Moaning Monday

At six am the alarm was blaring and I had to get up. I had to get my son up. He doesn’t wake to his alarm. I imagine I’ll have to be there when he’s forty, creeping old rickety bones to his bedroom and standing over him like the grim reaper... “Son, get up. You have a board-meeting at 9:00 am.”

This morning my eyes were (are) puffy. My nose was (is) stuffy. I didn’t sleep well. The kitten spent half the night on my face and the other half attacking my feet. I was having stress dreams. It seems I was a restaurant manager. No one respected me. Lucky me I garnered the "I hate you so much I’ll spit in your face" kind of disrespect. I also had no authority to administer discipline and therefore earn respect. The restaurant owners didn’t understand why I was failing. I quit that job just before I woke up. I woke with no income, nothing in the pipeline and the alarm screaming.

After he showered and dressed the boy came down wearing a shirt that didn’t belong to him. I have no idea where it came from. He did not eat breakfast. His eyes were also puffy and tired. I don’t know when he went to sleep. He was sent to bed at ten.

The other two kids were still asleep and it was my morning to drive. The hub was already at work. I left the girls sleeping. The eight (nearly nine) year old knows she’s in charge for the twenty-minutes I’m away. I flashed back to my latch key days. It’s not a good memory.

I dropped the boy off at school and came home to start a load of laundry. There, in the basket, were his gym clothes. This is the first time they’ve come home since September. Today he’ll have to borrow clothes. His grade may be docked. Another check in the failure of parenting box.

Next I woke middle daughter. Grumpily she stumbled to the shower. I sat and read the school newsletter that miraculously made it home last week. The TAG (talented and gifted) testing was done. Parents of potential TAG kids were notified. Nobody called my house.

And here's the thing -- middle daughter is very bright. Very very bright. And she is bored. This year she’s losing interest in school. She hasn’t been turning in her homework. For that matter homework hasn’t been making it home. I was hoping she might have other opportunities next year. Something to challenge her. Looks like TAG isn't it.

I was in TAG (actually it was called GATE; gifted and talented education). In the fourth grade I had to stay after school and learn to balance a check book while my friends went out to play. I also had to wear a chin cup to correct an under bite. Understandably I was quite popular.

I’m not a fan of TAG, per se, as I did not enjoy it. But my daughter needs something different than she is getting and I’m at a loss as to what to do.

I shoved some (hopefully salmonella free) peanut butter toast in middle daughter’s hand as she headed out the door. Her hair was gnarled. She didn’t have time to brush it.

And there you have it. My morning in a nut shell. It is nearly 10 am. The five year old is still asleep. I’m sitting in my reading chair drinking coffee and staring through greasy fingerprints at the world outside.

I wonder if it's too late. Too late for my kids and too late for me. Have they already lost their potential? Is the kinetic energy spent? How to get moving again. How to move in the right direction. I wonder if my children will survive me. Will they blame me for squandering their childhood?

Little sis will soon be up. I’ll have to feed her. Provide her with mental stimulation. I also need to plan dinner. To shop. To cook. To clean. I’ll continue to check the failure box as I’m confronted with the daily reminders of my short comings; homework not done, breakfast not eaten, dirty dishes, filthy carpets, laundry strewn about, a backyard full of pine needles and a front walk covered in ice. I’ll let the baby play Toon Town while I struggle to manage the house. Check. Check. Check.

Where is the balance? The peace? The contentment? Why am I having such a difficult time today? I do not know. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Maybe it’s me putting my head in the sand for too long. Me with my hands over my ears -- naaa, naaa, naaa, I don’t hear you. It's all good. All good. All good.

The sun is out. It is supposed to be warm. I think we’ll try to talk a walk. A long long walk. Perhaps that will change my perspective. In the meantime I guess I’ll get down to it. First step -- greasy fingerprints from windows; I need to clear the view.

Dear Unknown Caller:

I know you are calling me. I see you on caller ID. I will never ever answer the phone. If you don’t have the balls to show yourself I have no need to talk to you. If it were truly important you’d leave a message. That ring invades my day like a rabid alarm clock bent on attack. My heart leaps into my throat. Nothing good comes from the phone.

I should just turn the damn thing off. Only my children also call, from school, and show up with an unknown ID. The schools around here have a liberal phone policy; my children ring to ask about play dates or whether we can have cookies after school. Does the administration not understand? My children do not have cell phones for this very reason (well that and I have no desire to pay out the ying yang for said conversations). These matters can be discussed over breakfast or on the way home. I do not need to contemplate baked goods while scrubbing the kitchen floor. And yes, I do my own floors. Strangely I haven’t been able to find anyone willing to work for free and be verbally abused by one child or another. It is so hard to find good help these days.

But I digress. Should my child break a bone, erupt in full body hives or surreptitiously vomit on your new shoes - by all means call me. I’m happy to step in and play the parent. But otherwise - shouldn’t they be studying? Shouldn’t you be teaching them something?

And, ye unknown caller, he who shan’t be named - I know who you are. I know what you want. You want my money. You seem to be mistaken. I have not won the lottery. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to win, what, 180 million dollars? Yes, that’d be quite lovely. However, I don’t play the lottery so my actual chances of winning are quite slim. Nor did I just receive an inheritance or any other large sum of cash.

I must admit, the most perturbing of these “unknown” stalkers is my alumni association. Do I want to donate to the program? Well, gee, let’s just consider that $90,000.00 student loan a donation, kay? I’ll be paying that off until I’m sixty-two. After that give me a buzz, perhaps I’ll feel like donating a bit more.

Don’t get me wrong. I may be frugal, I may be debt laden but I am not a miser. I do give. I give my time and, yes, I give money. But I prefer to be charitable on my own terms.

So, in conclusion, dear caller, don’t call me. I’ll call you.

Sincerely,
Perturbed in the Pacific Northwest

A Typical Sunday

At the Animal Emergency Center:

I’d been there for six hours. Nothing had died, nothing had been euthanized. The hospital was full; a manx with megacolon and rectal prolapse, a greyhound with hemorrhagic gastric enteritis, a cat that had been hit by a car and had a dislocated tail, a basset hound that was hit by a car and had skull and jaw fractures, a dachshund with intervertebral disc disease who was paralyzed and recovering from back surgery, an old german shepherd who had immune-mediated thrombocytopenia (low platelets), a border collie in kidney failure, a chihuahua who got into rat poison, another dachshund with gastroenteritis and severe dehydration, a stray miniature australian shepherd with a broken femur, our rescue pug puppy and an old cat with an upper respiratory infection.

* * *

Several other animals filtered through the hospital but didn’t have to stay; an australian shepherd puppy run over in the driveway, a karelian bear dog whos front legs were run over, a sheepdog with a laceration and an old schnauzer with liver cancer in need of pain management.

* * *

2:00 pm: The shepherd’s elderly owner came to visit. She had left her husband, who was hard of hearing and had just been diagnosed with bladder cancer, at home.

We discussed the shepherd’s test results; the dog had lived through the night (which was a miracle in and of itself) but had not improved as much as we would like. This elderly couple would not be able to care for the dog at home; he would need to be carried outside to go to the bathroom, had horrible diarrhea and was at risk for sudden death. This sweet old woman knew what she had to do. She chose to euthanize her dog.

We brought the dog into the room and with her kneeling by his head he passed quietly and quickly with an anesthetic overdose. The woman stood, visibly shaken; smacked in the face by mortality. She hugged me, a long hug, a need for human connection, a need to feel a part of something larger than oneself. Then she went home to care for her ill husband.

2:20 pm: A geriatric cat presented for euthanasia. He was not well and his owner wished to end his suffering. The owner did not want to be present. The cat was unceremoniously euthanized on the treatment table.

2:30 pm: A good samaritan brought in a baby robin with a broken wing and broken leg. An intentional overdose of anesthetic gas put the bird out of his misery.

4:00 pm: A fourteen-year-old border collie mix presented in respiratory distress; she had laryngeal paralysis. The dog’s owner wore dark sunglasses in the exam room; she already knew what she came in for. We sedated the dog and discussed treatment options; surgery to fix the paralyzed larynx, sedation and oxygen therapy to improve respiratory function (a temporary fix), or euthanasia. The owner was crying. She didn’t want to put her dog through anything else. She wanted to be present. The dog passed quietly in her arms. Her neighbor comforted her and took her home.

5:30 pm: Two large cats were brought into the clinic; 20 pounds each. They were siblings, sixteen-years-old and had never been apart. When separated they’d cry out until the other was in sight. One of the cats was injured, he couldn’t walk, he was in shock. The other cat huddled next to him gently grooming his head. The owners did not think one cat could live without the other. The cats’ health had been slowly deteriorating and the owners chose to euthanize both kitties. A technician came into the room with me. The cats were snuggled together. We euthanized them simultaneously so one wouldn’t have to watch the other. They passed in each other’s arms.

7:00 pm: A severely neurologic weimaraner was admitted for overnight hospitalization and monitoring.

7:30 pm: A visibly upset and crying client brought in a rabbit for euthanasia. The rabbit had cancer and spinal problems. He was fourteen-years-old. Bawling she held him for the injection. She chose a private cremation; she wanted her bunny’s ashes for her children.

7:45 pm: Called the crematorium, the freezer was full, we needed a pick-up.

8:00 pm: My family came, they brought me dinner. I spent 5 minutes with the kids playing with the clinic’s rescue puppy.

8:10 pm: While suturing a laceration I rounded the night doctor on our cases. The doctor was crabby, probably not yet fully awake. I told him I could not remember whether or not I told the dachshund’s owner about morning pick-up.

8:30 pm: Finished surgery. Night doctor asked me if I told the dachshund’s owner about pick-up. I told him I did not remember, I had talked with the owners briefly as I was going to euthanize the kitties but I did not remember if I told them to pick up.

He repeated back to me, “What?! Did you or did you not tell them about the morning?”

Perhaps I was not speaking English. Perhaps I had lapsed into tongue. I changed verbage, “I do not recall.”

“DID YOU TELL THEM ABOUT THE MORNING?”

“I ...DO...NOT...RECALL! I SPOKE TO THEM BUT I DON’T REMEMBER IF I TOLD THEM ABOUT THE MORNING!” (I wish on you a bloat. No double bloats and a bleeding spleen.)

I felt like a child who had just had her buttons pushed by a sibling. My chest was tightening and I had an overriding urge to sweep the charts off the counter and onto the floor like a petulant child losing at Monopoly. I'd follow that spectacular move by picking the charts up one-by-one and fling them full force at his face. Instead I turned and walked away. I took the charts and holed up in the office. Meanwhile he called the owners. I had not told them about morning pick-up. He gave them the needed information.

8:35 pm: Threw first completed chart rather aggressively on counter for faxing.

8:36 pm: Apologized to receptionist.

8:45 pm: Office chair yoga, a cup of tea and music; the nerves started to calm.

9:30 pm: Charts completed.

9:45 pm: Finished doctor rounds without any further altercations.

10:00 pm: Arrived home, kissed children, sent them to bed.

* * *

I am paid to fight death. Every time I go to work I put on my gloves and enter the ring with the reaper. Some rounds I win. Some rounds he wins. Some rounds I concede to him, my hands in the air; tired of the blows I give up. Why do I keep fighting? The cumulative score is in his favor; at best I slow his progress but in the end he will always prevail.

* * *

“Somedays won't end ever and somedays pass on by,
I'll be working here forever, at least until I die.
Dammed if you do, dammed if you don't
I'm supposed to get a raise week, you know damn well I won't.

Workin' for a livin' (workin')
Workin' for a livin' (workin')
Workin' for a livin', livin' and workin'
I'm taking what they giving 'cause I'm working for a livin'.”

- Huey Lewis and The News

* * *

Benjamin Franklin’s Epitaph:

The Body of B. Franklin, Printer
Like the Cover of an Old Book
Its Contents Torn Out And
Stripped of its Lettering and Gilding,
Lies Here
Food for Worms
But the Work Shall not be Lost,
For it Will as He Believed
Appear Once More
In a New and more Elegant Edition
Revised and Corrected
By the Author

* * *
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