I had surgery about 24 hours ago, and I have made a few notes to self after the fact that I will now record here for posterity.
1. Whoever formulated Midazolam deserves a medal. A shot of that in my right arm and about 45 seconds later my brain was floating in the most pleasant way and my pre-surgery anxieties were distant memories. It's apparently what they offer to death row inmates before execution. I think I understand why.
2. Don't bother trying to have a long, meaningful conversation with an anesthesiologist even though they may bait you to talk. As soon as they tire of your drivel, they will turn the IV drip on and leave the room, never to be seen again, before you know what hit you. That's just not the stuff of lasting relationships.
3. There are worse things than being attended in the restroom by nursing staff when you really have to answer nature's call and are still woozy from the anesthesiologist's revenge for your lack of scintillating conversation.
4. Investigate the possibility of a less generic last name. It's really disappointing when you are waiting anxiously for your name to be called and hear it repeatedly announced followed by, "Sorry, not you, I need the other ____" in a cruel, cruel repeated game.
5. Hospital waiting room furniture may look like the comfy furniture in a swanky college library, but it's really just an illusion. The couches are just not conducive to napping and you will probably be sorely disappointed if you try. *sigh*
6. Daniel already knows that he can have my books and CDs if I die on the OR table. No need to remind him.
7. Hospital staff really enjoy asking you the same question over and over again. They get testy if you don't just smile and reply cheerfully that you are still the same person you were when the last person came in the room and that you are still there for the same operation.
8. When signing for the 18th time that you realize your routine, minor procedure may result in maiming or death (your own death, not that of the doctor), it's best to just smile, scribble and try not to think about it. (Yet another reason to be really nice to all of those hospital staff.)
9. They throw away those nifty grip-bottom socks if you don't take them home with you. Might as well keep them on hand for those hospital-nostalgia moments.
10. The ads for free cookies on the hospital walls are a sham. They aren't free -- they require the donation of your life's blood. That said, sometimes a cookie is worth the sacrifice. What I wouldn't have given for a cookie after my rather long fast. All I got was saltines as a thank you for my rather undignified experience.
11. Hospital gowns are just as breezy and fashionable as ever. They won't, however, let you take them home. At least I got to keep the socks...
12. Clunky wire grocery carts are not done serving humanity when homeless people tire of them. They go to hospitals and masquerade as wheelchairs. (No, really, click on the link. This is the model of chair that ferried me to the curb)
13. Very pale light yellow skin is actually quite becoming and matches your eyes. Or at least you should keep telling yourself that when you look in the mirror. It won't do to dwell on the skin tone you used to know.
These are just a few of my discoveries yesterday. It was a rather full day of learning.... when I wasn't asleep.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Friday, December 7, 2007
You'll Go Down in History...
Sometimes have to wonder if I have the power to curse sports teams merely by genuinely hoping they will win. I seem to have an uncanny knack for watching losing games or associating with losing teams.
I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.
Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.
By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.
I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).
I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.
Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.
It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.
It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.
For your reference:
N
I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.
Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.
By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.
I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).
I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.
Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.
It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.
It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.
For your reference:
N
R
S
Friday, November 23, 2007
For You This Thanksgiving
MooMoo nearly always has some portion of her tongue hanging out. This was a rather classic example.
But seriously ... We're very thankful for all of our friends and family and hope you have all had a blessed time of feasting and joy with those you love!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Meltdown
I was sitting here trying my hand at writing some short fiction when my ears picked up on a distant low growl, which soon developed into a full-blown siren. A three-minute long siren. Let me tell you, three minutes is an awfully long time when you are not sure whether to panic, send a final love-note to your husband via the wonder of the internet and settle your eternal accounts with your Maker before watching your flesh melt like the wax dummies in Raiders of the Lost Ark, or just yawn lazily and get back to your typing.
I know enough to realize that disasters at nuclear power plants are very rare and usually very well contained. So well contained, in fact, that the number of deaths related to plant accidents is much smaller than the popular imagination would have it. I am sure the chances of dying from a nuclear accident are probably about as great as the odds that I will be bit by a shark while being struck by lightning in an airplane full of snakes before plummeting to my death by impalement on the spike of an Eigentumshelm... but still, the sound of a nuclear siren when you live in the 10-mile radius known technically as the "oh crap!" zone, when you didn't know it was coming, causes a more than a few heart palpitations and a jolt of hot adrenalin.
Um, so, to backtrack. I'm typing, the nuclear siren sounds, and I send a frantic little message to Dan via Google talk saying something like "Oh crap" "Nuclear siren". I'm a rather capable person, and I was prepared for just such a moment. Tests are run regularly on the siren system so that in the event that they are needed, they will work. I have read emergency information for just such a moment. I have found local radio stations. I have found local TV. I know where to find the website about the Harris Plant. Or I did until that blasted siren sounded. Suddenly none of my links can be found.
Dan suggests radio and TV. I start with the TV What do I take with me if I have to evacuate? and press the power button. I scramble for the remote and flip to channel 98 to find out which channel is most likely to be broadcasting local information. Of course, once I get there, the guide list has just passed the local channels and is scrolling through the 70 other channels and the pay-per-view options at a leisurely pace before pausing for a commercial break. I pick a local-ish station and turn the volume up. On drones a heartbreaking story of 9-11 disaster begets disaster as I run back to my computer, thinking maybe radio or internet will be the better option.
Rather than turning on the radio in the bedroom I knew we should have purchased a battery-powered emergency radio light... I decided that sound in two rooms would be plenty. I managed to find a local station with streaming audio, so I turned the internet radio on and heard the strange commentator with a raspy voice who is always on this time of the morning was interviewing someone, not about the tragedy that was unfolding in my office Siren sounds do NOT always indicate a need to evacuate, but about some other subject of great global import.
The phone rings. It's my dad. He's asking about car rentals for their visit in October. He's talking calmly into the ear piece while the TV shouts from the living room and the streaming radio swims around my free ear. The cats, they haven't even had breakfast... I had been trying to surf to the power plant site when the phone rang, but instead the browser froze, and the computer refused to budge. Time to reboot, while I dug up the phone book to look for local car rental places.
Are the neighbors leaving? I wandered over to the window, hiked up the mini-blinds and looked out at a woman driving by in her maroon minivan No, she's not in a hurry, is she? still discussing the relative merits of car rental companies with my dad. There was no other movement up and down the street. This neighborhood is mostly deserted already. I'm not glowing, and nobody seems to care enough to broadcast it on the news, so I am pretty sure that was a test. Still looking out the window, I noticed a city works truck slowly picking up green waste from the curbside. Either we're both dying here, or there's nothing worth worrying about.
Dad and I said our goodbyes, just as I found the "information desk" number for the town. "That was a test. They usually send out postcards, but this time they didn't. As soon as I heard the siren I called dispatch because I knew my phone would be lighting up. They told me they just found out about 10 seconds before the siren sounded." I sighed. Um, isn't there some place, online maybe, where people can find warnings about this sort of thing? "I don't know... that's a good question." So, if it had been an emergency, how do I evacuate without a car? "I don't know, honey. Talk to your neighbors. It's not like we can send a van around." Of course not. "You know, honey, if something happens, we're all gonna get real skinny real quick. I figure it's not worth worrying about." She has a point.
I eventually contacted the company running the power plant and suggested to a very nice woman that perhaps, just perhaps, for the benefit of the people who move into town between the informational mailings that come out every three months (just before we moved in, as it happens), they could put a ticker up on the website that scrolls Siren Test Today at 10. "What a great idea! I'll suggest that to IT. Thanks so much for calling." I sighed as she added, "Oh, and welcome to town!"
Meltdown averted. Narrowly.
I know enough to realize that disasters at nuclear power plants are very rare and usually very well contained. So well contained, in fact, that the number of deaths related to plant accidents is much smaller than the popular imagination would have it. I am sure the chances of dying from a nuclear accident are probably about as great as the odds that I will be bit by a shark while being struck by lightning in an airplane full of snakes before plummeting to my death by impalement on the spike of an Eigentumshelm... but still, the sound of a nuclear siren when you live in the 10-mile radius known technically as the "oh crap!" zone, when you didn't know it was coming, causes a more than a few heart palpitations and a jolt of hot adrenalin.
Um, so, to backtrack. I'm typing, the nuclear siren sounds, and I send a frantic little message to Dan via Google talk saying something like "Oh crap" "Nuclear siren". I'm a rather capable person, and I was prepared for just such a moment. Tests are run regularly on the siren system so that in the event that they are needed, they will work. I have read emergency information for just such a moment. I have found local radio stations. I have found local TV. I know where to find the website about the Harris Plant. Or I did until that blasted siren sounded. Suddenly none of my links can be found.
Dan suggests radio and TV. I start with the TV What do I take with me if I have to evacuate? and press the power button. I scramble for the remote and flip to channel 98 to find out which channel is most likely to be broadcasting local information. Of course, once I get there, the guide list has just passed the local channels and is scrolling through the 70 other channels and the pay-per-view options at a leisurely pace before pausing for a commercial break. I pick a local-ish station and turn the volume up. On drones a heartbreaking story of 9-11 disaster begets disaster as I run back to my computer, thinking maybe radio or internet will be the better option.
Rather than turning on the radio in the bedroom I knew we should have purchased a battery-powered emergency radio light... I decided that sound in two rooms would be plenty. I managed to find a local station with streaming audio, so I turned the internet radio on and heard the strange commentator with a raspy voice who is always on this time of the morning was interviewing someone, not about the tragedy that was unfolding in my office Siren sounds do NOT always indicate a need to evacuate, but about some other subject of great global import.
The phone rings. It's my dad. He's asking about car rentals for their visit in October. He's talking calmly into the ear piece while the TV shouts from the living room and the streaming radio swims around my free ear. The cats, they haven't even had breakfast... I had been trying to surf to the power plant site when the phone rang, but instead the browser froze, and the computer refused to budge. Time to reboot, while I dug up the phone book to look for local car rental places.
Are the neighbors leaving? I wandered over to the window, hiked up the mini-blinds and looked out at a woman driving by in her maroon minivan No, she's not in a hurry, is she? still discussing the relative merits of car rental companies with my dad. There was no other movement up and down the street. This neighborhood is mostly deserted already. I'm not glowing, and nobody seems to care enough to broadcast it on the news, so I am pretty sure that was a test. Still looking out the window, I noticed a city works truck slowly picking up green waste from the curbside. Either we're both dying here, or there's nothing worth worrying about.
Dad and I said our goodbyes, just as I found the "information desk" number for the town. "That was a test. They usually send out postcards, but this time they didn't. As soon as I heard the siren I called dispatch because I knew my phone would be lighting up. They told me they just found out about 10 seconds before the siren sounded." I sighed. Um, isn't there some place, online maybe, where people can find warnings about this sort of thing? "I don't know... that's a good question." So, if it had been an emergency, how do I evacuate without a car? "I don't know, honey. Talk to your neighbors. It's not like we can send a van around." Of course not. "You know, honey, if something happens, we're all gonna get real skinny real quick. I figure it's not worth worrying about." She has a point.
I eventually contacted the company running the power plant and suggested to a very nice woman that perhaps, just perhaps, for the benefit of the people who move into town between the informational mailings that come out every three months (just before we moved in, as it happens), they could put a ticker up on the website that scrolls Siren Test Today at 10. "What a great idea! I'll suggest that to IT. Thanks so much for calling." I sighed as she added, "Oh, and welcome to town!"
Meltdown averted. Narrowly.
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