostalgia lingers, or if it's really just a brain blip produced by not quite enough sleep. In the meantime, I've e-mailed everyone on my list to try to set up an organizational meeting. We'll see if this happens. It would be fun, but may be redundant, since there's a very active quilting group in the parish. One of the quilters told me that knitters would be welcome to join them, so if a separate group doesn't work out, I may just go to some of their meetings. They meet once a month, and I'd hoped for a weekly gathering, but that may be too ambitious.

Black on Black

The End of the World -- Again

So yeah, no Rapture. Not, mind you, that I expected it, but I feel sorry for all the folks who gave away their life savings or whatever, and now have to figure out a Plan B. A friend of mine commented the other day, "Oh, I'd be one of the people left down here, but that's okay, because I really wouldn't want to spend eternity with the others." I agree with him whole-heartedly. This is another way of saying, I guess, that we all get the heaven we deserve.

In any case, I spent all morning at church, but not planning for Judgment Day. It was a "getting to know you" session for those of us from my old church to meet some of the people from my new church. We shared bits of our history -- most of these intensely moving -- and wrote a group prayer at the end. (This was a quintessentially Episcopal document which, in the thanksgiving section, included the phrase "Thanks for postponing the Rapture.")

Because the session had been advertised as four hours long (and indeed ran that long), I brought knitting, a pretty new scarf I'm working on. Knitting's the only way I can survive marathon meetings, even when they're fascinating. At the end we were chatting about the Ministry Fair tomorrow, and I said, "So is there a knitting group here?"

The rector, sitting next to me, turned to look at the scarf and said, "There is now." So I'll attempt to drag myself out of bed early enough tomorrow to go to the Ministry Fair with a sign-up sheet and clipboard to see if anybody else wants to get together to knit.

In other news, I'm about fifty pages into this phase of the revision. If I can keep going at this rate, I should indeed have the book done before Mythcon, although I wouldn't be surprised if a snag somewhere slows me down.

My first short shift at the hospital went fine. My tally at the end of the two hours was a whopping 59 -- which is about average for a four-hour shift -- so my hunch that two two-hour shifts will let me visit more people may indeed be true. I don't think the numbers will always be that high, though. The ER was extremely busy, and lots of people asked for prayer, but there was no one with whom I had to spend a lot of time, which translated into lots of visits, because I was able to keep moving. If there were fewer people in the department, or if more of them had deeper needs calling for longer visits, the numbers would be lower (not that my supervisors really care: it's not like we have a quota or anything, but they do want us to do basic bean counting).

It was strange being there during the week, when the hospital's so much more populated! Signing in, I said hello to no fewer than three staff chaplains. I asked if I should still respond to non-ER codes, and was told, "No, we'll do it." In a way that's a relief, and in a way it feels like a bit of a demotion. Since the professional chaplains respond to all codes, I'll probably be playing a much smaller role even during ER codes: get there first, provide whatever comfort I can, and stand aside when the professionals show up. When my sabbatical ends I'll have to go back to working Saturdays, though, which means they'll probably want me on codes again (if only because an on-call staff chaplain can take longer to arrive than someone already in the building).

As the most recent shift showed, however, there will still be enough to keep me plenty busy. And a lot of patients love being visited by volunteers; they're moved and fascinated that people just like them do this, and ask lots of questions about whether they might be able to do it, too. We're an important part of the hospital ecosystem.

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.

DIY Art Therapy

At the end of my last lesson with Charlene, she said, "Thank you for all your hard work." The statement caught me a little off guard. I've been very, very conscious of how bad my playing is; although I do have some abilities -- as Charlene said, "You have a good ear; if I play a tune for you, you can play it back to me" -- I don't speak the language of music and would never consider myself a musician. I'm somebody who enjoys scratching out very rough tunes on the viola.

But what Charlene said made me think, "Huh. Yeah, I have worked hard at this, haven't I?" And, more to the point, when I've been able to let go of my deeply ingrained perfectionist streak, I've enjoyed it.

The perfectionist thing goes way back. I'll spare you the history; suffice it to say that for many years, I was one of those unhappy people who measured my worth by my external accomplishments, especially grades. This tends, or tended in my case anyway, to turn into a glass-half-empty mindset: I measured myself according to what I hadn't done, and if you think that way, you'll always consider yourself a failure, because there's always someone who's done more.

I've been struggling with this issue lately at work. For one thing, academics are increasingly being evaluated as much by what they haven't done as by what they have, which is why I won't be going up for full professor. I have to keep reminding myself that even if I don't have the "national profile" required for promotion, I have published four books (with more on the way, I hope), and also perform community service I wouldn't have time for were I serving on MLA committees. The non-promotion situation, though, has re-sensitized me to how stressful glass-half-empty thinking is on colleagues and other people around me.

It's a tricky issue. Several of my students this semester have been very upset that I graded them on the results of their work, rather than on their effort. My response, and that of most professors I know, is that I have no way to measure relative effort, and that other arenas of human experience (most jobs, for instance) evaluate on results, too. Learning to come to terms with that is an important part of a college education.

At the same time, though, I always try to tell my students that their grades are not the measure of their personal worth. I know many of them don't believe me; if they did, the grades wouldn't upset them so much in the first place, and at that age, I sure didn't believe anybody who told me the same thing. I'm always heartened by students who maybe didn't get perfect grades, but who say that they enjoyed the class, or learned something, or acquired a new skill. In other words, the students who are looking at what they have, and not at what they don't: glass-half-full folk. They're so much healthier than I was in college.

Another way of defining this is process thinking versus product thinking. Both are important, but in different ways and for different purposes, and if you enjoy a process, you've gained something even if no one else appreciates the product. (One of the problems with academic promotion procedures right now is that the range of acceptable products has tightened considerably.)

It needs to be said that some of this stuff is a function of consumer culture, which encourages to focus on what we don't have so we'll go buy it. As an inveterate shopper, I'm very familiar with that pattern.

So, anyway. Today, as previously advertised, I sat down to start revising the latest novel. I did fine; I'm about ten pages in. But the next two sections, the ones scheduled for tomorrow, will require a lot of changes and some major plot rethinking, and I felt my stomach clenching up about it even today. Gotta get it right gotta get it right gotta get it right.

That mantra serves a purpose, but at this stage it's counter-productive. It's classic glass-half-empty thinking, because I'm looking at what's wrong, what isn't there: at lack, rather than possibility.

I played the viola for a while, since that always gets me to loosen up. Playing the viola means giving myself permission to do something badly, just because it's fun.

Then I decided to go shopping for a Magic Revision Pencil (inveterate shopper!). I like soft, dark pencils, and the number two I used this morning wasn't cutting it. Staples didn't have anything softer. After a few other unproductive stops, I wound up buying a drawing pencil at an art-supply store.

And that reminded me how much I like drawing. As a kid, I had a modest amount of artistic talent and drew and painted up a storm, to the lavish praise of the adults around me. I loved it. But as I got older and fell further into glass-half-empty, I became shyer about the visual stuff. I wasn't good enough. I wasn't skilled enough. I wasn't a Real Artist. This is of course either completely true or utter hogwash, depending on your point of view. I'll never be in MOMA or be paid for my artwork, but I have as much right to draw, paint and doodle as anybody else.

Back in 2006, inspired in part by a course I'd taken on art as spiritual practice, I briefly kept a drawing journal. Every day I'd produce a little doodle. Some are quite pretty; some are hideous; all of them were absorbing and fun. But after a while, I became too self-conscious about that project, too, and put the sketchbook away.

Today I took it out again. I sharpened up my colored pencils and doodled for an hour or so. The product will never be in MOMA, but the process made me very happy. As kids know, and as adults too often forget, coloring's a blast! (I can't remember who said, "All five year olds know they can draw. All fifteen year olds know they can't," but it's spot on.)

I hope to do one of these a day. I think the drawing journal -- along with the viola and knitting -- will help me stay relaxed on the writing front. And anything that creates joy should be maximized.

Basking

We have a bit of sunshine this morning after all!

That's What We Get for Putting Up the Awning

I reread the draft today; it needs a heckuva lot of work, but I already knew that. Tomorrow I'll start editing by hand, marking up the manuscript in pencil: a combination of line editing and plot revisions. I'm hoping to do seven pages a day, although that may be too ambitious.

Thing is, I was really hoping to do the work while sitting outside on our lovely deck, under our lovely awning. But noooooo, because -- after eighty-five-degree, sunny weather last Friday -- we're back down in the forties and fifties, with rain and snow flurries predicted through the week. It's also been really windy (as in National Weather Service alerts advising people to lash down their lawn furniture).

Sigh. I'm really glad we got a retractable awning this time; it's snug and safe against the house. And I'm sure the sun will return long before I'm done editing. But I want my outside office back!

Neat!

I just had a long chat with my sister, who told me that she and her husband have booked their first cruise (on my and Gary's beloved Holland America Line). They're doing a Montreal to Boston trip this summer. Liz went to college in Montreal, at McGill, so I think it will be a very rich experience for her.

I'm jealous, since I've been wanting to do that particular itinerary! Well, someday. I'm also delighted for them, and envy them the experience of cruising for the first time. I just hope they enjoy it even a fraction as much as Gary and I do.

She and her husband had been wanting to try cruising even before Gary and I became addicted to it, but she said, "I knew you'd be happy we're doing this."

Yes, indeed! I can't wait to hear about their trip.

Last Long Shift for a While

As previously advertised, one of my adjustments during my sabbatical will be to break my four-hours-a-week at the hospital into two two-hour shifts during the workweek, rather than doing it all at once on Saturday (the only time I can manage during the academic year because of teaching and meetings). Shifts can run long anyway; last week I was there for five hours. I usually take a meal break, but visiting patients can be hard on the feet -- I do a lot of standing and walking -- and of course the work's sometimes, although not always, emotionally draining.

Today's shift, the last four-hour one before the new schedule, turned into four-and-a-half because there was a code just as I was about to sign out. (I think the staff chaplain who's usually there on Saturdays must be on vacation, because I was the only spiritual-care person who responded to the code, although it turned out the family didn't really want me there. The nurses were doing a fabulous job taking care of them, as well as the patient.) Then it turned into almost five, because a visually impaired visitor needed help finding a room -- so did I, since I barely know that part of the hospital! -- and then, just as I was leaving through the waiting room, a relative snagged me, angry over not being able to go back and visit a patient.

Sometimes it's hard to get out of the building.

It was a good shift. I had interesting conversations with patients. I helped someone who's feeling very isolated brainstorm about possible support systems. I saw cute kids and visited with fascinating older folks; I love hearing their stories! Quite a few people both asked for prayer and responded positively to it. The patient who coded didn't die. The work was smooth and steady -- busy but not too intense -- until the overtime stretch.

Still, it was really good to get home, take a shower, and curl up with a cat for a few minutes. Now I'm going to go downstairs and make a pot of tea. Then I hope to settle into rereading the rough draft of the novel, which I indeed finished last night, so I can start figuring out the billion and one things I need to fix.

Technical Difficulties

Blogger was down most of yesterday, and some comments I'd approved and posted before the shutdown appear to have vanished. Claire and Jean, please be assured that I did read and appreciate your comments! I hope Blogger restores them at some point, if that's possible.

Transitions

Yesterday I saw my chiropractor and asked if she could recommend a new PCP. She immediately gave me a list of names of doctors her own patients love. One of the people she recommended very highly is a Nurse Practitioner who works with an MD who's also trained in medical acupuncture. I'd already heard good things about him and had been considering checking him out -- here's his bio, which I find both honest and compelling (I especially like his definition of illness as "the human experience of disease," which is a precise and helpful distinction) -- so that was an easy sell, especially since he's on my insurance! I've had good results from acupuncture for my sinusitis, although I'm skeptical about a lot of "energy work," especially Reiki.

When I got home yesterday I called and got an appointment with the NP for 10:30 this morning. How convenient is that? As a plus, she's considerably closer to my house than my old PCP (although the office park where she's located is an absolute maze, and I kept getting lost).

I think she's great: warm, personable, empathetic, a great listener. She looked at me instead of at her computer, although like everyone else these days, the practice uses electronic medical records. She had, for a wonder, heard of Narrative Medicine! She shares my skepticism about the energy stuff and says she's had a hard time wrapping her head around acupuncture, but she keeps seeing patients respond really well to it, so that's convinced her. She adores the doctor. When I said, "I've decided that allopathic medicine is great for acute illness and life-threatening stuff like cancer and heart disease, but holistic medicine is better at treating chronic problems," she nodded vigorously and said, "That's so well put. I'm going to use that."

She recommended a new orthopedist, a knee specialist who's doing her own knee replacement next week. (Ouch!)

She talked about the fact that normal lab values -- while they can reassure you that you don't have cancer or whatever -- aren't a reason to dismiss complaints that people aren't feeling well. (My old doc's response tends to be, "You're fine. Your bloodwork's splendid.") She said, "You don't need more lab work or pharmaceuticals. You need to be treated as a whole person. We need to monitor your depression to make sure it doesn't become a problem, and we need to help you work through your grief." She asked if I was currently in therapy; I said I've stopped getting good results from talk therapy, although I process a lot through the blog, and that led us into a discussion of writing and healing. She hadn't known about James Pennebaker's research -- here's his writing and health homepage -- and was fascinated.

So her recommendation is that I see the doctor for a consultation; I have an appointment with him for June 9. When I left, she both shook my hand and hugged me. My old doctor's fallen into a pattern of walking away without a backward glance, not even responding to "thank you" or "good bye."

So I'm feeling vastly relieved and cautiously optimistic. A small voice in my head is saying, "You know these folks will burn out in five years, just like everybody else you've seen," but I'm trying to ignore it. And even if it's true, five years is better than nothing. So thank you to all of you who urged me not to settle for a doctor with whom I'd become uncomfortable!

In other news, today's my last fiddle lesson with Charlene. Her husband has a job in Madison, Wisconsin, which of course is one of the coolest places on earth, and has a much better music scene than Reno does. They're moving later this month.

I'm hoping, at some point today, to finish the extraordinarily rough first draft of Mending the Moon, and then to start revising like a maniac. I'd love to have it done by Mythcon, although that may be overly optimistic.

Distorto-Cat!

Because you also haven't seen the other cat for a while. He hasn't turned into a giraffe, I promise: it's just a weirdness of the lens.

Joanna Russ

I was sad to learn -- somewhat after the fact -- that renowned science-fiction author and critic Joanna Russ died at the end of April. She was a wonderful and vastly important writer, and it's a huge loss to the field and to her many friends.

I've taught various of Joanna's work over the years, and it never fails to inspire heated class discussion and unusually good work from students. In fact, two of the best papers I've ever read were responses to her novel The Female Man. My somewhat conservative Nevada students, even or especially the women, argued passionately with the book, but it resulted in some terrific writing. (We get a lot of "I'm not a feminist" disclaimers around here from young women who don't quite realize that they owe their voting rights and access to higher education, among other things, to the very hard work of many of their foremothers.)

That was many years ago. I should teach the book again, since I'm constantly looking for ways to slice through student apathy and disengagement. Anything that inspires discussion is a blessing.

I never met Joanna personally, but I absolutely treasure a note she sent me praising my story "Ever After." I was incredibly moved that anything I wrote had meant so much to someone I so admired.

Rest in peace, Joanna. You'll be missed.

Confusion Abounds

in 2002 or 2003, I went to urgent care with sudden scary knee pain, had x-rays, and was diagnosed with osteoarthritis and a worn meniscus.

Since then, many medical folks have told me that worn meniscus can't be diagnosed with x-rays, but have confirmed that I have arthritis based on pain, popping sounds when I move the joint, and so forth. My rheumatologist agreed with the arthritis dx and gave me Relafen as an NSAID, because ibuprofen chews up my stomach too much.

Then my pharmacist told me that Relafen isn't an NSAID; he says it's a muscle relaxant.

Today, my orthopedist said I don't have arthritis but do have patellar tracking disorder: my kneecaps in both knees are off-kilter and don't move where they're supposed to, causing wear and tear and pain, although my right knee is much worse than my left. (He also says Relafen is an NSAID, and the All-Knowing Internet seems to agree; I'll tell my pharmacist this when I see him, since he was treating me a little like a drug addict for taking the stuff.) Orthodoc claims the condition's strictly structural and due to genetics, and says the only effective treatment of the cause -- rather than the symptoms -- is arthoscopic knee surgery to release the lateral ligaments.

First he said that surgery was a last resort, to be used only when the steroid shots don't work anymore. (He gave me shot #2 today, although shot #1 was nine months ago, which doesn't seem like a bad record.) Then, when I asked more questions, he said it was actually better to have the surgery sooner rather than later, because the longer you wait, the more damage is caused by the kneecap moving the wrong way. He said there's no downside to the surgery and that recovery time is quick. He had his nurse give me my diagnosis code and the surgical procedure code, so I could call my insurance company to find out what it would cost.

Important note: Orthodoc's retiring in a month -- he's been driven out of the business by the difficulty of trying to run a solo practice in today's insurance environment -- so he wouldn't be performing the surgery even if I had it. He has no financial incentive to push surgery, in other words (plus I was referred to him by a friend who says he's conservative in terms of surgery).

However, internet research suggests that this surgery a) actually is a last resort, b) often doesn't work (and may actually destabilize the knee), and c) involves lots of agonizing postop pain and weeks or months of PT even when it does work. The sites I've read say that full recovery can take up to a year.

No thanks.

Meanwhile, I think Orthodoc's nurse gave me the wrong codes, because when I Googled them, they were about meniscus tears and surgical repair of same, rather than kneecap issues.

My brain hurts. Thanks to the shot, my knee hurts less than it did, although not as much less as it did after shot #1. We'll see how it does over the next few weeks, though.

Awning

Big. Nice. Easier to unfurl than to furl, so at some point we may want to invest in a motor, but being able to get it out of wind and weather -- even with significant expenditures of upper-body strength -- is a real plus.

I have my summer office back! Yay!

Feeling Old

My grades are in, and I'm celebrating with a round of doctor's appointments. Sigh.

Ever since the migraine from the Black Lagoon, which after all was over a month ago, I've had annoying headaches. So today I hied myself to my friendly Primary Care Provider, who called in a script for antibiotics. He agrees with my assessment that it may be a sinus infection.

Meanwhile, my right knee has gotten really crunchy again, and stairs are once again a challenge, so tomorrow I'm returning to my friendly Orthopod for another cortisone shot. I was complaining about this to my PCP -- between my back, my knee, and various other creaky bits, the pain-somewhere-every-day thing makes me feel more like I'm eighty than like I'm fifty -- but he wasn't very interested. Without taking his eyes off his PDA, he said that I just have to keep up my exercise, or I'll feel even worse.

Lovely.

Also, I seem to have gained back the few pounds I'd lost, which is more than a little discouraging. I told the PCP about that, too, but he just grunted (still looking at the PDA). I'm sure he hears such complaints all the time; still, I've started to hate having to see him for anything, since the contact feels so impersonal. I'm not sure any other primary-care folks in town are any better, though. It seems to be the nature of the territory.

The Orthopod is more personable, or was the last time I saw him, anyway. My chiropractor's infinitely more personable; she spends no longer with me per appointment than my PCP does (an average of ten minutes), but I feel like she sees me as a whole person, not just a presenting symptom. Of course, she sees me every week, which makes a difference. She also makes much more eye contact, with makes a huge difference.

Elsewhere in health news, my current CPAP mask has started to ooze blue silicone goo, so I got online to order another and discovered that my favorite mask's being discontinued. Horrors! So I ordered three. The website where I buy them now requires a prescription even for a mask. What in the world? Is there a big black market in CPAP masks? Are people using them to snort illicit substances? I can't imagine why access to these things needs to be controlled.

But it does, evidently. Conveniently, the website offers to contact your doctor for the script, so I entered my pulmonologist's name . . . and up popped her group-practice name, address and phone number. These folks are good!

With any luck, my knee will feel markedly better tomorrow, and my head will feel markedly better within the next ten days, and my back will remain at the not-happy-but-not-screaming level. Then maybe I'll start to feel a few decades younger.

My current decrepitude is so frustrating at least partly because I feel like I do so much right. I don't smoke; I drink hardly anything (an inch of wine every two weeks, at most); I take my vitamins, wear my seatbelt, eat pretty darn well, and exercise religiously. But, like the good doc said, I guess there's no way to know how much worse I'd feel otherwise.

Tomorrow we're getting our new awning, which will make sitting outside much easier than it is now. Sunshine will help.

Since You Haven't Seen a Cat in a While

That End of the Hall

The ER where I volunteer has a particular set of rooms often used for psychiatric cases. They feature things like steel shutters that pull down over equipment panels, so someone who's acting out can't destroy medical gizmos. Even without such special features, the staff tends to cluster the psych patients close together so that sitters -- staff charged to watch them -- and/or security have only one area to cover.

The rooms were lively today. One patient kept begging to use the cell phones of passersby, and ultimately got into a yelling match with a doctor while security guards and nurses looked on. (It's hard to say who was more frustrated, the doctor or the patient.) Another patient wound up in four-point restraint. "One arm up, one down!" the nurse instructed the security guards who'd be trussing up the patient. She later told me that if both arms are down, the patient can still head-butt someone who, for instance, is changing an IV. If one arm's down at the patient's side and another's over the patient's head, movement's much more restricted. And then we had a frequent flyer, someone notorious in the department and whom I've met at least twice over the last few years, who had already been in two other times this week.

Psych patients have to be medically cleared before they can be sent to psych hospitals (and have to wait for beds to become available in those facilities). They also have to be evaluated by a psychologist, psychiatrist or psychiatric social worker. These individuals aren't dedicated to one department, or even one hospital. They're on call and float among all the hospitals in the area, which means that it can take hours for them to show up.

When you add all these factors together, some psych patients wind up being held in the ER for forty-eight hours. This would be nearly intolerable for any patient, but psych patients are, by definition, already emotionally unstable. Nobody likes waiting in an ER; psych patients are probably less able to handle long wait times than anyone else, and they wind up with the longest wait times of all.

Let's do a thought experiment. Imagine an average citizen who isn't already depressed, paranoid, or feeling violent towards self or others. Maybe you're picturing yourself; maybe you're picturing someone you think is better adjusted than you are. Now, stick this person in a small white room. Deprive this person of all clothing and other personal possessions -- since just about anything you can imagine could conceivably become an instrument of destruction -- and give your patient a humiliating hospital gown instead. Outside the door, park an aide or nurse who peers in at regular intervals.

Your patient will be given food and warm blankets, and may even have a private bathroom. A chaplain may stop by for a chat. Doctors and nurses will show up for a medical evaluation early on, but after that, no one can tell the patient how soon the person performing the psych evaluation will arrive, because no one knows. Once the psych evaluation has taken place, no one can tell the patient how soon a bed will be available at the facility across town. Once a bed opens up, it's anyone's guess when transport will show up. If the patient wants to leave, she or he will be told, "No, you're on a legal hold." Everyone will try to be as nice as possible, but if the patient starts getting cranky, the attitude of the staff is likely to go downhill fast. In most cases -- for reasons I don't entirely understand myself -- the patient won't have access to whatever medication he or she was taking (or not taking) at home. And all of this could go on for up to two days.

At the end of those two days, is your average citizen feeling depressed or paranoid yet? Fighting an urge to scream at people? Looking for things to throw?

Yeah. I thought so.

This system would drive the sanest of us bonkers, and the people subjected to it are already fragile. It stinks. Patients and staff both hate it, and too often vent their frustration on each other as the easiest accessible targets. Patients don't understand why they can't get their meds: they're in a hospital, aren't they? Providers don't understand why patients can't be more reasonable, and resent bad behavior even when that behavior's a symptom of the condition for which the patient is seeking treatment. It certainly doesn't help if the bad behavior involves attempted violence to staff. Even patients (psych or otherwise) who've walked into the hospital tend to start getting rebellious after ten or twelve hours; people who've been brought in against their will are even more unhappy.

Nobody was happy today. I usually like psych patients, but I found this bunch as exhausting as everyone else did (although my heart breaks for our frequent flyer, who's a very sad case). I was on the fringes of a staff kvetch-fest that featured people offering passionate rants about how much they hate dealing with psych patients. They want to be sympathetic; they try to be sympathetic. But they're overworked and have a million other urgent tasks to perform for patients for whom the ER is the front line, not a way station.

"The system's broken," I said. "It's like taking somebody with a broken leg and saying, 'Okay, we're gonna make you stand in a corner for forty-eight hours, on your broken leg, and we're not gonna give you pain meds.'"

People laughed. "That's pretty good, for a chaplain," said one of the docs. (We chaplains are a slow bunch, but we catch on eventually.) A case manager said, "You're right. The system is broken. Can you think of ways to fix it? Would you work on that?" (I think she was being serious, not sarcastic, although I may have missed some nuances in the general haze of fatigue and exasperation. Gary's response, when I told him about this later, was, "Are they paying you a consulting fee?")

"I think what we need is a dedicated psych ER," I said, "and that won't happen." The case manager sighed, nodded, and walked away.

Actually, we don't even need a dedicated psych ER. We do need a few ER staff who are dedicated to psych patients and who'll attend to their needs as quickly as everyone else attends to the purely medical cases. And, most of all, we need a ton more community mental-health resources. If we had those, some of these patients wouldn't wind up in the ER at all, and others would have more options about where to go post-ER.

None of that's going to happen, either, not in this economy. Those kinds of services are the things that get cut when money's tight. (And I've done enough research to know that the conditions I'm describing aren't limited to our area.) And, of course, many psychiatric patients can't pay for their care, which makes everything worse.

One patient today wound up being discharged, a huge relief for everybody. The frequent flyer asked me solemnly if I loved Jesus, and when I smiled and nodded, sang me a song he wrote about being friends with God. Then he rolled over to take a nap, which was probably the most sensible way for him to spend his time. I don't know what happened to the patient in restraints. For all I know, he and the frequent flyer are still in their respective small white rooms, all these hours later, frustrating a new shift of medical staff.

Really, there's got to be a way to do better by these folks. The question is how to do it without spending extra money. If anyone has any idea how to answer that, please let me know.

Ready for a Break

I've been very bad about posting, largely because, while there's a lot going on -- notably family medical concerns and an annoying situation with an alarming student -- most of it's stuff I can't discuss in any detail here. Let's just say that, while I'm glad classes are over, I've had better weeks.

Among other things, I've been entirely too conscious of non-stop Mother's Day advertising, which makes me miss Mom. My new church runs a very busy food pantry, and they solicited donations in honor of mothers, so I made one in memory of my mother and in thanksgiving for Gary's mom (who'll get a nice card from the church). That helped a little bit, but I'll be glad when the holiday's over for another year.

On the bright side:

Classes are over, except for the final I'm giving next week.

I've been chipping away at the book manuscript, mostly managing to write 1,000 words a day. I'm not happy with the results, but at least I have something to revise.

I've been exercising a lot, and have managed to lose a few pounds. I'm no longer officially-according-to-my-BMI overweight, although I'd like to lose a lot more (if only to give my back and knee a break: both have been complaining mightily lately).

I'm reading a wonderful book: Chris Adrian's new novel The Great Night.

Gary and I attended an astonishingly accomplished graduate viola recital last night.

Speaking of violas, I've started practicing mine again, and I'm having fun with it, even if the results aren't even remotely accomplished.

Gary and I just finished watching the first season of David Simon's new series Treme, which we loved (and I don't even like jazz!). I found the post-Katrina New Orleans setting especially poignant because my father still lived on the Gulf Coast when all of that was happening.

Last week I covered a class for a colleague who was dealing with a family emergency. This wasn't a big deal, especially since it was a really fun class. It's the kind of thing all of us do for each other whenever it's necessary. Colleagues covered for me when my parents died, for instance. Everybody hopes it won't be necessary, because you don't want your co-workers to be dealing with crises, but I don't think anyone expects any acknowledgment except a simple "thanks so much" (and depending on circumstances, even that's optional).

The colleague for whom I covered has a really impressive jewelry collection -- and this is coming from me, so that's saying something -- and we've periodically admired each other's pieces. I don't remember talking to her about turtles, but at some point she must have picked up on how much I like them, because earlier this week I discovered in my mailbox a thank-you card taped to a box containing this stunning item.

I was very nearly speechless (and coming from me, that's saying something!).

I've worn the pendant several times already and have gotten lots of compliments on it. Right now, the turtle's an especially timely reminder of things I need to remember:

* Hiding under your shell is fine, but you need to stick your neck out to get anywhere.
* It's okay to go slowly as long as you keep moving.
* Only carry as much as you need.

So that was my week, o gentle readers. How are all of you?

Mythcon, Here I Come

Long time no post, I know. It's been a packed week: I'm the scholarships coordinator for our department and our annual awards ceremony was yesterday, so I was busy getting ready for that, and I also had an article deadline. The scholarships have been awarded and the article's in (although I haven't heard from the editor yet, so I don't know if she's accepted it). I still have one more set of classes on Monday, and a final exam the following Monday, but I feel like I can breathe a little easier.

Sabbatical's almost here.

To celebrate my getting through the week, we went out for pizza last night, to the place in town that serves soy cheese on gluten-free crust. It's surprisingly good: not "real" pizza, of course, but as close as I'm going to get, and tasty in its own right. Over dinner, I mentioned that Mythcon's in Albuquerque this year, and Gary said, "You should go." (The article I just sent in will, I hope, appear in the MLA's volume on Approaches to Teaching Tolkien, which is how we got onto Mythcon.)

I've only been to one Mythcon, back when The Necessary Beggar was nominated for a Mythopoeic Award. I didn't win, but I had a wonderful time anyway. Everyone was very friendly. The papers were both accessible and interesting, which is more than I can say of some conferences I've attended. I felt at home there, not least because I didn't have to worry about being bashed for being Christian (Wiscon can get pretty hostile that way). A conference devoted to the work of the Inklings isn't going to bash anybody for being Christian!

The problem is that even if UNR has any travel money left -- doubtful, in the present climate -- I can't get it unless I'm giving an academic paper, and Mythcon's theme this year hasn't inspired me . "You should go anyway," Gary said. "You'll have a good time. You'll see friends."

So I'm going. I got up this morning and made my hotel reservation and plane reservation, and then bought my membership and meal plan. One of the great things about Mythcon is that everyone eats together, so you really get to meet people, and there's none of that seventh-grade-ish "oh man whom I gonna eat lunch with and will that group over there let me in?" thing that tends to happen at Wiscon and other cons, where small groups congregate in the hotel lobby right before mealtimes and unattached folks wander around trolling for invitations. I didn't enjoy seventh grade the first time, and I still don't. Mythcon's much more restful; you just find an empty seat, sit down and start talking to people.

But, yeah: here I go again, spending money right before sabbatical. We have more left over this month than we expected, though, and it will cover the entire Mythcon package.

So in July I'm going to Mythcon, and in August, Worldcon's coming to Reno, and my old friends are coming to my house for dinner. Bwah-hah-ha!

I can't remember the last time I attended two conventions in two months. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever attended two conventions in two months.

Huh. My geek quotient may be lower than I thought!

Easter

Happy Easter.

Last night I attended the Great Vigil, which never fails to move me. The transition from darkness to light is beautiful. This is the first Great Vigil I've attended which used a cantor -- a young woman with a lovely voice -- and that added to the power of the service.

One of the things I loved about my old church was how much of the sanctuary had been handmade by parishioners or former clergy; the altar and roodbeam were carved by a former rector, and the stained glass windows were designed by a former parishioner and cut and assembled, under that parishioner's direction, by a group of people in the congregation who met once a week for many months to work on the project. That happened long before I arrived, but I always loved the story.

Many people in my old parish moved to our mini-cathedral downtown. This is a gorgeous building, but to me it's always seemed like an uncomfortable worship space: too formal and too large, not human-sized enough for me. The church I attend now is on a more comfortable scale (larger than my old church, but smaller than the fancy one), but won't win any awards for aesthetics. The walls are cinderblock with glass bricks scattered throughout to let in light; the floor's linoleum. And above the altar hangs -- may I be forgiven for saying this -- one of the most unappealing Christus Rex crucifixes I've ever seen. It's huge, shiny, and looks like ceramic; light emanates from behind it. To me, it's always looked like a particularly hideous nightlight someone bought at a yard sale. (Last night I was sitting next to our bishop's wife, and she giggled when I said that.) One of the advantages of Lent and Holy Week, from my point of view, was that this excrescence was veiled.

At the beginning of last night's service, I couldn't see it at all, because everything was dark. But part of the blaze of light preceding "He Is Risen!" -- the high point of the service -- came when someone flicked the switch to turn on the nightlight. We were in the dark with just candles, and more candles were being lit, but all of a sudden . . . there he was, the Savior, glowing from the wall in all his ceramic glory.

I got a lump in my throat, and acquired new and grudging respect for the nightlight.

After the service, I told the rector about this. Looking a bit pained, he said, "That piece was hand-carved by a parishioner. It's wood."

"It's wood? It looks like ceramic!"

"It needs to be stripped and refinished."

"Yes, please. Strip and refinish it so it actually looks like wood. I think that would help a lot."

Whether that ever happens or not, I'm now a lot fonder of the thing than I used to be: not just because of the Easter moment, but because the crucifix was a labor of love by someone who belonged to the church.

I didn't go to church this morning, since the pastel-and-Easter-egg scene always makes me itch. Instead, I pigged out on smoked salmon for breakfast, a special Easter treat, and then went to the hospital. It was a pretty good shift; at least one family was actively glad I was there, and I had nice conversations with several staff members. Also, I've discovered a pastoral rationale for going to Hawai'i: it's actually useful at the hospital. Today I had a patient going into surgery who was in pain and very frightened, but I noticed that her husband was wearing a Kaua'i cap, and we had a lively conversation about their trip to the island that distracted her from her pain for a few minutes, and gave me material for a guided visualization exercise later on, when her pain came back.

Let's hear it for tropical islands.

Good Friday

My friend John Shorb points out that having Good Friday fall on Earth Day is one of the more sobering combinations he can think of.

Yup.

The Maundy Thursday service last night was very nice -- especially powerful when it came time to strip the altar -- and I think the homily was well-received. Some responses were warmer than others, but I don't think I fell on my face, and nobody walked out (which happened at least once at St. Stephen's, and was more than a little disconcerting).

After church we watched a wonderful HBO biopic about Temple Grandin. I highly recommend this to anyone who hasn't already seen it.

Tonight I'll be going to a Good Friday service. Tomorrow Gary's going to an opera simulcast in the morning, and then we'll meet for lunch downtown before going to an afternoon chamber-music concert at the university, and then at night I'll be going to the Great Vigil.

I'm not going to church on Sunday. The Great Vigil is my Easter service, and also my favorite service of the year; Easter Sunday services -- which to me tend to highlight the commercialized-kitsch aspects of Easter -- always seem seriously anticlimactic after that glory. So I'll go to the hospital Sunday instead of tomorrow. I like being there on holidays, and I think the staff and patients appreciate having volunteers around then too.

Somewhere in here, I have to get a lot of work done. Wheeeee!

Giving God a Good Name

Here's my Maundy Thursday homily. This is my first time preaching at the new parish -- under this management, anyway; I guest-preached there years ago when they had a different rector -- and I'm nervous, since I don't know the congregation that well yet.

Please wish me luck!

*

I am the only churchgoer in my family. My midlife conversion -- I was baptized at the age of thirty-nine -- created both astonishment and alarm in the secular humanists who love me. They couldn’t figure out why someone they had always considered intelligent now believed in impossible fairy tales like resurrection. They were embarrassed that I took communion, which they saw as a superstitious ritual. They viewed my faith as a symptom of a possible brain disorder.

My father, a furiously lapsed Catholic since early adolescence, started calling me whenever a tragedy, massacre, or natural disaster showed up on the news. “Where’s your God now, Susan? What kind of loving God would allow this to happen?”

After a while, I worked out an answer. “Dad, God’s where the love is. Look for the people who are helping. Look for the relief efforts, the humanitarian aid, the compassion. That’s where you’ll find God.” I never convinced him. He believed devoutly that people should help each other in crisis, but to him, that kind of help was purely human, not divine.

One Holy Week, only a few years after I started going to church, I flew to Philadelphia for an academic conference. I was staying with my family, and I wanted to attend Holy Week services. My family had planned dinners and outings for my visit, though, and church services did not fit into the schedule. The only service I might be able to get to was Maundy Thursday.

“Why do you want to do this?” asked my mother. “It’s Thursday. Who goes to church on a Thursday?”

“It’s Holy Week, Mom. This is the night we wash each other’s feet and remember Jesus’ instructions about the eucharist.”

“You wash each other’s feet?” My mother stared at me while my older sister snickered in the background. “Honey, you took a shower this morning. Your feet are fine.”

My beloved secular humanists decided that we should all go to the theater that evening instead. Ironically, we wound up seeing a community-theater production of Jesus Christ, Superstar, which worked just fine. My family enjoyed the music and I got my Holy Week story, although I didn’t get my feet washed that year.

Every Maundy Thursday since then, I’ve remembered this incident. This year, it struck me that had I been able to drag my family to church that night -- not that I would have tried, since I respect their freedom of irreligion -- they might have discovered that Maundy Thursday actually offered nothing to offend or alarm them.

This evening’s liturgy highlights three instructions, three legacies Jesus leaves his disciples. He tells them to let him wash their feet: indeed, he insists on doing so. He commands them to love one another as he has loved them -- by washing each other’s feet, among other things -- and he asks them to honor his memory with a special meal.

Accepting help from others, performing loving service, and remembering those we love when we break bread need not be faith-based activities. Even secular humanists can wrap their heads around these ideas.

Of course, the symbolic elements of the Eucharist -- the “this is my body, this is my blood” part -- can make people squirm even if they love Jesus. Earlier in the Gospel of John, we learn that some of Jesus’ disciples literally couldn’t swallow this “hard saying,” and left. But when you think about it, the Eucharist is really the act of taking something that has been broken, something we cherish that has seemingly been destroyed, and turning it into a gift.

I believe that this desire to redeem tragedy is universal. It’s why people become organ donors. It’s why bereaved families establish scholarship funds and ask for donations to favorite charities. It’s why survivors of crime and cancer and catastrophe start support groups for others going through the same thing. All of us, Christian or not, try to answer the question, “How can I make my pain mean something? How can I turn my tragedy into something good for someone else?”

As Christians, we believe that the ultimate answer to that question is the Resurrection. God turned the agony of His Son, the wrenching grief of Jesus’ disciples and friends and family, into the ultimate joy: the miracle and glory of the Risen Christ, the assurance that death has no dominion, the promise that the grave is not the end of Jesus’ story, or ours.

But that’s Easter. Today’s Maundy Thursday. Tomorrow’s Good Friday, the most painful day in the Christian calendar, the day when the disciples surely must have demanded, of themselves and each other, “How could a loving God let this happen? Where is our loving God now?” The Resurrection hasn’t happened yet. Jesus has told them it will happen, but I’m not sure any of them could have actually believed that until they saw it: until they saw him, risen.

And I think Jesus knew that. I think that’s why, on Maundy Thursday, he gave them instructions they could keep even when they were in pain. He doesn’t say, “You must have perfect faith that I will rise from the grave.” He doesn’t command them to banish doubt or fear. Instead, he gives them work they can do even in the middle of doubt and fear. Accept loving service. Give loving service. Find ways to transform brokenness into blessing.

Tomorrow is Good Friday, but all of us live through Good Fridays noted on no church calendar. We live through the deaths of those we love, through the loss of jobs and homes and parishes, through the agonies of illness both chronic and acute. We watch as our world is shattered by war, earthquake, and economic collapse. Every day, our newspapers and televisions bring us precious little Good News, and unending sagas of violence and atrocity.

We know the end of the story. We believe in Easter. But sometimes Easter’s a long time coming, and we find ourselves in darkness, in the kind of doubt and fear the disciples must have felt during that first Good Friday. What are we supposed to do now? How can we salvage anything good from all this horror? What kind of loving God would have let this happen?

At these times, Maundy Thursday reminds us that it’s okay to doubt, okay to question, okay to have moments when we don’t even believe. Unwavering, unshakeable faith is not what our loving God demands of us. What our loving God demands of us is the kind of loving service that even secular humanists can believe in.

For several years at St. Stephen’s, I helped out with Family Promise, the housing ministry for homeless families. I believe many people here at St. Paul’s have been involved with Family Promise, too. Although my parents didn’t share or understand my religious beliefs, they thoroughly approved of this project. To my amazement, I once heard my father tell some friends, “I never thought I’d say this, but Susan’s church gives God a good name.”

In our darkest hours, our personal Good Fridays, let us try to remember that Easter always comes, and to have faith. But if we find that impossible, let us be content with the tasks Jesus gave us before his resurrection. Let us love each other as Christ loved us: caring for our neighbors, God’s beloved children, in ways that give God a good name.

Amen.

But That's Why I Love Him

Have I mentioned that my husband's a little strange, although no stranger than I am? We're strange in different ways, though. He, for instance, is fascinated by bad weather, and actively looks forward to rough days at sea. I enjoy a bit of rolling just so I know I'm on a boat, but I don't want to go through anything too dramatic.

He's gearing up for the November cruise by watching videos of cruise ships in storms. His current favorite is this little gem. (The music's a disco version of the theme song from Titanic; how fitting!)

I gather that everyone on that cruise got 20% off their next one. No wonder! Geez!

Sweetie, you can go on that cruise. I'll take the calm boat, thank you.

Ride on, Horsemen

My editor once commented -- and I think I've quoted this here before -- that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are always riding through some neighborhood, but we only notice it when they're in ours. Well, they've been hanging out at and around UNR for a while now, and they need to move along.

In the last two weeks, two members of my department have lost beloved family members (a daughter, a sister) who should have had decades more in front of them. Both of these were sudden freak medical catastrophes. Two of my students have parents just diagnosed with scary conditions; one of those students was already dealing with personal medical issues.

You already know about Glick.

To be fair, this isn't just happening at UNR. A friend of mine who's an English professor at a small school in Michigan reports that one colleague just died in childbirth and another's been newly diagnosed with a brain tumor. Those events happened within a week.

A lot of these horrors involve brains: tumors, aneurysms, strokes. One of the ER docs I know says that he's seen a lot more brain tumors lately. I wonder if anyone knows why. Cell phones? Environmental toxins? Too much computer time?

Horsemen: Shoo. Vamoose. Get out of here. You aren't welcome. We aren't the droids you're looking for. Skedaddle. Go somewhere else, but leave everybody there alone. Take up golf. Learn to meditate. Get another job. Get a better hobby. Get lives of your own so you can stop grabbing other people's. Take a break. Take a hike. Take a bow right off this stage.

Prudence Wins Out. Barely.

So this morning I got e-mail from an old college friend: one of my TAs from freshman year, if you can believe it. We're still in touch all these years later! He's in Switzerland now but had seen the news story about Glick, and sent me a note, and I mentioned the Hawai'i cruise, and he mentioned that he has a timeshare in Kona, and said he has a few extra weeks he can't use.

We've been wanting to go to Kona.

We could have gotten this place for a ridiculously small amount: less per week than one usually pays per night in Hawai'i.

We were all set to do it. But then I started looking at airfare, and came back to my senses. The available weeks are only about three months before our cruise; it just doesn't make fiscal sense to take two expensive vacations on low pay, even if one of them's an unbelievable steal once you get there. The airfare's the real deal-breaker, but we'd also have to rent a car and buy groceries (mondo expensive in Hawai'i), and would probably want to eat out and do other stuff that costs money.

So, reluctantly, after a flurry of e-mails when I thought I was taking him up on this very generous offer, I very reluctantly told him that we'd decided we just can't this time, but that he should please (please!) keep us in mind if the same thing happens next year.

Sigh.

Sometimes it sucks being a grownup.

Carpe Diem

I woke up this morning to a shaken e-mail from the head of the faculty senate, announcing that UNR President Milt Glick died of a massive stroke last night. Gary and I had seen him and his wife the night before at a concert. He looked great.

The mind reels. I can't help but wonder what role the state budget crisis played in this. The guy's been under incomprehensible pressure. Our bodies feel these things.

My immediate response -- surprise, surprise -- was to book a cruise in November for Gary's sixtieth birthday. It's a fourteen-day circle Hawaii trip, again on Holland America (on the same boat as our other two cruises, in fact; someday we'll get off the Oosterdam!). This goes well beyond decadent into financially irresponsible, but as I told Gary, "Life is short, and you only turn sixty once." And this cruise has been near the top of our wishlist.

We love Hawaii; we've already been to three of the four ports on the itinerary, but that means that we'll be able to make excellent use of our time without paying for shore excursions. I'm already looking forward to snorkeling again in our favorite spot in Waikiki, and then eating at one of our favorite Thai restaurants.

Gary cried when he found out. I asked if he was mad at me, but he's not: we have the money, after all. As he said, it's not like we'll be living in a refrigerator carton because of this.

I called my sister and said, "I just did something completely financially irresponsible."

"You booked a cruise," she said, without missing a beat.

What, me, predictable?

This is an expensive little addiction I've developed, but it's better for my health than other addictions. And at least now, having booked our next cruise, I can stop obsessively searching the cruise websites, which will give me more time to do more useful things.

Thanks, Mom

Since Monday was the anniversary of Mom's death and Saturday is the anniversary of her funeral, I've been pretty weepy this week. I've certainly been thinking about her a lot.

Mom loved to help me (and later, Gary and me) buy major household items, or just buy them for us. Over the years, she was the generous source of at least two beds, an air conditioner, at least one refrigerator, a beautiful set of dining room chairs, a rocking chair, a bench for our hallway, and countless smaller things: knick-knacks and decorations, including a number of gorgeous needlepoint pieces she made herself. She'd grown up during the Depression, although her family was much better off than most. When I was a child, she struggled financially as a divorced woman raising two daughters (essentially without help from my father, whose alcoholism, for many years, kept him from being a good provider either for himself or anyone else). I never knew a time when she wasn't acutely aware of money, but she also loved spending it on nice things for herself and for us. Most parents love helping out their kids, but I think my parents, because of their family and personal histories, especially treasured that role. (My father never stopped drinking entirely, but he became quite a bit more stable -- and infinitely more financially responsible -- in the last twenty years of his life, and he was thrilled when Gary and I moved into our house. He flew out to help us, drove the moving van, bought us a fancy drill, and worked twelve hours a day fixing things around the new place.)

We didn't inherit a gigantic amount of money from my mother, but it's been enough to pay for a new roof and the new deck. Our tax refund this year -- which came indirectly from her, since we deliberately over-withheld on the inheritance -- paid for the new elliptical.

Today we got the final check from the estate, our share of the amount the attorney had been holding back in case any unexpected bills came in. "Hey, this will pay for two-thirds of the new awning," Gary said.

"Mom's still helping out," I told him. And of course I got weepy again, and even weepier when I called my sister to tell her we'd gotten the check.

My father loved sitting on our old deck, although it was so rickety that I cringed whenever I saw him inching across it. He would have adored the new one. So would Mom, and I know she'd be delighted that she helped us buy the awning for it.

Spring Flowers

Not Much to Report . . .

. . . but I'm posting anyway.

So far I've used the elliptical half an hour a day; two of those days, I've also done half an hour of laps in the pool. More would probably be better, but this is more than I was doing before we got the elliptical. Baby steps. I've decided that the most important thing is to make sure that I enjoy each workout, even if I'm not breaking any Olympic records, so I'll keep doing it. I'm having fun listening to music on my BlackBerry while I work the machine.

Mom died a year ago today. I'm sad.

In the past week or so I've written two new CHR columns and my Maundy Thursday homily; I'm fairly happy about all of that, but would be happier were I getting any fiction written.

The baby sweater continues. I'm now working on the first sleeve. This is a top-down project, which means you leave stitches on waste yarn for the shoulders of the sleeves and pick up stitches for the underarm. My first two sleeve attempts were disasters, because when I picked up the number of stitches specified in the pattern, I had huge holes. I increased the number of pick-up stitches and now have something that looks halfway plausible, I think. Whether this item will fit a human child when it's finished is anyone's guess.

Next week, the guy who built our deck last summer will make some minor repairs, and also pressure-wash and seal it for the summer. Today Gary met with the guy who's constructing and installing our 17'x13' retractable awning; that should be done in ten to twenty days. Of course, the minute everything's finished and we put the deck furniture out, we'll have a blizzard. (It snowed here on May 22 last year.)

We're going to try to pretend that our deck is the deck of a cruise ship. We're both in major jonesing-for-another-cruise mode, which isn't very practical given the financial realities of sabbatical (or of life in Nevada right now). But I still find myself obsessively searching Vacations to Go, and Holland America keeps sending us glossy brochures -- cruise porn -- which doesn't help.

That's my dull life right now, but there are worse things than dull.

Meet Elsie Elliptical!

We welcomed our latest gadget today; she actually arrived half an hour early. I promptly hopped on and worked out for half an hour, burning 222 calories and going 1.7 miles, although I was only on the first resistance level (I have to be careful with that because of my knees). Later, Gary did a half hour too, going five miles an hour at level five and burning 300 calories.

We both love this piece of equipment (a Horizon EX-59, if anyone's curious). It's incredibly smooth, solid and quiet, especially for the price. I'm really delighted with how much Gary likes it: he's the Exercise King in the family -- avid hiker, former bike racer and marathon runner, the guy I can never work out with because I'm always eating his dust -- but he'd never even heard of ellipticals until I mentioned the fact that I enjoy the ones at my gym. He finds treadmills and stationary bikes boring and too limited, but he loves Elsie. So I feel like I actually taught something in the fitness arena, which is definitely a first. And this gizmo works both for my modest needs and his more intense ones: perfect!

The cats are somewhat less smitten. Figgy has sniffed cautiously at the thing and then wandered off, seeming calm enough. Bali raced in a frenzy through the house when Elsie arrived, finally got up the courage to sniff around her, and then zoomed off again in absolute terror (we aren't sure what sparked that, since we were watching at the time and nothing had happened; the machine was just sitting there). Poor baby! We'll just have to be extra nice to him until he calms down.

Home Improvements

Well, I'm still a little headachy and a little nauseous, but -- after a very slow and discombobulated day -- I managed to swim for half an hour this evening. Since I hadn't exercised since Saturday (skipping my Sunday workout may have been one of the causes of the Tuesday migraine), I feel as if I'm now getting back on track.

And just in time, since our new elliptical arrives tomorrow! Yay! I'm so looking forward to being able to work out at home without having to gather all my gym gear (although I'll still use the pool at the gym). Gary's looking forward to being able to work out at home when bad weather prevents hiking. We're both curious about how the cats will respond to the new intruder; I foresee initial alarm, especially when the thing's moving, but I'm sure they'll adjust.

On Monday, the guy who built our deck is coming over to fix a loose post. We're going to find out how much he'd charge to do the annual pressure washing and resealing.

Our shade canopy collapsed in a rainstorm last autumn and was wrecked beyond repair, so we're going to invest in a large custom retractable awning (with a manual crank, not one of the motorized ones, which brings the price down at least a little bit). This is a large chunk of change, but it's also a big improvement to our living space. We spend a lot of time out on the deck in warm weather -- I effectively move my office out there for at least part of the day, and we like to entertain there too -- and adequate shade's essential. (This is the driest, sunniest state in the country, and we're also at altitude, so UV protection is a real issue.)

The awning plus the elliptical add up to a lot of money when I'm about to a) have my pay cut and b) go onto two-thirds of the lower salary because of the sabbatical. But since I'm staying home during the sabbatical, home needs to be as pleasant and workable as we can make it, and I think these two items will really help.

Souvenir from Yesterday

Here's the most dramatic botched-IV bruise. This puppy's two and a half inches long. Luckily, it's much less painful than it looks.

Note: Posting a photo of the bruise was Gary's idea, so complain to him if you find it distasteful!

I still have a bit of a headache, and very sore muscles from the GI excitement and the uncomfortable urgent-care table, but I managed to muddle through work today. I just hope I can finally shake the headache tomorrow.

Whatta Week (and it's only Tuesday!)

Yesterday UNR announced a new list of possible budget cuts, including the elimination of the Philosophy Department. The mood at work is not good. My personal mood isn't stellar right now either. Monday will be a year since Mom died, so I've been very aware of the events that led up to that.

Maybe it wasn't too surprising, then, that today I woke up with a migraine. I haven't had one of those for years. I did what I usually do: have a bland breakfast, take Tylenol, drink some coffee, and hope it doesn't all come back up.

It came back up. It kept coming back up. The tiny sips of water I took to try to rehydrate came up too. All in all, we had four very unpleasant episodes of Coming Back Up, between which I lay in bed, literally moaning in pain. This was very unusual. Usually stuff comes back up once, I take a nap, and when I wake up I feel all better. Not today.

So I made other arrangements for the class I was supposed to teach today, covering for a colleague who's on bereavement leave after a very tragic loss (have I mentioned that the mood at work isn't good?), and -- after a phone call to a nurse hotline, which advised me to be seen within four hours, and to my primary-care doc, who couldn't get me in today -- arranged for a friend to drive me to a local Urgent Care. The Urgent Care I usually go to is moderately far away, so I was pleased to discover that my medical group has one much closer, right across the street from the assisted-living place where Dad used to live. (It's a measure of how whacked-out I was by the migraine that at first I didn't even recognize the name of the street.)

I'm not sure I'll be going back there, though.

Here's the procedure I'm used to: you walk in, you're checked in right away, you're seen by a triage nurse within a few minutes, and then you're sent out to wait more minutes or hours, depending on what else is going on. At this place, I didn't even get checked in for half an hour. There appeared to be no triage nurse. Half an hour after I was checked in, I felt cruddy enough to actually lie down across two seats in the waiting room, at which point my friend Linda went up to the desk and said, "My friend really feels awful. When will she be seen?"

Well, after that they took me immediately back to a room, let me lie down, gave me a blanket, cooed over me, and dimmed the lights. A medical assistant took my vitals, which were fine, and then a Nurse Practitioner came in, asked me what was going on, and gave me the most thorough physical I've had in years. She actually touched my body! My primary-care doc never does that anymore. She decided that I could use some IV rehydration, which was exactly why I'd gone in.

Then the fun started. The medical assistant tried to start an IV in my right arm and blew the vein. This was a slow, bizarre process: she had to go in and out of the room about fifty times to collect the supplies even to start the thing, and then she kept anxiously peering at various bits of paraphernalia, and I kept anxiously peering at her long, painted fingernails, which, for hygiene reasons, would never be allowed in the hospital where I volunteer. After she'd placed the IV, she had another staff member come in and inspect her work. The two of them peered, poked, prodded, bit their lips while staring up at the IV bag, which wasn't dripping properly, ascertained from me that the IV site was indeed burning, and decided to pull the IV and start again.

Medical assistant #2 decided to start the new IV in my right hand. (Both of them had assured me cheerfully that I had nice fat veins.) This was an inordinately painful process that didn't work out any better than the first one had, so they pulled that, too.

Then the Nurse Practitioner showed up. All three of them examined my left arm, making helpful comments like, "These are nasty veins." I commented that the downside of Urgent Care is that they probably don't have to start many IVs and therefore aren't adept at it. The Nurse Practitioner told me that they start lots of IVs! Two or three a day! (I thought, but didn't say, lady, where I usually hang out, that would be two or three a minute.) The NP decided that she was going to attempt the IV in the left arm; she'd been an ICU nurse before she became an NP, she told me, and was very good at IVs.

She got the needle in fine, but then she couldn't get the IV tube attached to it. "This is a new kind," she said. "I don't know how this works." Oh, terrific. She finally, with a lot of painful twisting of the needle, got the tube connected. Everyone recommenced staring anxiously at the IV bag, which once again refused to drip properly, and I complained about burning at this IV site too, so IV #3 was a bust. (I now have very colorful bruises on both arms, especially the left one.)

"We're not going to poke you again," the NP said soothingly, as MA #1 brought me a warm blanket. (I'd told her that they needed blanket warmers like the ER has; she put my blanket in a microwave to warm it up for me, which was very sweet.) "We're just going to give you a GI cocktail and a lot of water to drink and see if you keep it down."

I kept it down. My head still hurt like nobody's business -- probably, at this point, because I'd had nothing to eat all day and it was almost dinnertime -- so the NP decided to give me a shot of Toradol. She was very patient with the questions I fired at her after researching the drug on my BlackBerry. About half an hour after the injection -- three and a half hours after getting to the Urgent Care place -- I was finally feeling a bit better, and they let me leave.

I don't believe there was a doctor in the building. I only saw four staff members: NP, the two MAs, and a young woman whose role I never determined, but who looked about twelve. They were all very sweet; they all apologized copiously for the blown veins, praised me for my sense of humor through the ordeal, and told me repeatedly that they hope I feel better.

I still don't think I'll be going back there.

I'm now, as per NP's orders, pushing diluted Gatorade. If I can't get a certain amount of that down by 9 PM, or if I start vomiting again, I'm to go to an Emergency Room, where the staff will presumably be better at starting IVs. I don't think I'll need to go to the ER, although I'm not sure I'll be going to work tomorrow.

I'm going to bed early, that's for sure.

On the bright side:

My friend Inez can come to WorldCon after all!

An acquaintance from college called last night, and we had a long and pleasant chat.

I've actually started knitting my first sweater! It's for a baby, but it's still a sweater!