Tea with T.

A matter of life and death.

A hospital setting is an awful place to have conversations.  Small talk usually isn’t anywhere to be had on the menu.  Topics range from the body’s input and output (yes, even the guests pitched in on this one. Especially the over-70 crowd, oddly obsessed as they are with bodily functions); the disease history of one’s family (those half-siblings you half ignore do count, you know); whether the fact that the majority of medical terms are in Italian could be part of some great conspiracy (these being the after midnight/after Ambien chats) and Advance Health Care Directives.

 

Ouch.

 

Seems like people would rather natter on about the frequency of their BM’s over a cafeteria lunch tray of Salisbury Steak than broach the touchy subject of an Advance Directive.  Some people delay discussing it all together, until it is too late.  Or, nearly so.

 

Patience for patients. Caregiving 101.

Nobody really likes being in a hospital, not the visitors, not the staff (and I’m going by facial expressions alone, here) and especially not the patients.  Even if they’re being attended to with the greatest of care and compassion, patients are a surly lot.  Why wouldn’t they be?  They’re not comfortable, they’re not sleeping well and they’re basically not themselves.  Come to think of it, that probably applies to the hospital staff and visitors, too.  For over a week, I stayed at the hospital with someone I love very much, watching over her at night as she fitfully slept and spent her days in full-on fret mode.  In general, this woman can be a bit prickly, but as a hospital patient -- she was more than simply porcupine-like.  Incarcerated, medicated and violated (they mean well, but honestly, those 5am lab people are still vampires), she became more like one of those fish that, when they feel threatened, release venomous neurotoxins… wiping out whoever else is swimming in the tank.

This woman I speak of, who has played the role of “mother” for me since I was knee-high to a very short grasshopper, is neither my biological nor adopted maternal unit, but I couldn’t love her more than if she were related by love or law.  I’ve always said that I care for her enough to give her one of my kidneys should she need it, but I didn’t really think that she’d be admitted to the hospital for that very same organ.  Uh, hulloh?  Note to self:  Be careful what you joke about.  Because, after a week of sleepless nights and some very tense and constantly-questioning/judgement-passing/you’re-doing-that-all-wrong days, I’m not gonna lie, I found myself seriously reconsidering whether one really could procure vital organs, if it came down to it, from Craigslist and an appointment in a dark downtown alley.  You see, it is one thing to cavalierly offer your body parts to someone you love when they’re healthy and happy and a whole other ball of beans when you find yourself in the role of caregiver to the cranky.  The Krav Maga* of Self-Preservation kicks in and you’re just doing what you can to remain vertical. 

No rest for the wicked

There is no sleep to be had in a hospital, no matter how good you feel or are. The woman starring in the role of "Mother" in the play that is my life is not well, so I've had to check into Motel Sicks this week, sleeping on the cot of the incarcerated. Plastic pillow and all.

The patients have been...interesting, since we've been here. One fella hollered so much last night, he required four security officers, restraints and Haldol. I begged the staff to give me five minutes with him. I was tired and in no mood to put up with his mouth and I am not positive, but I am p r e t t y sure I could have provided him with a Come to Cheeses moment, but that might've ended up with me in restraints so I stayed put.

My maternal unit has always been one of the craziest players on my stage, but this place, a regular hospital with some highly irregular characters, is giving her a run for her money.

So, one more week where circumstances have sucked away my life and time. The good news is, I get to observe the medical field as they deal with the "what" as they attempt to determine the "why" of this health mystery. There is a reason they still call it "Practicing" medicine. But, they should know -- I also get to report it.

I warn you, this may get snarky. Seeing it as I will through bleary eyes and all. Who can sleep through this? Night or day, they leave the light on.

No rest for the wicked

There is no sleep to be had in a hospital, no matter how good you feel or are. The woman starring in the role of "Mother" in the play that is my life is not well, so I've had to check into Motel Sicks this week, sleeping on the cot of the incarcerated. Plastic pillow and all.

The patients have been...interesting, since we've been here. One fella hollered so much last night, he required four security officers, restraints and Haldol. I begged the staff to give me five minutes with him. I was tired and in no mood to put up with his mouth and I am not positive, but I am p r e t t y sure I could have provided him with a Come to Cheeses moment, but that might've ended up with me in restraints so I stayed put.

My maternal unit has always been one of the craziest players on my stage, but this place, a regular hospital with some highly irregular characters, is giving her a run for her money.

So, one more week where circumstances have sucked away my life and time. The good news is, I get to observe the medical field as they deal with the "what" as they attempt to determine the "why" of this health mystery. There is a reason they still call it "Practicing" medicine. But, they should know -- I also get to report it.

I warn you, this may get snarky. Seeing it as I will through bleary eyes and all. Who can sleep through this? Night or day, they leave the light on.

No rest for the wicked

There is no sleep to be had in a hospital, no matter how good you feel or are. The woman starring in the role of "Mother" in the play that is my life is not well, so I've had to check into Motel Sicks this week, sleeping on the cot of the incarcerated. Plastic pillow and all.

The patients have been...interesting, since we've been here. One fella hollered so much last night, he required four security officers, restraints and Haldol. I begged the staff to give me five minutes with him. I was tired and in no mood to put up with his mouth and I am not positive, but I am p r e t t y sure I could have provided him with a Come to Cheeses moment, but that might've ended up with me in restraints so I stayed put.

My maternal unit has always been one of the craziest players on my stage, but this place, a regular hospital with some highly irregular characters, is giving her a run for her money.

So, one more week where circumstances have sucked away my life and time. The good news is, I get to observe the medical field as they deal with the "what" as they attempt to determine the "why" of this health mystery. There is a reason they still call it "Practicing" medicine. But, they should know -- I also get to report it.

I warn you, this may get snarky. Seeing it as I will through bleary eyes and all. Who can sleep through this? Night or day, they leave the light on.

Loans, tigers and bearers, oh my!

Please forgive me for not writing lately. I’ve been a bit busy.  Well, not just “busy” (which I love) or “crazy busy” (which I don’t mind either).  It has been more a crazy-making, crazy-busy that’s kept me from sitting with my weekly mug of tea to share with all of you.  I’m going through a rather large life event and it’s toying with my ability to put fingers to keys for Tea with T.  Not that I’m not writing, I’m writing a lot – just nothing anybody would want to read.  More of a wrap your fish/line your bird cage kind of fodder.

 

The life event I speak of is not having a baby, getting married or experiencing the death of a loved one – I’m trying to close escrow on my house, which, is pretty much all that I just mentioned.  This process has involved more than nine months of serious labors pains and people looking all up into my personal business on a weekly basis; the binding of myself for the next 30 years to the Great and Powerful Oz (No, really.  I’ve never SEEN the loan people, only communicated through electronic devices, so how do I know it isn’t just one guy with a multiple personality complex); and my very soul and sanity (who I have always treasured) are teetering on the brink of a freshly dug, not-so-shallow grave.

 

It isn’t that the loan people (or loony, great-with-voices, ONE person) haven’t been kind.  They have actually been quite lovely.  Why else would I pledge myself to them (in sickness and in health, I will pay the mortgage, so help me Hannah), for the next three decades?  For the most part, it has been a nice courtship, though I did get a bit snarky when some of the same questions kept being asked.  WTH?  By week three I was pretty certain that my exact genetic sequencing was on a post-it note somewhere in the title company’s office, so why did they need to ask ANYthing more than twice?  What?!  You don’t TRUST me?!  Is this any way to start a relationship?

 

This has been one of the most arduous journeys of my life, this fighting for my home after the divorce thing.  And it wasn’t some War of the Roses property struggle, either.  Don’t go thinking that I live in some big mansion on a hill, by the way.  I live in 1800 sq. feet of Beaver Cleaver cul-de-sac and the loan I sought was less than Jennifer Lopez probably spends on burgers for her and her boy toy (to be fair, that’s if they take the yacht out for a spin to St. Bart for le French fries, too).  My loan is for a piddly hill of beans.  Yet, in the dark of night I believe the loan people are scouring through my hairbrush for signs of instability and debilitating dandruff that might inhibit my ability to pay my mortgage on time.

 

Today, at noon, I am supposed to close escrow with Mr. Oz and I don’t expect him to carry me over the threshold, when the dust settles.  In fact, I’m just happy to know that I’m going to have a threshold.  One where I can open the door and happily greet “busy” and “crazy-busy” soon.  I sort of miss ‘em.  You guys, too.