Rappin' about Rap

I'm a closet hip hop fan.  Its not a secret that I have various artists in my collection, but I never listen to it around others.  Number one, I feel too old and number two, I feel too white.  Nothing like a 29 yr. old jamming out to Eve in the not so diverse Salt Lake. 

For any of you who have seen "Office Space" all I can think of is that scrawny white guy rapping (kind of) to "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta" in his car and then quickly turning it down when he passed an African American.  Yeah, not so much.  The movie drives me nuts, but that scene is funny.  I've thought a lot about this issue of rap/hip hop and have mostly approached it from a sociological/feminist analysis.  I think I over-intellectualize it so it seems more rational to me.

I've been told that rap actually stands for rhythmic american poetry.  Whether that is true, I haven't a clue.  They say that most of the sales of rap come from young white teenage boys.  This is not to say that the Black culture isn't purchasing the music, they are, but just think who really has the economic power to buy the cd's. 

I usually listen to this music when I'm cleaning or needing some sort of energy (windows and doors shut however).  I dated an African American a few years ago.  I can honestly say I am out of touch with the scene and lingo.  When I was with him I was SHOCKED by how much violence, adultery, sex, anti-women lyrics he jammed out to.  I began to wonder if the music we listen to really reflects who we identify with.... I should have listened to my gut as he cheated on me several times. 

For the record, I mostly have pro-feminist power hip hop. 

 

Home Depot, round II through V

You can call me Ms. Queen of the Swamp Cooler.  I've now attempted to fix a leak in the water tubing with some sort of space age goo and tape (failed), re-did the tubing from the cooler to the main water line (complete with compression valves), and have bought other things to fix things like the water level, the mineral build up and something to do with the bearings. 

This is what kills me:  my father.  He is not Mr. Handy.  His idea of help is to  hand you the yellow pages.  However, before or after the fact when you are just pondering the project he tells you how easy it is to do yourself.  He'll even throw out a few terms that makes him look like he knows what he's talking about.

"Sure you just get the drill bit for the metal, get your hack saw, make sure you have roofing tar on hand, and that's all there is to it."  ~Dad

Uh huh.

However, when you ASK for his HELP he will tell you he is too busy, too old, or he already went through that part in his life.  The man won't even show up for supportive measures.  By the way, he's only 53 and when he says he's busy, that is code for I'm-watching-Golf TV/Food Channel.  It is the most maddening thing ever. 

In the meantime, I've been hanging out with Larry, the Home Depot guy dedicated to the swamp cooler section.  He helped me with the tubing and other how-to's all day yesterday (all 3 trips in the course of 6 hours.)  Larry has been great.

I'm certain this saga isn't over yet...

 

People say the darnest things...

I love quotations.  For a while I’ve been gathering them for scrapbooks or just great sayings that I put up in my office.  I go for the more original ones than those stupid “Achievement” or “Teamwork” or “Persistence” quotes with some stupid photo of a sunrise or other nature scene.  I find those to be just cheesy.

 

I’ve always loved quotes.  In junior high, I ran with the nerds.  They were my homies.  Yup, we were livin’ it up in the science lab!  Our idea of fun was to keep a running quote book that were random sayings taken completely out of context and written down in a spiral notebook.  A teacher finally confiscated it from us and we all got sent to the principal’s office.  I think that was my only time I ever got sent to the principal’s office.  But the real point of me telling you this is to show how much I love quotations.

 

About a year ago I rediscovered a paperweight in a store in Minneapolis.  I originally bought one for my girlfriend when she graduated from law school years ago and always regretted the fact that I never got one for myself.  I now have it sitting by my stapler.  It reads:  what would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?  What a great message!

 

Then there are those quotes that really just can’t fit anywhere although they ring in my mind.  I’ll keep the quotes anonymous. 

 

“Remember, there is no cure for stupid.” ~ A nurse from our E.R.  She was referring to the families who either come in for stupid reasons who think the condition requires emergent care as well as the families who come in after their own stupidity caused the child’s injury.  Think of the families who do things like let their child jump on trampolines surrounded by rocks.  Or let their child run barefoot by the lawn mower. Or let their child suck on hangers in department stores and then are shocked when it becomes lodged in the palate.  (All of these are true scenarios that have occurred multiple times in my 5 years of working in the ER.)  While this quote is funny to me, it is not appropriate for me to display in either a scrapbook or in my office.

 

“You can’t kill dead grass.”  ~ One of my best girlfriends from New Orleans.  I figure this must be a southern saying or something that her grandmother used to say.

 

“That ring is going to get a lot of use and it may as well be by you in the meantime.”  ~Grandmother referring to the family heirloom engagement ring my brother just got back from his ex-fiancée.  (My mother was trying the ring on at that moment.)  We’re not certain if she was referring to his dating habits/commitment issues or what, but it struck a funny bone in us.

 

“Its not medicine, its voodoo.” ~Boyfriend currently working on the newborn intensive care unit.  While it is very funny, it is also kind of true.  I think about the tiny babies getting stuck with needles, tubes, etc. I’m guessing that he will never become a neonatologist.  Again, it is not an appropriate quote for work.

 

People say funny things, whether it’s appropriate or not.  Be careful what you say because it might be immortalized in a quote book or in a blog!

 <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>

 <o:p></o:p>

 <o:p></o:p>

Ms. Home Depot Wannabe

I’m one of those people who become mesmerized the minute I walk into a Home Depot.  It is a store brimming with possibilities.  The smell of the lumber and tantalizing orange aprons just sets me spinning.  Before you know it I have some Cajun accent in my head from The Water Boy, “You can do it!”  I think I’m delusional.

 

The only section in the store that I feel remotely comfortable in is the Lawn and Garden department.  I know my perennials from my annuals.  I can weed with the best of them.  Anywhere out of this comfort zone and I’m one vulnerable chicka. 

 

Perhaps it was the masochist in me today, but I decided I was feeling well enough physically to completely devastate my self-esteem by thinking I could do a home project.  Actually I took on two.  I got my evaporative cooler ready for the summer and I decided to build a screen for one of my windows. 

 

The aspen cooling pads were a mere $2.67 x 3…match that with the new ladder I bought and that took the project up to $50.00.  Ok, so then I decide window screens can’t be that tough.  I needed to make a screen 36 x 36 (or at least this is what my father measured the night before.)  I bought the kit, the hack saw, fiberglass mesh, and some rolling tool thingy.  I had no idea what a hacksaw was until today.  This project was now up to about $60.00.  I figured, no time like the present so I bought aweed whacker as well.  Home Depot is not a cheap place to go. 

 

I got home and went straight to work.  I pulled down the old panels of my cooler looking like a pro.  There were big fat wires holding the old pads in place.  How do I get the pads out?  I was only five minutes into my new project (on my front lawn by the way looking ever so classy) when I had to break down and call Dad.  He was of no help.  I almost called my Uncle Dave (who is Mr. Handyman and currently is my hero), but I decided, no I was smart enough to figure this out!  I went back inside and read my Home Depot: 1, 2, 3  book.

 

While biding my time, I cleaned the swamp cooler on the new ladder I now had.  I hooked up the water from the basement and then went back out to look at the panels on my front lawn.  Yup, they weren’t fixing themselves. 

 

Ok, new tactic!  We’ll build the screen!  I went in, re-measured the space, and used my hacksaw to cut the metal frame.  I fit it all together and was feeling mighty good about myself even when I put the screen into the frame.  Then I go into my garage to put my trusty new tool away. 

 

I need to pause here to remind everyone that I am a new homeowner.  I still am learning things as it has only been 10 months.  That is my disclaimer.  So, I went into my garage and what do I find?  Oh, the original screen for the window.  Never saw it.

I took both to the window and again climbed up my ladder.  The new one I fashioned doesn’t exactly fit.  Well, the old one doesn’t exactly fit.  The house has settled a bit since construction in 1912.  I went with the old screen and put the one I built back into the garage. 

 

In the meantime, Mom showed up with chips, salsa, and beer.  (Go Mom!)  She looked at the panels on the front lawn and began to yank on the wire.  It popped out!  Why I didn’t think to do that…ok, well I did, but I was too much of a wuss and began to catastrophize things like I would poke an eye out.  When it was all said and done, both projects were done…just in time for the cooler weather and rain forecasted tomorrow.

The Land of Denial

I don’t do sick well.  (Nice pun to start the entry, eh?)  To be ill is to be a burden.  I mean, really it is my job to work with sick people, not be a sick person.  I’m not one to get a cold or a simple virus, oh no, when I get sick I do it with gusto.

 

I’ve been known to catastrophize and then minimize my symptoms.  I’ve also been known to think that I have made up my symptoms.  I begin to think I’m a hypochondriac or worse, I begin to self-diagnose a la the DSM-IV.  Surely it’s better to have malingering disorder and be crazy than to actually need surgery, right?  Typically I go through the illness and then after wonder if I exaggerated symptoms. 

 

These are my typical thoughts:  Did I really need that knee surgery? (Even though I kept dislocating it every time I swam.)  Did I really have that much pain to be prescribed painkillers and go to the ER? (Even though I was sent for an appendectomy and kept inpatient for 5 days.)

 

My current, and yes, greatest is:  “Did I just imagine the blood in my urine?”  Surely I’m making this up right?  This all began last Friday night when I seriously stared into the toilet bowl for about 5 minutes wondering if I was supposed to be having accompanying pain.  I gave it another hour.  Nope, still blood.  Huh.  I began to self-assess.  (This is a dangerous proposition for someone who is used to medical trauma and knows that the nurses make fun of the stupid reasons people think they need the ER.)  Yup, I had an airway, circulation and I was breathing, ok so I must be fine! And then doubt set in.  I know!  I’ll call my doctor boyfriend (never mind that he lives 2000 miles away)!  He didn’t seem that concerned so I waited until morning when I asked my Mom.  She was extremely concerned.  Ok, so my ER viewpoint is a bit skewed, I’ll admit it. 

 

Long story short, I have been in and out of the doctors, on medication, finally felt the pain, given more pain meds, had blood work, CT’s, referrals to specialists, etc..  I’m really not supposed to be at work right now, but I keep thinking I’m not that sick.  They aren’t really certain what is wrong with me except that my tests are all abnormal.  (I keep thinking they will say, “We didn’t find anything,” but they don’t.)  Ok, so it’s a little scary because my Grandmother just died from bladder cancer and my boyfriend already saw his ex-girlfriend through a kidney transplant.  But really, I don’t feel that sick. 

 

What does really settle in is the emotional piece.  I think I’m different.  Other people get sick, I don’t.  I’m not certain how much to share with people.  Apparently I look sick (keep getting comments), but I can’t stand the pity.  I’ve seen chronic illness cause divorce, bankruptcy, grief, and dependence (whether on the medical system, loved ones, or medication).  I don’t want any of that…then again, who does?  (See, this is where the catastrophizing piece comes in.)

 

I tried staying home Monday.  I was tempted to go out and garden, so then I felt guilty that I stayed home.  I could hear my Mother’s voice, “If you’re sick enough to stay home, you are sick enough not to go play.”  However, when I spoke to my doctor she thought I should be home.  (Doing what?!?) 

 

I don’t have a solution…they haven’t come up with a medical test for that one yet.

The Power of Trees

Today we had an Arbor Day celebration here at work.  I have to admit, I never knew there were so many grown men so passionate about trees.  The State arborist actually wrote a poem for the kids and researched out what tree could be planted in all 5 states we cover as a hospital.  The kids were given a copy of the poem with some tree seeds on their lunch trays.  When I heard that these zealots were coming I couldn’t help but have a vision of some big burly forest ranger dude with graying hair in a ponytail and some teacup poodle dog named Muffin.  Why Muffin, you ask?  Well really what else are you going to call a small dog owned by a burly guy?  (And I just assumed a guy who wrote poetry was sensitive and wouldn’t have his masculinity called into question by owning small pets, wearing the color lavender, and proud that he could make a mean quiche.)

 

My director was ecstatic about the new plans of this celebration.  Someone from the Mayor’s office, the governors wife, city and state arborist and some wanna be Josh Grobin guy showed up with the media.  We shuffled kiddos into the playroom and they messed around with glitter as official proclamations were read. Made me wonder, these guys do know it’s a children’s hospital, right?  Proclamations mean nothing when you are 6 years old.  I began to snicker to myself in the back of the room at this point in time while I wondered which ranger would be bursting into song with the set up cheesy synthesizer by the podium.  The gov’s wife looked a bit plastic as she took the stage.  Mary-Kay (perfect name) showed up in her pink suit with her pink matching pumps and pink lip-gloss.  She read her note cards with the official seal on them and wouldn’t you know the kids kept playing with the glitter.  There was one girl who was wheeled into the playroom by her mom.  She couldn’t have been more than 11 and she was a double amputee with both legs gone.  She sat through the readings looking small in her wheelchair and gown.  She never looked up, that is, until the Josh look-a-like began to sing.  She first began to look at him in awe (I have to admit, his voice was amazing) and then she began to cry silent tears. 

 

The whole ceremony culminated with a gazing ball being placed on top of a tree in our courtyard.  The pine has bright colored ribbons with laminated cards tied to various branches.  Each card has a child’s handwritten wish upon it.  Things like:  “I wish my headaches would stop.”  “I wish my Mom could have a happy marriage.”  “I wish I had a house with a back yard.”  But the most common one on there is, “I wish I could get cured and go home.” 

 

In high school I had a friend who hated signing yearbooks, but would do so in a very passive aggressive manner by wishing you well on obscure holidays.  My Sophomore yearbook I was wished a happy Arbor Day (today) and my Junior year I was wisheda happy Flag Day.  Incidentally I will always remember it is June 14th.  I used to think these various holidays were pointless, strange days established by the government for some odd reason.  Arbor Day never really meant anything to me.  Today it took a different meaning when I watched the pomp and circumstance actually reach the heart of a child.

Professional Parties

It’s amazing to me how people always identify themselves as human doers vs. human beings. Take for example last Friday night. I flew out to visit my boyfriend and on the agenda was a party with the group of residents in his profession. One would think there are other things to talk about than work, but I kid you not, those conversations never happened. I was actually quite nervous about meeting his colleagues and attendings, for some unknown reason.

 

The first thing that struck me is that people were happy to see I really existed.  Nothing like a long distance relationship to really get people guessing if someone actually has a girlfriend or is just super creative with photo shop for those pictures on the mantle.

People usually begin conversations with the typical: so-what-do-you-do question.  However, how do you interject yourself into a conversation when everyone does the same thing (with the exception of you)?

 

"So how is it that I didn't even get asked what was wrong with my own patient when they were coding last night?" One intern mused to her colleague. "I mean, I KNOW that this patient has congenital cardiac blah blah blah and yet, they insist on seeing the chart.  I ended up just sitting behind the oxygen tank not even feeling a pulse when the whole thing was happening.  Its like I got pushed out of the way." (Me thinking, gee, assertive skills is obviously not her strong suit, but not about to tell her that.)

 

"Oh I know what you mean, I actually was running a code on a patient when some stupid nurse decided to try barking orders.  I actually had to identify myself as someone who knew more than she did." (Me thinking, gee, you should have chosen surgery as a specialty...)

 

Most of the individuals would begin talking to my boyfriend and then eventually asked how long I was going to be in town. It shocked me that they were surprised when I said, 48 hours.  Hello? They all know how long a "golden weekend" is. Only once during the whole evening did one person ask what I did. When I began to tell him my title he actually dazed off in the middle of it and mumbled something about finding chips before he wandered off.  I'm not kidding here. Yup, doctors and their social skills at their finest.

 

I really tried to seek out the spouses and significant others of the doctors hoping to find some common ground. However that ended up being more of a daytime TV interview session.

 

Me: "So are you from here?"

Spouse: "Yup." or "No I was in forestry in California but I couldn't stand being away from so-and-so.  I left home and moved across the country and have been in retail ever since."

Me: "How did you guys meet?"

Spouse: Various stories of college, quick marriages/house buying/relocation before residency.

 

There was a trend here:  no one really asked me questions and typically every spouse gave up something HUGE to be with their doctor significant other. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the war stories of who stayed up the longest on call, how many codes, how many admits continued with the residents oblivious to outside interests we call "life." No one remarked on hobbies, activities, interests, etc.. (Although we did have a couple of exciting moments when the host played the accordion while the attending accompanied him on the piano.) One would say the conversation was due to the one-dimensional aspect of being a medical resident, but even the spouses couldn't elaborate

 

It was like two separate parties going on.  The doctors were describing how hard it is being a resident and the spouses were talking about their version of the journey in supporting a doctor. I truly was the only one in the room with a professional career without being a doctor.

 

How do we define ourselves and why is it mostly centered around our profession?  We certainly must have learned this somewhere along the way.  Somewhere between grade school and adulthood, we stopped talking about what really interests us and began to talk about the other stuff that fills up our lives. I think its because its emotionally safe to give ourselves labels like "accountant," "teacher," "lawyer," and "doctor" vs. "skier," "poet," "musician." Somehow those latter things just don't hold the weight of being productive.  We measure ourselves by what we do; what we accomplish; And I have to admit that even I passed judgment on those who identified their focus as the person they loved, especially when perhaps I assumed, it wasn't themselves.