Sunday, October 21, 2012

A day in the life

My job affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do:  I've witnessed the birth of a baby up close and personal; I've held the hand of a person as she passed away; I've served as family to a client attending the services of his estranged mother; I've been in full hospital scrubs providing words of comfort & encouragement as a client received an angio-gram; I've successfully redirected a client in the process of being taken down by a pile of police officers. (We won't mention the opportunity I had to "rescue" a client off of the merry-go-round at Great America, although that should probably be included.) Now, a tone of you can say the same thing--after all, people are in delivery rooms all the time--but, you probably didn't do these things with persons with schizophrenia.  I tell you that fact only because it changes the game.

It makes doing these things filled with even more gratitude than I could have possibly experienced otherwise.

This week, I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom.  I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with schizophrenia asked many an interesting question and behaved in a manner that would catch most of your attention.  Most of you wouldn't loudly ask questions about the coffin or the embalming process as you are standing in front of the casket.  You probably wouldn't say aloud the things you were thinking, especially on a microphone in front of the mourners in attendance and you wouldn't be yipping the entire time you were serving as a last-minute pall bearer....

...those are all things I anticipated would happen--and, as anticipated, they did.

That's not what made being part of a client's experience so special and what touched me to my very core. I have tons of hilarious stories (told with not one shred of disrespect to those I serve), but that's not what these experiences are about.  Here's a guy who experiences life in what I would consider a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion.  There's data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, often what we would consider incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives.  So, when he was at the funeral, I was not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation inappropriate behaviors.  I stood in the foyer, ready to intervene or provide support or do whatever it was I thought I was going to need to do or what he asked me to do.  I was the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure.  The family knew who I was and why I was there, so really nothing was surprising whatsoever.  As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something.  It was loud and unmistakable.  I stood up and went to the door.

All those things I anticipated....but, I didn't anticipate this...

...he sobbed.  He sobbed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years.

I was taken aback.  Here's a guy who shows no emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket.  I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't anticipated this or had thought otherwise--why I thought a person with schizophrenia would react in a manner any different than anyone else was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness.  Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.

It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do.

Another moment in life that I will never forget.  

(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass.  Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)

After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotion,  he settled back in to his "normal" self.  After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved.  I watched as they handed him a shovel.  I could see he was thinking about this.  He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket.  And then, quite to my utter delight, he continued to throw more shovelfuls of dirt--others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased.  When done, he handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his hands on his pants.

He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner.  I took one look at his pants and laughed.  This was the guy I know and love and anticipated.

I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. His response? "No problem."

I then silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. I'm a better human being because of people like him.
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Saturday, October 13, 2012

Ode to a Geriatric Pup

When I took Freckles Warrior Princess & Lucy Bark of Poteidaia to a new groomer last week, I provided a written description about which dog is which--although the two dogs look nothing alike (well, at least not to me and the wife--they are two years apart and are not even the same breeds), other people can't tell them apart or at least get mixed up enough they can't figure it out.  Poor Freckles.  Her description, albeit true, was not a picture of beauty: "Freckles is the lumpier, smellier, crustier, older dog with the booger-filled blind left eye, can't hear a thing and has skin that crawls when you touch her."

Lucy's description just mentioned her horrific bad breath and inability to stand still.  She got the much better end of the deal.

The owner of the kennel provided an additional descriptor, noting that Freckles is "the dog with nine lives." 'Tis very true--this dog has most thankfully and almost unbelievably cheated death on more than one occasion.  I have the vet bills and pained memories to prove it.  We still talk about the Spring of 2011 like we had gone to battle.

The wife and I have been staring a lot at Freckles as of late.  She is old and lumpy and crusty and smelly.  Really smelly.  She doesn't hear the alarm in the morning nor does she notice when we turn on the light.  She just keeps snoring, enjoying her blissful sleeping state.  It's almost impossible to wake her up in the morning without scaring the shit out of her because she doesn't notice you approaching. She can't go down the stairs on her own and she can't go up the stairs on more occasions than not.  It takes us 25 minutes to go a half mile during our walk.  Sometimes, she just stares at the wall--we've decided she either (1) sees dead people; or, (2) has doggie dementia.  She gets up every night and demands to go out and pee.  (You bet your ass we get up and let her out--no need to have her peeing in the house and how can you deny a most appropriate request, no matter the time of night?)  Her back legs tremble when she's standing around. Freckles sleeps more than anything.  She is growing disgusting things on (and under) her skin and she has gained weight, most likely from a decrease in activity and an increased demand for treats.  She no longer makes it up onto the couch in one leap--often, she takes a running start but just ends up splatting into the side of the couch.

We accept her for what she is: an old lumpy, smelly, crusty, blind, deaf, balding stuffed sausage of a canine.

Yet, she is happy. Really happy.  They say that dogs don't have emotions, but this is one happy dog--much happier now than she ever was when younger.  You can tell she isn't in pain.  She still does tricks, she still tries to chase Lucy around, she still loves going for rides in the car or visiting her favorite people.  She remembers people and knows their names.  All I have to do is say (in a very loud voice, of course), "Grandma" or "Jackie" or "the girls" and the dog perks right up and runs to the door. Some days, she surprises us and goes down the stairs.  On other days, she hears the mail lady and gives her a loud greeting.  I swear there are days she is smiling.  I swear this dogs knows it's on its ninth life and she is going to enjoy every minute of it.

Here she is wearing a babushka.  I was bored on Monday, so I decided we should wear babushkas.  I'm not sure she was happy or smiling during the wearing of the babushkas but it sure was fun and it sure made me happy.  We're simple folk in the Addiverse.

When I get up in the morning, I peek over the side of the bed and take a gander at Freckles, trying to see if she is breathing or not.  It sounds morbid, but what else can I do? She honestly doesn't move from the light or the sound or the motion.  I wait and watch. Some days, I can't really tell.  I hate to scare her but I have to wake her up to go out for our daily walk.  I wait and hope, get out of bed, trying to stomp around a bit, but the snoring continues.  It's not until I actually touch her that I get a response--and, it's a startled response.  She just about jumps vertically out of her bed.

Right now she is sleeping, just as she was doing an hour ago...just like she will be doing an hour from now.  She often looks hilarious, as her tongue peeks out and her blind eye stays open and her hair gets all tangled. I can't help taking photos of her when she looks like that.  If she had any teeth, she'd probably bite me.

Knowing Freckles, she will live many more years. One never knows. I suppose you can survive as a smelly and lumpy animal for years on end. Yesterday, I thanked her for living long enough for me to get my money's worth out of her after her last brush with death.  When I pointed to the new living room furniture  last night and told her she cost more than that, she snorted on me.  Seriously.  She snorted all over my glasses. I think that was her way of saying, "thanks, bitch--I'm worth it."

Ode to a Geriatric Pup
Canine of Old
Lumpy
Smelly
Shaky and trembling
Eyes that do not see
Ears that do not hear
Yet, love that still shines for the master.
Faithful
True
Smart as a fifth grader.
Tricks and treats do not escape her.
Another day, another skin growth...
...What the hell is that?
Snoring
Scratching
Pacing
Let me out, dammit!
Clean my eye!
Is that poop stuck on my butt?
Canine of Old
Loving
Smiling
Caring.
I see dead people.
I see Lucy.
I see you.
Paws up, little canine!
Your loyalty fills me up.



Sunday, October 07, 2012

I think, therefore I am....I think

It's a lazy Sunday morning in the Addiverse, as evidenced by the casual posture of the canine members of the family. Chill-axin' on a Sunday morning. They obviously don't have a lot on their minds....

This morning when we woke up, the wife asked me what I was thinking about. I must have looked especially reflective or distracted or as if I were lost in thought.  Why she would ask me this, I do not know.  She knows better.  All sorts of things are always swirling around in my little brain--this morning was no exception.  You have no idea what goes on in there.  My thoughts are birthed in a mighty weird, busy, noisy place.  Since she asked, I spewed.  This is what I was thinking about.....

Today is the Chicago Marathon.  As it's 32 degrees out, I'm thinking about the Kenyans.  I'm thinking what the Kenyans are thinking.  I mean, does it ever get cold in Kenya? Do they go to Canada to practice for cold weather runs? It's not usually this cold for the marathon--in fact, a year or two ago it was so hot that runners were dropping like flies from the heat.  Do they give the Kenyans gift mittens or do they have to bring their own? MJagger and I went out for some exercise yesterday and we wore mittens.  Do you think the Kenyans would like to borrow our mittens?  I'm thinking about how it's still my goal to complete a marathon while I'm 50.  I didn't say run--I said finish. I'm thinking about how I'm going to do this, considering I can only go four miles at this time. Do you think the Kenyans would be willing to coach me if I give them my mittens?

Last night was the break-up show. I'm thinking about how painfully sad the Glee 'break up" episode was.  We spent our Saturday night catching up on DVR'd programs and Glee happened to be one of them. (Glee will always win out over the housewives and boo boos in my corner of the Addiverse.) I haven't been very impressed with this season, so I was only lukewarm-interested in watching the episode on a Saturday night. Oh my.  I'm thinking a bottle of anti-depressants and a carton of ice cream would have come in handy.  It made watching "Evita" (which I did after the Glee episode was over) seem bright and cheery.  Seriously--everyone breaks up.  Everyone.  Well, kinda sorta everyone.  Well, I think they broke up.  Oh, the angst over a stupid show featuring singing nerds.  Pass me the Moose Tracks and a spoon.

(Please, baby jesus--don't take Santana off the show.  If you are going to kill the show, please let her go down in a blaze of glory, with oodles of screen time.)

Yesterday, it was Adam and Eve & Carlos Santana. I'm thinking about MJagger's unfailing advocacy & need for a new purse.  Out of respect to her, I won't say much.  Suffice it to say that last night she got so pissed off in Church that she tried to walk out.  The only thing that kept her in the pew was her husband--he literally physically kept her there, despite her efforts to get up and walk out.  "If I had been on the end, I would have walked right out." Instead, she was stuck in the second row...but, she was free to scowl at the priest, arms crossed, defiance glaring out of her being, so that made it at least a little worth while to be stuck there.  Everyone should have an ally as strong as her.  I mean, who blatantly texts from church to express their anger about the topic at hand? This leads me to laughing about her asking me yesterday to look for a purse while out shopping with the wife.  I know nothing about purses besides I have a small one so I can carry my swiss army knife, panty liners & cell phone.  A baggy would work just as well.  (Heck, I HAVE used a baggy in the past.) MJaggers wants one of those seriously large, looks-like-a-suitcase purse and was hoping to score one or two for a reduced price from the wife's favorite place on earth.  She showed me some examples and sent me on my way.  I stood in the purse section of the Maxx and just laughed.  Thankfully, I saw nothing even remotely related to what she had described and thus I was freed of my purse duties.  Maybe I can get her a gallon-sized baggy.

Other thoughts? Seriously: Laundry, blogging, grocery shopping, vacuuming, organizing my car trunk, cleaning Freckles' boogery eye, time cards, the coffee in the frig. Oh, there is leftover DD coffee in the frig! Washing my dark blue, sure-to-fade new jeans. Is this a hot flash, the Flu, anxiety, a heart attack, wearing too many clothes (damn those mittens) or if it really is 105 degrees in here?  Cereal, bread, raisins.  Why won't Lucy stop licking? Cereal, bread, raisins and what? WHAT? Damn, what are the other things I have to get? Cereal, bread, raisins and I don't know what.  What time is the Packer game? I need to pay the wife for my Packer ticket. When is that game? Did I write that down? I don't think I wrote it down. Cereal, bread, raisins, why am I now cold?  What am I thinking about? Does she really want to know what I'm thinking about? I gotta go heat up that coffee.

And that, dear wife, is what I was thinking about.

Glad you asked.

Monday, October 01, 2012

Gone. Gone. Gone.

I just finished writing an entire blog, full of fantasy football babbling, profound thoughts on the California law prohibiting reparative therapy for gays and angst-filled whining about the last remaining box of ultra O.B. tampons.....and, when I went to publish it, I pushed some wrong button(s) and poof....it was gone.  I thought it to be some freak issue, so I took a gander at what I had been saving along the way--I've learned to save as I go, having lost one too many documents or papers--everything was blank.  How this is possible, I do not know.  I tried just about everything to get it back but it was not to be.  So, all that work, all those deliciously described stories, all the facts and figures, all that taunting of persons in the football pools and those viewing Honey Boo boo--gone without effort, despite being saved along the way.

Gone, gone, gone. The baby Jesus was nowhere to be found at a time in which I needed to be saved.  Sigh. I thought I had been saved.

Honestly, I'm too tired and too defeated to re-write the dang thing, which is too bad because I thought I was pretty witty and entertaining along the way.  When I broke a nail while banging on the keys trying to retreive the now-lost blog, I took it as a sign from the blogging gods that I should surrender and turn my eye to Monday Night Football and DWTS instead of recreating what I had originally birthed.

I leave you instead with this illustration from my book de la face page, which is credited to jokobo.  It fits my theme of "the last purple box of O.B. tampons has been opened" angst. It does nothing to much of anything except my love of tampons.

What's not to love about Tampons, anyways?