I wrote this poem a long time ago. I was thinking about how being a physician and taking care of other people let me avoid my own feelings. Doctors are trained to hide their feelings. When I was an intern, a patient died on my day off. I came back to find the person gone. No one on the team said anything. I was afraid I’d done something wrong. Was it my fault? Finally I screwed up my courage and spoke the the attending physician. “Oh!” he said, “I meant to talk to you about that patient. They had a lethal pulmonary embolus from the clot in their leg. They were appropriately anticoagulated. You did nothing wrong. This happens.”
I think the war is more of the same. Chaos, to avoid feeling. Let’s not do that. Let us grieve as a world. Let us not melt down in a conflagration. That is my prayer.
Chaos
So familiar
If there’s a mess And chaos Home that’s home Busy busy Run around Fire fire Fix it Crisis Now what Deal with it
No time for feelings
No no
No time
I don’t want chaos Liar liar
Chaos is so safe
Hero hero Put out the fire Catch the baby Confront Not a hero really Scared Hiding
If I stop the chaos I will have to feel
Maybe it’s ok To feel a little
I forgive myself I understand the chaos I can let go of it by degrees
I feel so vulnerable In the quiet clean safe place Take your time sweet self
Unfortunately, the trunk, twenty feet high, had split in half in high winds. So now it was a very dangerous very tall living cedar that is going to come down and is right next to a house.
An expert was consulted. He said the tree could not be taken down intact. Each of the four tall trunks would have to come down individually. This is terribly dangerous, because felling trees is dangerous enough, but when you are up IN the tree, it is worse.
Gear for the take down.
There are four men and me. I am there with a camera. I do not help at all, I just try to stay well out of the way.
I am filming with a zoom lens from a nearby hill. They are trying to control the direction of the fall. Not on me or the house or any of them.One down, three to go. When the top starts falling, it accelerates very quickly and crashes. He is trying to stay out of the way.Going up to attach the cable high up to guide the fall direction.Way up.The falls take out smaller trees, but are controlled. It is raining.Two trunks left. Studying trunk three.One left.The last one is down. The trunk is still alive, with the split.A closer view of the split trunk.
When the last trunk fell, it swung towards me and they shouted “Run!” It had slipped of the trunk and can’t be controlled as well even though there was a cable and a machine pulling in the desired direction. I ran and I am still here, thankfully.
Clean up on another day and the cedar goes to the sawmill.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: WAR. I wish we were all just working and there was no war.
No names or faces, because you know, those loggers are shy and wild, right?
I had the heart echocardiogram bubble study. Normal. I really really did not like having the mix of blood, saline and AIR injected and I COULD FEEL IT. My logical brain knew it was going into a vein, but my emotional brain kept yelling “Air embolisms kill people!” Yes, but that is arterial. My emotional brain did not care. Anyhow, it was fine.
Saw the cardiologist who said he can understand why I feel PTSD going into my local hospital. He says I should not need oxygen at age 60 with no smoking. He says “Not your heart.” Yeah, duuuude, I know. He suggests I go to the Mayo Clinic. I agree.
Meanwhile, my primary sent a referral to rheumatology to have me seen at Swedish to confirm chronic fatigue. This is to keep the stupid disability off my back. Swedish rheum doesn’t call me. I ask my primary’s office. Swedish STILL doesn’t call me. I call them, as follows.
“Hi, I was referred to Swedish rheum and I have not been called.”
“Name, serial number, date of birth, length of little toe. Ah, we just received the referral yesterday.”
“Um, I don’t think so. I was referred over a month ago.”
“Uh, oh,” scrabble noises, “Oh, uh, we got a referral in December. We were not taking new patients in December.”
“When did you start taking new patients?”
“Oh, um.”
“When did you start taking new patients?”
“Oh, uh, January. But we only took the ones that called us, because after they call, we then review the notes.”
“So you ignored the referral until I call? How am I supposed to know that?”
“Oh, uh, we will expedite your referral. Maybe even today.”
So THEN I get a message from my primary that they have REFUSED the referral. Great.
Meanwhile I read the cardiologist’s note, which pisses me off. “We will refer you to Mayo Clinic since you have unexplained hypoxia and you think you have PANS.”
I send my primary a very pissed off note saying, could we please phrase this as “a psychiatrist suggested PANS in 2012 and while no one likes this diagnosis, no one else has suggested an overarching diagnosis since that time in spite of her seeing four pulmonologists, neurology, cardiology, infectious disease, four psychiatrists, allergy/asthma, and immunology”. Saying “the patient thinks she has PANS” automatically labels me as crazy and obsessed.
So, it seems I should write a book, about how the medical communities treat patients, including a fellow physician, horribly. Of those doctors, three have treated me with respect and were grown up enough to say, “We don’t know.” The neurologist, the infectious disease doc and the present pulmonologist. All the rest are dismissive and disrespectful. Oh, and the one psychiatrist, but the next one says, “I don’t believe in PANDAS.” I stare at him in disbelief, thinking “they are animals related to raccoons that live in China, you moron”. I did not even know it was controversial until that moment. Holy PANDAS, Batman.
My primary has suggested I write to the Mayo Clinic myself, and I am going to. Because the present people aren’t listening, except my pulmonologist and she is short staffed and looks like death warmed over post call every time I see her.
So it’s all annoying as hell. The cardiologist seemed pretty nice, but damn, he put the same damn rumor down about me self diagnosing. Most of the doctors apparently think I might be a tolerable person if they could just drug me with psych drugs. And from what I have seen, there are many patients who are in this situation.
After all, the sperm have no mitochondria. Only the egg has mitochondria, so the mitochondria are matrilineal, from the mother only. And it is from mother to daughter to daughter that they are handed down.
I have a photograph of my mother’s mother’s mother. Mary Robbins White. She is looking straight at the camera, no smile, serious. Her thoughts are contained, her eyes give nothing away. I have photographs of my mother’s mother, my mother, me and my daughter, all with the same expression. On guard.
The mitochondria are the powerhouses of the cells as well. They may have been a separate cell that moved in and made a deal with a larger cell: you take care of me and I will power you. An exchange. A bargain. A treaty. Sounds like a sensible female move to me.
My son has my mitochondria. His children, if he has them, will have his wife’s mitochondria. I think he has chosen well. I like her very much. I hope to see grandchildren.
Perhaps mitochondria are the magic that early hominoids worship when they make the earth figurine, the stone figure with generous breasts and belly and hips. The nurturer, the fecund mother, the destroying hungry mother who swallows her children and will not let them go.
I am reading Joseph Campbell, Myths to Live By, 1972. I wonder what he would say about the matrilineal mitochondria, the second set of genetic material in each cell, the part that comes from the mother only. I think he would be fascinated and he would be writing another book.
Yes, ducks with Mohawks, these ducks are rebels and rascals. I saw a gang fishing, probably without a fishing license, out at Fort Worden this week. They couldn’t be bothered to notice me. Hopefully they didn’t notice that I was capturing their picture.
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
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