Come sit with me, let's visit

Come sit with me, let's visit

Sunday, February 27, 2011


What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god!  --Hamlet, Act II, Scene II

If anyone who knows me reads this you will know something of me.... I love men.

Men of all shapes and sizes and worth. Tall and lanky, short and round. Asian, Mexican, black, white. I love to see them at their strength, weakness and sweating like a horse over some menial task. I love beer bellies and washboard abs. I love to see them cry in movies, and hide their emotions when saying something important to someone they love. I love the way they smell. How they bark when they know they are wrong.

I love men in jeans, suits and nothing at all. I find them fascinating in uniform. I find them sexy in a bathrobe and slippers.

Most of my readers will know I have been married more than twice. I love deeply and passionately, and like a roman candle, eventually I 'poof' my last. I still look at the man near me. I find them sexy in their own way. Does the hair curl over their ears, or do they shave it all with a Bic twice a week?

I flirt relentlessly. I smile and coo and touch them on the arm. I can make them laugh and even if they are the most sour-I can get a smile. There is some promise in me when I carry on. That I am uncatchable, except by you.

The truth is, I am Wild Woman. I cannot be caught. I cannot be tamed. I cannot live under the premise that you will keep me until I am old. That means I would get old. I have an untamed heart that has been broken too often to be held in a pair of hands. If you love me, really love me, and want my love in return you must do one thing. Actually love the crazy, wild, sweet, innocent maiden that has long gazed at the eyes of men, and found both beauty and insanity.

One of my many loves told me once that I was a great fisherman-of men. Apparently I have been on the catch and release plan. But, baby, I will always love you.

Thursday, February 24, 2011


Today I get to ignore the texts on my phone. I have had the pleasure of ignoring these texts for months. Though, I can tell which Supervisor is having a bad day with absences. Or lots of transfers.

I remember answering them, most of them. And putting on a uniform and going to work. A "Sasquatch" is a drink that I found here in town: five shots of espresso, with steamed cream. Took me 6 hours to drink it, but it was gooooooooood.

I have the fourth pair of boots that I bought for this job in my closet. They are breaking down on the inside. That's usually the part I loose on boots. My feet go in, my feet come out. I have ruined three zippers that lace into boots. I had one pair of boots that the zipper didn't fit quite right, it was too long. I kept the zipper in there anyway.

Wash the truck, patient care, unit checks, wash the truck, endless paperwork, clean socks, take a nap, wash the truck, what are we watching?, standing by a wall in a hospital, trying not to get run over by techs, waiting for a bed, washing the truck.

OH! and lets not forget the armchair quarter backs, 'you shouldn't have...' and 'why exactly did you do this...'. The quality assurance review "you forgot to....." eh, piss off.  "Why did you give Dopamine to an obvious stroke patient?" Because I called the doctor at the receiving facility and told him that her blood pressure was dangerously low and if I didn't she may have been dead by the time I got there (she lived, boys and girls, that one managed to live). "Why didn't you cancel the helicopter on this patient? The volunteers said he was fine." He wasn't fine, he had a heart rate of 160 according to the volunteers on scene. And he was stabbed six hours ago. Did you hear that his vital signs bottomed out when they landed at the hospital? Yea, he barely made it TOO surgery. But he lived, so no, I did not cancel the helicopter based on volunteers information.

I work, and miss school concerts, sporting events, the night before the dance. I work and I miss guiding a young girl to woman-hood. I work and I don't have energy for my son, who needs me. The pager, or the phone goes off and I put on my boots, with their broken insides and their over-sized zippers. I work, and missed most of their growing up. I took care of someone else.

I sleep on sofas, on lumpy beds, in smelly rooms, and in the front seat of the ambulance, with my leg leaning on the steering wheel.

I eat fast food, hot dogs that have been on rollers for God knows how long, just as long as the grease is still lubricating the rotation. I eat dried fruit, nuts and drink caffeine, not enough water and the occasion fruit juice. I eat cookies, I have eaten my weight in cookies.

I've been cussed at by patients, family, cops and the occasional fire fighter. I've been cussed about, and would probably have enjoyed most of that, had I been a fly on the wall. I nearly got arrested once for assault on a police officer, but the reason I shooed him off my patient was a closed head injury he was certain was drunkenness.

I have held hands. Hands of the pained, the birthing, the dying, the family. I have given hugs and held small children in my arms who were very frightened and barely comforted by my presence. I have held badly damaged hands in mine, removing large stones and sticks from them, so I can run water over in the injury and bandage this expressive hand my way. Your hands are so important, expressing love, hate, art, and great gestures. Injured hands are my weakness, they gross me out.

I love my job. I found myself in amazing places. In upside down cars, on rocky coastlines, in a tree, going through a house window, kneeling on the floor in a strangers bathroom, standing in a foyer bigger than my living room, afraid to touch the ornately carved banister. Silver Streamlines so small that I can smell in patients infection from the door. I love my job.

I love my boots. They make good sounds when I walk, soft and rhythmic like a quiet heart rate. They fit my small feet and make them look bigger. I feel strong and powerful that I can heal others. I feel very sad a small when patients die that I tried to save.

I love my job. I hate my job.

Monday, February 21, 2011

Ben Franklin

He that can compose himself, is wiser than he that composes books.

I have had Ben Franklin's list of 13 virtues in my calender for the last 5 years. This week it is Temperance which, according to what I see is: "Do not eat or drink to excess, only consume what is necessary.  Drunken states serve no purpose.  Gluttony will feel great for awhile, and take forever to work off. He does not allow himself to lose his balance in life, such as by easily losing his temper when stuck in a traffic jam.  The temperate man will not let his emotions or passions control him.  He will not devote himself wholly to the pursuit of pleasure, to the neglect of his duty to himself and to his family."

That is a lot to swallow in one single day. So I have read this, which I constructed from many sources, and I review what I may have done recently, and how I can conduct myself more appropriately in the future. I think I can say I have seen a change in a few things. I do, on occasion gorge myself on something delicious, but it really is a temporary pleasure, with the occasional gall bladder attack to bring me back to reality. My drinking has lessened considerably. I can count on one hand the times, in the last year I indulged deeply. The weekend my son got married only counts as one, by the way.

My temper is something I have fought with for ages. I did learn that I need two things. I place to vent, and a place of solitude. There are days when I simply MUST call out in rage my colorful and often selfish anger. I have had a few sounding boards and they are a wonderful resource. They tend to be some of my closest friends, because they will call and share their pain with me. It has created a few very nice bonds in my life and I am deeply grateful for each. But I have long since stopped throwing things and swinging at stuff.

Neglecting my family... ah, that is an interesting one. I have deeply complicated relationship with each of my children. I love them both unconditionally, and am so very proud of each. I have learned many things about being a parent, often the hard way. But that's my style. Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda. But we get wiser with age.  I still have them both, and the rest of my family is getting more of my love than they have in a long time. I have taken those walls down. I have learned that honesty, forgetfulness, with a dose of forgiveness is the key to strong family ties.

And that is just one of the Virtues Ben discusses. Five years I been working on this. Ben did it his whole life, I wonder if I will. Next week may be good, it is Silence, perhaps we wont have a blog... :)  

Friday, February 18, 2011


It's funny the way things remind you of other things...

Like the smell of baby powder smells like Grandma. Like a school bell turns you immediately eleven on a hot Spring day. The Post-It says to 'take to the post office', but it's not attached to anything. What had to go to the post office? Did I do it? How old is this note?

I have a bell on my phone that goes off three times a day, to remind me to do some things that I do to feel better. I stop everything I do and do what the bell reminds me of. If I don't stop what I am doing I get distracted by the next shiny object and forget where my day was. Then it's 5:30, and I haven't planned dinner.

I don't have a physical head injury. I don't have Alzheimer's. I have a perfectly good memory and can recall things of a caliber that have no necessity in daily living, like 'triskaidekaphobia' is a fear of Friday the 13th. But when I try to remember whether or not I said something to someone yesterday? Not so much, with the memory-remembering-thingy.

The love of a good friend can remind you where you left your center. The smell of puppy breath can take you back to childhood. A candle can remind you of a romantic evening.  The wrinkles you didn't have yesterday can remind you of the birthdate written on your driver's license.

Of course forgetting that you are pouring your heart out online is rather kind in it's own way...

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Moon Rise

When was the last time you looked at the sky? I mean the shapes of the clouds, the colors the sun has painted for you to see right then? When was the last time you laid on the ground and watched the stars move across the sky?

I have seen the sky in lots of different times and places. I have seen the sky when Mount St. Helen's painted colors with her ash from my place on the planet in New Mexico. I have watched countless sunsets over both the desert and the ocean. I have held my breath and listened while the sun settled for the night into the deep sea, and waited to see if I could hear the 'hiss' when the outer edge touches the water. I did hear something, it was memorable.

Do you know our planet is the only planet that has no moon? Our orbit is called the Moon, but it is not a true moon. A moon rotates on its own axis, our little orbit shows us the same side all day all night, we never see the dark side of the moon. Every other planet in our solar system has a moon, even Pluto has Charon.

I saw Hale-Bopp in the middle of the night during its closest moment to Earth, the tail could only be covered by my out stretched arm, with my whole palm. To date, probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in the sky. Like glitter spread in the wind, held motionless.

I have watched the stars so long, my eyes so used to the darkness, that satellites were easily seen traveling their lonely cold endless trek. I have wondered what they were doing, listening or talking... to who, and why.

One lovely night I was practicing as a junior pharmacist. Mixing a bit of this with a bit of that and the stars glided around for me. Graceful and elegant, nearly audible in their dance, or was that a mixture of music and an affinity for physicists?

The point is, you and I are very small and the universe is above us and showing us time and distance. Giving a perspective that can only barely be imagined by those of us with our feet planted on terra firma. So, just stop, and look up, pick something you recognize, say our little moon, and take one deep breath.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


Okay. Fine. [crosses arms, like a much practiced 2 year old]

Daddy. You have one. I have one. There. End Blog.

Don't know why I started this damnable blog anyway. Don't no one read it no how.

I remember being cuddled in his lap. I remember the smell of his cologne, his lip ointment (Blistex) and his after-shave (Old Spice). I remember the smell of spray starch (Niagra) that Mom used on his uniforms. I remember him picking me up to give me this big noisy good night kiss. I remember him making me a "Monster Tape" of horrible scary haunted house sounds, including the sound of footsteps of the 'man that got out of the scary haunted house' (Mom was mad, and said that it would give me nightmares). I see a man in Air Force khaki and my neck about snaps off making sure it is/isn't my 30 year old father.

Those are warm and fuzzy memories. I like those. They make me feel -warm.... and fuzzy.

There are other memories not so kind. Not so happy. No reason to put them on the internet. Daddy could read this and would be hurt. Maybe more hurt than I was by experiencing them. I will not absolve him here. I absolved him in my heart - at least I thought I did. Details aren't necessary.

I can weld, I can ride motorcycles, I spent nearly 20 years in what was a male dominated profession, when I started. I fix appliances. I fix the commode. I can shoot a gun with a pretty good accuracy (better than I will admit). I puzzle out that stuff that men stand around and swill beer and converse over. Some would call me 'Fun'. Some would call me 'Whore'. Some would stand in line. Some would never admit that I fucked them, and you know who you are. Some have made accusations, that were true, and some I swore were false, and are none of your business. No, I am not bragging. I am telling you what I can do, and have done.

Apparently, I want to either fight him, fuck him or forget him. I can do none of those things.

There are two Daddy's. One resides in his own body. The other resides in my mind. Is my conscience, or my ka, or my inner me. I don't know what shrinks call it, and I don't care. I can hear him, and he sounds like me. Telling me I am never good enough, never smart enough and if I were a boy, I could do more.

No, I don't want a sex change. Yes, I have penis envy, most who know me, know this. I want to beat you at what you can do. Not rub your nose in it. I just want to do better enough that I know I did better, and you aren't real sure I can tell.

I want him to call me and tell me he loves me. I want him to tell me he is proud of me. I want him to stop ignoring that I live, I breathe, I suffer his absence.  If he does this because I said all that, it wont count. I want him to read these words and know that I cried many times, because Daddy didn't tell me he loved me. I fought him, I hated him. I fucked him. and I left him- professionally, personally, intellectually. I did this in jobs, with lovers and inside myself. Over and Over and Over. I suffer his absence. I miss him. I need him. But I haven't the energy to bridge that gap, except with this cry, the cry of a small child, locked away in the cellar of my soul. Daddy, I miss you. 

It was short. It was brutal. It was the second one today. 

This is your Brain

I have mentioned the brain several times in this blog, and today I am going to talk about it exclusively. I will try not to get too technical as I know far more than I want to, I shall try to stay in the realm of the comprehensible.

The brain is a interesting thing, it keeps memories, emotions and physical abilities all tied up in its little electrical lines. Imagine millions of connections that tell you that the stove is hot, don't touch it: the husband is in trouble, and he's getting a butt chewing; and that (fill in the blank) is intellectually stimulating, and I want to know more.

This leaves us with a few different brains. Or brain behaviors.

Primal Brain, think of a baby cold, wet and hungry. This baby would scream - quite a lot. It also is the food, clothing, shelter brain. When you are afraid, it causes you to flee or fight. It insists that chocolate is your friend and there is no such thing as a frienemy. It gives you your gut instinct that the person you just met is not that cool. It doesn't give you any excuses for not being attracted to someone (like, the fact that you're married). It doesn't rationalize your budget or what the Jones' think. It is pure WANT. And pure NEED.

Mom Brain, think of the eyes in the back of your head (this, by no means is restricted to females). This is the brain that keeps you from getting thrown up on at the last second. Knowing when baby is really sick, versus just a cold. What that babble nonsense no one but you understands. It also makes you do things you would never do with an adult (make kissy sounds to entertain baby, not think twice about chasing that booger nose to it's source with a piece of plastic). It tends to work too long, if you were to ask some adults. Mom Brain, once established, doesn't go far. Those of you that have doted over random individuals that are sick, or hungry or emotionally upset, will know what I mean.

Medical Brain, this is what all medical folks should have. That isn't what Grandma has after her stroke, it's an ability to organize the tremendous volume of information that comes with learning medicine. Either the specialty of hematology (the study of blood), or pharmacology (the study of medications), geriatrics, pediatrics, odontology (teeth) or some mini version of all (paramedic). It also begins to automatically translate what a lay-person means in latin when they talk about Uncle Westley's leg wound getting all gross and gooey. Medical Brain is what happens when you find yourself thinking in latin terms pretty much constantly.

Any of these could be altered slightly for any person's life style (Teacher Brain, Doggie Brain, Crafter's Brain). But primarily they are all just a matter how we teach ourselves and interact with the world. Primal Brain doesn't go anywhere, we all WANT.

Today, I WANT to thank you for reading this to the end. Have a great day.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

A Split Day

It is still early, this could all spiral out of control in a mere second. So I write this thinking it is a Good/Bad day.

I have a honey-do list. Lawyer, Everclear (we will get back to that in a second), creditors, shrink, doctor, and the ever present yard duties (or 'doodies' as today's task will be called. I have completed most of these tasks and will be headed out to the liquor store then the lawn when I finish here.

The last few days have been full of tears and moods and manic behaviors (cleaning the baseboards, for goodness sake, and painting flowers on the door frames to the kitchen). I am running from my lover. He knows, he sees, he lets me spin endlessly and then he is there when I stop, breathing heavily and reeling. He holds me and says he loves me and that he knows he is part of the problem, but will be here for ALL the resolution. No matter what. I called the shrink to let him know the meds may not be working the way he thinks they should, if he leaves me out here, I am in trouble. Because this has to change.

There is a cold running through my house, adults, teens and baby all sick. About 12 years ago, I met a wonderfully unusual person. She taught me the 'magic' in stones. She taught me the medicine in herbs. She gave me the secret to killing any cold. Most of the time, I had some steeping and waiting for the next bug to come into the house, and make everyone sick. What was taking 2-3 weeks for everyone else to recover from, took a week or so to get over--even the lingering cough.

This magic potion is in the herb Osha (not to be confused with the Safety folks). It is hard to come by, and MUST sit in a bottle of Everclear for a month, at least, to be effective. Drain off the liquid, throw away the smelly herb- and take a dropper full. Tastes like nasty bitter licorice. Works better than anything on the shelf at Walgreen's.

This wonderful concoction is finally steeping in my dark cupboard. Good Day. Gotta deal with a few legal issues. Bad Day. Rake the yard. Good Day. Nap pending my signing off today.

Overall, good day.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Oscar Wilde

I discovered this week that The Picture of Dorian Gray was written by Playwright Oscar Wilde. This surprised me. Oscar wrote of the complexities of relationships, and I didn't fathom the depths that one character displayed until now.
 It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything."
"The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came--oh, my beautiful love!--and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. Tonight, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played."
"Tonight, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say."

It was only in EMS I lived. I was what they needed. I trained every single day to come and take care of YOU right now in your life. I embrace you as a human, in pain, and lost. I empathize with you. I give. I lost. I sacrificed. 

Then it all looked like rice paper walls and distorted masks of kindness faced to me. 

This feels like the beginning of a long tired night.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Baby Boy

I told you, I am a healer. I am. I cannot take illness, it's like a personal affront. Deliberately designed to challenge me.

I have a baby here in my home. He is, the long way around, my grandson. I doubt the details would be of interest.

He has been sick for three weeks. Four trips to the doctor. Amoxicillin, Tylenol, Advil, teething tablets, Baby Oragel, Robitusson and Albuterol. Still, he coughs, the burgers run, the wheezes just started.

I hit the computer, looking for herbals, or old wives tales or SOMETHING!!!!! Baby is miserable. I love this baby, he is sweet and learning and having a good time finding all the non-baby items in my house that have to leave the 'under four foot' location. Now, he sits, and wants a cuddle and needs some love, and his nose wiped (which he thinks is completely abusive and we should all die for such an affront).

I found an old wives tale. Vick's Vaporub. Many of you are rolling your eyes (as if there ARE many of you). Here is the catch, we've all had it on our chests, on our backs, with heavy towels or thick t-shirts. Try this next time- on the souls of your feet.

Apparently another country did a study and it works on your cough, by rubbing it on your feet--100% of the time. I don't say this, a medical study that came out in Canada said it does. And right now. There is a sleeping baby with smelly feet in my home.

I have a new follower as well. Welcome, scatterheart. I see you there. I am not exactly literary genius. But I do enjoy a good battle now and then.

Sleep is not as regular as I would like. Neither is food. But I am getting better.