Monthly Archives: October 2016

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Tree boat

A friend wrote a tune to my poem Tree boat.

 

Build me a boat to float in a tree
A boat of dreams and play there with me
Float in the sky in the leaves so green
Our hands together shaping a dream

Build me a boat to heal our wounds
Scarred hearts and muscles play out of tune
The world is fearsome, hold me soon
From the tree we watch the rising moon

Build me a boat to carry us far
A moon sextant to chart where we are
To Betelgeuse or another star
We are home wherever we are

Build me a boat to float in a tree
Or a lake or a stream or an ocean all three
I dream of a boat with joins so tight
Holding us safe to sleep all night

Build me a boat smooth and slow
The plans alone could take years you know
Smooth each plank with a hand plane slow
And tell me you love me soft and low

Written November 2015. I took the photograph one evening after chorus when the clouds looked like a Maxfield Parish painting….like a dream.

 

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All of my patients are smart

I am a rural family practice doctor for over twenty five years and all of my patients are smart.

All of my patients are complicated.

I don’t mean that they all have degrees or PhDs or are intellectuals. I mean that they are smart in all sorts of ways.

I was talking to the UW Pain and Addiction Telemedicine Team four years ago. I said that when I had a new chronic pain patient who is angry about the law in Washington, I would give them the link to the law: http://www.doh.wa.gov/ForPublicHealthandHealthcareProviders/HealthcareProfessionsandFacilities/PainManagement.

“You give them the link?” said one of the faculty. “But they can’t understand that.”

“Why not?” I replied. “I did.”

This was met with silence. My attitude is, well, I am a physician. I am not a lawyer. Yet I have to follow the pain law. Actually we all have to follow all the laws in our country. We say ignorance of the law is no excuse. Yet then the attitude of the pain specialists at UW was that the law is too confusing for my rural patients.

I think UW is wrong and I think that it is disrespectful to patients. Treat them as adults. Treat them as smart. Treat them as if they can understand and you will get respect back. And if they trust you they will then tell you when they do not understand or need something translated from medicalese to english.

I worked with a patient who works every day. She is in a wheelchair, a motorized one. She has cerebral palsy and can’t talk much. And she is smart too.

This election is about the United States population being smart. They know something is very wrong and they want it fixed. I think that Citizens United needs to be taken down. Corporations are not people, unless the CEO can be the physical representation of the corporation and go to jail when the corporation lies and steals. Wells Fargo, I am talking to you. I am taking my money to another bank. Pay reparations. The United States population is sick and tired of the rich getting richer and corporations stealing from people for profit. Democrats and republicans are sick and tired of it. We are not going to take it any more. If you have gotten rich from corporate underhand theft, lies and confusing regular people, give the money back. Because you can buy an island, but if the United States population rises up to hunt for you, there is no where in the world you can hide.

It is time for corporations to give the United States population the government back. Or we will take it. Because every patient I have ever taken care of in over twenty five years is smart. That is not to say we don’t all do stupid things. And some people won’t change. But in the end, everyone can learn and everyone can change.

I took the photograph in Larrabee State Park in September. This tree is down: but it is not a nurse log yet. It is not dead. The roots are still providing nourishment and it is sprouting branches all along the downed trunk.

 

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Pattern

I was thinking of photrablogger when I took this in Arlington, Virginia in August. This is for photrablogger’s Mundane Monday Challenge #80. We are really in fall on Washington State now and have a big storm rising. I will check my boat today and am carefully not parking under the apple tree that I think could come down…..

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Mmmmm

We hiked yesterday on the Olympic Peninsula and these are oyster mushrooms. My friendย  knows about 16 edible mushrooms now. We found six edible kinds with the oysters in the lead. They are year round. I lost track of how many mushroom species we saw: black ones, lavender ones, coral mushrooms in orange and white and cream and yellow. Slimy looking mushrooms, hen of the woods that are past and falling, tiny orange ones the size of my fifth fingernail. Beautiful.

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Advice to a college daughter

I am submitting this to the Daily Prompt: Careful.

I talked to a young woman recently who left the college that my daughter is going to.

And then I gave my daughter advice.

“If you are attacked or assaulted, sexually or otherwise, do not go to the campus police. Go to the city police. Or better yet, a State Trooper.”

Because, you see, the Campus Police work for the school. It is a conflict of interest.

If you are attacked, get a friend. Have them help you get to the City or State Police. Have them record your initial story on their cell phone. Have them photograph any injuries, torn clothes, you crying while you tell them. If you are raped, have your friend get you to the City or State Police and then to an emergency room for a rape kit. This is documentation of your story. Write out what happened the next day. Keep all of it. It is admissible in court. Name names. Tell every word that you can remember that the other person said. Try to figure out if there are any witnesses.

Because too many men lie. Men lie in our culture and the system dismisses what women and girls say, dismisses domestic violence, dismisses assault, dismisses rape. You do not want to be Cosbyed or Trumped. You will not stand for it. None of us should stand for it.

Fight back. Stand up. We will not tolerate this culture and we will make it stop.

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Ferry rider

Here I am with Mordechai, the plastic skeleton. I brought Mordechai back from Seattle in 2014, all bundled up to carry. However, I walked onto the Seattle-Bainbridge ferry and Mordechai was not in a bag. I have never had as many people talk to me on the ferry. The ticket seller took a picture. Mordechai did not have to pay. A tourist from southeast asia wanted a picture with me and the skeleton and her, and a man started asking me about the hip joint. It was a very fun and funny ride….

Mordechai is in my clinic. During October, she sits in the waiting room. Last October we had a contest to name her. I have an anatomy book in my exam room, to pull out and show people the eustacian tubes or the knee joint or the muscles of the rotator cuff. But sometimes the skeleton is more useful….

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Heart call

I am lying in bed and missing my heart.

I prayed to the Beloved to fall in love and I do. I happen to be terribly sick because the Beloved is teaching me to take time off and not just work harder and longer to avoid grieving. This is the second lesson. Or the fifth, depending on how I count it. The previous one was two months, this will be ten.

But early on, before I realize that death is standing in my doorway, I am at a picnic. A sports picnic with parents and teens and some younger children. I see a man who has been flirting with me be nice to a tween girl. My heart falls out of my chest and attaches itself to him. It follows him home.

He is quite spectacularly wrong for me. I know it but my heart doesn’t care. And he is a liar, manipulator and a slut. Familiar ground, just like my family. I go to his place and try to catch my heart, but it is stubborn and skitters away from me. It is covered with sawdust, cat hair and motor oil. Also rabbit fur. He raises bunnies for meat and kills them. I cuddle the babies and then he does too.

My heart is brutally stubborn. I tell it it is stupid, it will get hurt, he doesn’t want it, all the usual stuff. I think the Beloved is laughing at me. By January I revise my prayers. Ok, Beloved, you win AGAIN, I am STUPID, now I want NOT ONLY to fall in love but to fall in love with someone who loves me back. I am so stupid I can’t believe it.

The Beloved ignores me, since my heart is already gone. Damn it.

The man tells me a dream. He dreams that his son is stuffed inside a giant teddy bear to keep him safe. He is fighting a war alone, being shot at and shooting a multitude of enemies. He tells me that his son is trained. If he needs to come out of the bear, he will be angry and he is trained to kill. Another dream is of zombies coming up from the shop and attacking the door. He and a teen or two are trying to hold them off.

There are no women in his dreams. At least the ones he tells me.

Uh, Beloved? Shit. I dream of angels, as many angels as there are stars. I meet with my minister to challenge his ideas. “The people in dreams are aspects of ourselves, ok, but not angels right? I can’t have that many angels. I was raised atheist, damn it.”

“The angels are aspects of yourself.”

And zombies…well, we’re well matched on a psychic level, right? I have enough angels to handle any number of zombies and more.

I connect with his small child self, because our small child selves are so alike. Abandoned at the same age and afraid and with desperate courage.

His pattern is obvious from the start. Mapped out like a constellation. I tell my heart, but it scurries up ladders, into boats, down the metal stands, under cars. It plays among the tools. I tell it to be careful of the saws and tools and it ignores me.

He lies and ignores emails and lies again and avoids me when he’s done something that will hurt me and like, obvious, duh. I get angry, but my angels map a new path to his small child each time. Boundary after boundary after boundary.

And now I am in contact only by text. Only by distant virtual message. He is showing up again, of course, because that’s the pattern. He has tried so hard to make me angry and make me abandon him in rage. I don’t really care. He fixes the leak on my boat that I asked him about over a year ago. He texts about installing the bilge pump. He offers to bag up the cushions and put them in his loft.

No, I reply. I have room in my house.

The only things left at his shop are a broken outboard, pipe clamps that I inherited from my father and my heart. I will go to get them.

I lie in bed, thinking of getting the motor and clamps. I think of asking for my heart too. But he has never noticed that he had it. I didn’t tell him. It was obvious. And he didn’t want it. So why would I tell him now?

And then I think, I can just call my heart. I don’t need to go in person.

I call my heart. Come home, I say. He never noticed you. You could stay, but we have done everything we can. He is still fighting the zombies, he doesn’t know he is fighting himself. He is fighting his own feelings. Come home.

My heart comes home.

It is in my chest. Filthy, sawdust, bruised, motor oil, banged up, with old tears that I mended with ribbon and dental floss and sewing thread and artificial cat gut.

Welcome home, my heart. Welcome home.

This is for the Music Prompt #63: Daniel Powter Bad Day. I took the photograph on the train from Chicago, in the evening in a storm. Prayers for those hit by the hurricane and other disasters.

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Panoply

I took this for Photrablogger’s Mundane Monday #79 and then am delighted with Jithin’s post. I love the row of pans, a panoply of pans. Also the breakfast was fabulous. We were the second table occupied on Sunday morning, and many of the pans were in use by the time we finished!

I was in Bellingham just Saturday and Sunday to wish my daughter happy birthday. Who can identify the restaurant?