Excuse me, your corpus callosum is showing - Feb 26, 2009

I got I got I got I got I got I got I got

to see a dissection yesterday!

of a BRAIN!!!!

at the MORGUE!!!!!

I have the best job ever! The BEST JOB EVER!!!!

Hollah!!!!

Now, surprisingly, when I've told people this, they've asked whether the person was alive, so before I continue with the story, let's be perfectly clear... the person whose brain we were dissecting was most definitely DEAD.

It went like this like this like this... it was SO COOL!!!

OK ok ok ok, so me and my friend Robin, we are both social workers, and we heard one of the docs had arranged with the Medical Examiner's office to have an ME cut a brain and discuss it for the third-year residents. Now, they all went to medical school, and they've done all this before, but we focus almost entirely on the brain here, and the powers that be figured it would be a good refresher for the docs. So Robin and I horned in.

You should know, too, that at UNC the Morgue is on the eleventh floor. The eleventh floor, people!!! There's a DRAIN. Think about it! EWWWWWWWWW!!!

But we were in one of the side rooms. We weren't in with all the actual bodies. We were, though, apparently in the BRAIN room. Picture a box the size of a box of chocolates, but made of clear plastic. Picture that clear box filled with fluid and a SLICE of BRAIN. Then picture SCORES of those boxes all along the shelves that lined three walls of the room, floor to high ceiling. OMG! Brains everywhere!!!

I was looking around, marvelling at it all, and on the chalkboard were weird drawings of Y-branches bulging in the middle, and a roughly brain-shaped sketch and words like berry aneurysm and uncal herniation. And then I was looking at the clear boxes with the brain slices, and suddenly felt a little woozey. As long as it's just anatomy, I'm good, but as soon as I start thinking, that's what MY brain looks like, oh dear, the room would start spinning. Gack!

And then a large, tattooed, burley dude came in wielding a huge Ginsu-looking knife and laid it on the stainless steel table next to the scalpels and scissory-looking things that were there, and walked out silently.

And then a few minutes later, the sweet, Mr. Rogers-esque ME dude came in, wearing his oh-so-perfect red tie and blue shirt, and he outfitted himself in a plastic aprony/covery thing (note the scientific jargon--I do work in a hospital, btw), and he suggested we all get started, so while we had been chatting casually--Robin and I along with a handful of third-year residents--we quieted down and perched on high stools closer to the table...

And then Mr. Rogers reached into a white plastic BUCKET and with no further ado, but with a strange splutting sound, PULLED OUT A BRAIN!!!!! Aaaaarrrgggghhhh!!!!! A BRAIN people, a BRAIN!!!! And he plunked it down on the table!!!!! PLUNK!!!!

And on top of the brain is a thick, plastic-looking thing that looks exactly like a Harris Teeter bag, attached to the top but hanging loosely on each side, and he's explaining that this brain has been treated with something that made the blood vessels turn a dark brown instead of the bright red we would usually see, and so while it looks almost exactly as it would coming out of the skull, a fresh one would be more pink. And while he's doing this, he's moving the Harris Teeter bag back and forth, and it is firmly affixed to the center of the top of the brain.

He tells us that he knows nothing about the person who donated the brain, but he can tell by its size that it's a female--one of the docs and I simultaneously say "'Cuz it's so big!" and then high-five the "jinx" moment, but he says, "No, a woman's brain is about 100 grams smaller..." and I say, "Oh, we're just that much more efficient..." and he comments that there is a lot of variation in brain size, so it could just be a small man's brain, but he's fairly certain it's a woman because there is very little fat!!! So of course, the women, who well outnumber the ONE other man in the room spontaneously and simultaneously errupt with "Fatheads!!!" And then smile and say, "Well, of course, except for you two..." to the two poor men in the room.

He notes that she must have been over 60 because there is signfiicant atrophy. Really? And he points out how the squiggly wormy parts of the top of the brain are squiggly and wormy, and how in a healthy, young brain, all those squiggles are pushed tightly together so that the "space" between is just a line, but in an older, atrophying brain, caverns start to appear between the squiggles, and sure enough, in this one, he can slide his finger in between. She's over 60. I'm two-thirds of my way there. My brain is atrophying even as I watch this man slide his finger between her squiggles. The room starts to spin again. I focus on my affinity for crossword puzzles and hope for the best...

He then proceeds to point out the different lobes of the brain, shows how people used to do lobotomies, pulls off the Harris Teeter bag (the Dura), shows where people get different brain bleeds, talks about the meninges, including the "arachnoid," (who knew we had spiders in our skulls???), and then ...

He takes the Ginsu knife, and carefully cuts, like a jello prop, a SLICE OF BRAIN. OMG! And it goes SPLUT as it falls to the side and hits the table! OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!!!

And he happily points out various brain structures, showing where there is white matter, grey matter, and different nerve bundles. He cuts slice after slice, reciting names of things that all sound familiar from classes years ago. He shows us the olfactory nerves--thick white cords, just like you'd expect--and the optic nerves, and then various blood vessels that shoot up in the center. The pituitary gland looks like a mushroom and dangles perfectly intact from one of the slices.

The whole time, I'm fine as he's quoting Latin names, although one really must giggle when you get to the peduncal. But as soon as he would say something like, "This controls balance," then it would become too real, too personal, and the room would spin, the nausea would rise. But I fought it back by focusing on the Latin... He showed where a small aneurysm or any kind of swelling would affect various parts of the brain, describing what the consequences would be, and how in the lowest part of the brain, where everything narrows to a tiny knot at the base of the skull, how even the smallest disturbance would have dire consequences (the girl behind me said, plainly, "and then you die...") and I kept saying, "I really need to NOT KNOW all the things that can go wrong..."

And in about an hour the whole thing was over, and then he was grabbing with his hands all the pieces of brain to plunk back in the bucket the way you and I would clean up after a kid was playing with Play-Doh.

OMG!

Always happy to meet the neighbors - Nov. 5, 2009

So, first of all, rest assured, I am safe, at work, back to normal life, including the unlocked, unbarricaded doors. All is well...

The white van is still parked outside my house, and now my dilemma becomes this... when the dude DOES come to get it, do I call the police? Do I assume they've picked him up by now, and when he comes to get it, it's after his release?

I can also imagine the bureaucratic clusterfuck that would be that phone call. I have information about a white van, parked at a specific address many days ago, about a suspect whose name I don't know, whose crime I don't know, yadda yadda. Aye carrumba, I hope hope hope he comes and gets it while I'm at work.

And what if he NEVER comes to get it? How long do I wait before I complain about an abandoned car? And if I DO call about that, do I tell them the whole story? Aye aye aye.

So as I'm pulling out of the driveway this morning, the gentleman walking his dog and looking in the van windows caught my attention, so I pulled up in my car. He's about my age, white, slight build, red hair, walking a pretty black dog. "So, you're interested in that van?" He says he knows a little something about it, and I'm like, Yeah, all I know is the cops are looking for the guy, they asked me to call if he comes by. Redhairmanwithblackdog says, "He's my neighbor, and the cops were at his house last night..." We chat. The suspect is really nice, but had some "stressful times with his wife" a couple weeks back, and redhairmanwithblackdog figures the police activity is related to that. I said I didn't think it was anything serious, as the cops didn't seem to upset about the whole thing. Yadda yadda, pleasantries... redhairmanwithblackdog lives a few doors up the street from me (on McCormick, for those of you familiar with my neighborhood), which of course means suspectman lives a few doors up the street from me... So, no need to lock my doors any more (I didn't last night anyway) since I am in no more danger today than I was four days ago, what with the suspect living on my block...

And after more yadda yadda about the suspect, redhairmanwithblackdog says, "You ride the bike, don't you?" and we chat about his black and red Nighthawk that he's trying to get on the road, and oh yeah, when the weather gets warmer lets get a group together and ride...

So, there you have the update. I'm always happy to meet my neighbors...

The Fugitive - Nov. 4, 2009

I hope you don't mind, but I am copying here some of the stories that pre-date the blog. For those of you who got a bathroom reader or were up on the previous emails, these are re-runs, but for those new to this blog, these oldies are goodies, and I wanted them remembered here.

There's something inherently creepy about a white van. I know, I know, they're EVERYWHERE, and yet, when they're out of place, they're just creepy. Too many Magnum PI episodes, or maybe it's all the Murder She Wrote, but the bad guys are always hanging out in a mysterious white van, parked on the street.

Like the one parked in front of my house right now.

And in the TV shows, no one pays any attention to it, but here, on my street, I know it doesn't belong. I know most of the cars on my street, and even when there are random guests parked here, they're never white vans.

So when I pulled in around 10:30 last night, and there was a white van parked right in front of my house, it was creepy.

But you know me, I just sauntered on into my house, totally confident that all would be ok...

I was a little wired at that hour, having had my last cup of coffee late in the day, and having scraped my house most of the day, so I was widewidewidewide awake, and when the police lights strobed through my living room windows, I glanced with mild curiosity to see the black-and-white parked down by the corner, and mostly ignored it, hanging out in the back of the house where facebook and the latest Star Trek episode are easily accessible.

Until Eddie, the neurotic wonderdawg, started LOSING HIS SHIT. I knew it was the cops--people walking around, the lights swirling... it was too much for him. And his barking/howling/yelping/skittering energy was just too much for me, so I went into the living room just as the flashlight circle of white bobbed it's way to my front door.

I held Eddie tight and cracked the door, apologizing and explaining that he's loud but really quite friendly, and the verynicepoliceofficer sheepishly reported that the suspect had gotten away, and "well, we found his van, and um, well, if you see anyone come to the van and tinker with it, or get into it, um, can you let us know? Cuz, like, well, he got away."

I cheerfully said of course, noting that my dawg would alert me to anyone going near it even if I'm in the back of the house, and he cheerfully went away, as I -- prepare yourself, this is huge -- LOCKED THE DOOR behind him.

If you know me, you know I don't even have a KEY to my house. I have no idea when the last time I locked my door was, but yep, that deadbolt was turned. It was a weird feeling. I felt like it was rude to the cop to have locked the door behind him, but I was also pretty sure he understood...

I also flipped off all the lights, since I WOULD be watching for the escaped suspect, and I WOULD be calling 911 immediately, and I did NOT want him to watch me do it.

And then I remembered the back door. The one that doesn't lock. Or even latch. The upper hinges have sagged a bit--this happened in the spring, and now the door latchy thing doesn't line up with the strike plate in the frame, and it doesn't close. It looks closed, well enough, till a breeze or Eddie the wonderdawg push it open, then it swings freely into my laundry room, where it continues to hang open till I see it or get home or whatever and close it.

Hmmmm.... I study the door closely. I really really really don't believe this guy is coming back, and I really reallly really don't believe he's going to come into my house, but at some point, I've got to lie down, shut my eyes, and actually sleep with the white van on my street and the fugitive's whereabouts unknown. So I study the door. I pull, I lift, I tug, I shove, I slam, I knock and bang and hmph and shoulder and push and shimmy and all the verbs I can think of, and in the end, barricade the door using a table that pushes right up against the opposite wall of the laundry room so that sucker ain't going anywhere. Phew!

And then I sit on my couch while chatting with Bill, and watch for the suspect to return and me to save the day and call 911 and catch the dude who is probably wanted for nothing more than running a stop sign in Chatham County somewhere...

Needless to say, he didn't return, and I didn't get to save the day, but I did get to see my favorite-ever Star Trek episode, and the white van is still parked on the street...

Finn

This is a blog entry about a cat.

And a man who snores.

The cat is Finn. He is all street. And that's street with a capital S. He's a gray and black tabby with a white spot on his nose, and teeny tiny legs and a stubby tail, but a burly stance and barrel chest that he sticks out like Foghorn Leghorn's friend who used to screech, "I'm a chicken hawk!"

His first day in our house, Finn sat on the bed and yowled a terrifying cat sound that cleared the entire house. Not the bed, not the bedroom--the entire house. Eddie, easily eight times his weight, cowered in terror, shaking, tail between his legs, as he scurried out the back door. Tolliver shook, darting nervous looks over his shoulder as he too high-tailed it out of there.

Over the next weeks, Finn was the terror of the household. Eddie got more neurotic (if that were even possible), Tolliver started spending more time outside and seemed to forget where he lived, much to my aching, broken heart. When I held him, his little heart raced and he looked around, panicked, much of the time.

Decker and Rudy paid Finn no mind at all, and Cinnamon LOVED the chase game under the bed.

Unfortunately, though, as the weeks went by, Tolliver and Eddie were getting more and more neurotic, and the situation wasn't getting any better, in spite of our efforts to tone down the food aggression and turn up the love. Finn, you must also realize, is a human-loving purr machine, who rolls over, offers you his belly, lavishes you with lovey purrs, and is an incredibly rewarding cat to know. As long as you're human.

After much angst, we agreed, we had to take him back. We couldn't go one more night with him terrorizing the others. Bill was tapped for the unpleasant task of taking him to the dry cleaner where we'd found him, where they have a colony of feral cats living out back, where Finn stood out as a lovey, pet-quality stray. When he got there, he learned that they weren't too worried about it--one of their staff had hoped to take him home. He simply had to check that his housemate would agree, but he had been looking forward to getting a cat like Finn.

It appeared to all work out for the best. We offered to help find a home for him if it didn't work out with the dry cleaner employee, and when we heard nothing, we assumed the dude took him home. Over the next few days, Tolliver seemed slightly less panicked and began spending time in the house again. Eddie seemed slightly calmer. (With Eddie, it's all baby steps.)

Finally, last night, as Bill snored louder than anyone might believe is humanly possible, I ducked out of bed, into the guest room, closing the door on Bill's chainsaw as I went. I flipped on the guest room light and saw Tolliver, sound asleep, belly exposed, all four paws stretched out, the epitome of feline safety. He purred while I loved his tummy, and all was good.

Awakened by my loving, T-man grabbed some dry food and then headed out into the night, off like a cat busy doing cat things.

Around 3, I heard one of them come in, snuffle down the food in the bowl next to the guest bed (the best defense against night-time disturbances are well-placed food bowls), and up he hopped. I petted him as he purred aggressively, rubbing his body against me. I ran my hand down his body and felt the stubby tail at the end.

Waaaaait a minute... WHO IS THIS? I turned on the light. And there, BREAKING MY HEART, was FINN. He'd come HOME.

Thank you, mmmkay?

It was a parenthetical phrase in time--a day unlike almost any other, set apart from the rest of my life, with almost no known markers of familiarity.

I was in a strange place, doing strange things, moving at a snail's pace, which of course you know is nothing like the rest of my life. I learned nothing, I taught nothing. I accomplished nothing for the community (in spite of the resounding thank-yous for my "service"), I spoke to almost no one, I got NOTHING done.

Jury duty.

The day started out normal enough--jeans, a tank top, a sweatshirt. Packed my bag with crossword puzzles, a good book (the kind that makes you a better person for reading it), a fun book (the kind that rots your brain with every word), a book of puzzles, a Twix bar, a bag of pretzels, an orange, and a salad for lunch. Bean Traders made the morning wonderful and then it was off to downtown Durham.

I found the parking lot easily enough, marveling yet again at how much Durham has changed in the last ten years. They've done an amazing job of rejuvenating the downtown. When I served on a jury about 12 years ago, there was nowhere to eat anywhere downtown and we ended up at the government offices' cafeteria every day. But this morning, on my walk from the garage to the courthouse, I passed wide sunny streets with interesting shops and restaurants at every store front. Just the other night I had seen friends play music at Pinhook, and I've had several occasions to hang out in the Durham nightlife. I love my town, and I'm proud of the changes, and these were the thoughts that passed through my brain as I turned left onto Main Street passing the impressive headquarters of the Free Masons with their vaguely Wiccan symbology emblazoned dramatically across their facade and painted onto their windows and decalled onto their door.

The two--count 'em two, exactly two, no matter what, only two--security guards were in no hurry to usher us through the system, and the line of people trying to get into the courthouse at 8:30 stretched around in a tight spiral through the foyer and out into the bright light of our newfound spring weather made brighter by bouncing off the white, marble-esque exterior. I notice that nearly everyone--well, except for the cute little Latino couple who are probably here for some sort of COURT--but nearly everyone is holding out their happy little jury summons papers, looking all official--you know, to get through SECURITY, who of course, couldn't possibly care less why we're there as long as our bags fit through the xray machine that they don't even look at as the bag passes through 'cuz they're too busy flirting with the little Latina girl who... never mind.

Anyway, we eventually made it through security to join the crowd awaiting the elevator, and if you know me, you know I'm not going to be sitting in that, so I walked around to the back of the courthouse, stretching my memory muscles from when I was court volunteer for abused kids way back in the day, and I started up the five flights of stairs to the jury pool room.

I'm sorry--did you say five flights of stairs??? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING??? I haven't climbed more than a single flight in, what? DECADES, and here I am hefting what now feel like 40-pound shoes stair after stair after stair. I reach the top, tumble out of the stairwell and into the line of what I find out later were 150 jurors waiting to be checked in.

Good thing we all got there on time, 'cuz by 9:30, the last one of us was checked in and seated in the room that holds about 100 people comfortably. While I was in the line, I met the dude who used to be the director of DSS until about a month ago when he retired. He was wearing a suit, I noticed. How quaint. And the stay-at-home-mom who had served on a jury ten years ago when they had to serve for a month. She was hoping not to get called this time. We chatted happily about the changes in Durham, the civic duty we were fulfilling, the vibe that comes from being in a courthouse.

So finally I get in to the room, and the very nice and very cheerful clerk of court checks me in, and I find a corner on the floor in the back by the empty coat rack, and I spread out and open my first crossword puzzle of the day.

The very nice and very cheerful clerk of court begins her orientation, which is peppered with a thousand thank yous and a whole lot of "mmmkay?" that sounds just like the gay teacher on South Park. She is very nice and very cheerful, but not the most organized public speaker, and I wonder to myself how many times she's done this, and why is it so hard to finish a sentence, mmmkay? But she's so nice and so cheerful, that I decide she's a huge improvement over the last one who couldn't be bothered to look up from her desk when we had questions. She has us stand, and we are prepared to make an oath. I hadn't noticed them before, but she mentions it, and I realize there are Bibles strewn about the room, tilting precariously on chairs, slid carelessly onto tables, leaning against arm rests...

Now think about it. People are about to swear on the Bible, because it's a sacred book, the embodiment of the Word of God, and if you swear on the Bible and then break your oath, you are giving the ultimate diss to God.

So what does it mean to throw Bibles around a room and leave them on chairs, where people put their asses and all the things that asses do while they're in chairs? Really? The obvious-to-me contradiction is emblematic for me of how this system falls just short of greatness.

But we all stand and most people hover around a nearby Bible, with someone holding the book up, and the rest of them leaning in to touch it with their fingertips. The verysweetChristian lady (I know this because she had been reading some church newsletter that had big clear letters about various things peppered with bolded passages about JESUS as your SAVIOR and the LAMB OF GOD) was standing in front of me and the person in front of her had the Bible, but she was shy so she stretched out her arm, but it didn't reach the Bible, so she stood with her arm outstretched, her right hand lifted, her left hovering over nothing, but somehow this made all the difference, and she made her most solemn oath that she would uphold the duties of this court in a fair and proper manner. The solemnity of the whole thing was lost on the Witch in the coatrack.

And then we sat.

Several crosswords came and went. A sudoku or two. During the orientation, the very nice and very cheerful clerk of court had assured us that we would all get called into a courtroom that day. She didn't have near the number of jurors she had hoped for, and we may even have to do double duty if we get asked to leave one trial, we may have to go to another, mmmkay? She worried that we might not have time to watch the entire orientation video because the court schedule was so tight.

However, once the video was over, she reported that she'd heard from the court rooms, and sure enough--we could take a break. We took a 15-minute break, during which time I simply hunkered down deeper in the corner, and ate my orange.

I struggled to read while CNN blared over my head. The story of the Prius gas pedal incident in California replayed every few minutes throughout the day. The worst was the story of the Chinese removing cat and dog from their menus, planning to reduce the consumption of animals we consider housepets. The story was accompanied by the sound of meowing cats, and detailed, disgusting commentary that in any other circumstance would not be allowed into my world. Eventually, though, the sound in the room of the conversations, the cell phone chatter, and simply the movement of all those bodies drowned out the sounds of Constant News Nothing channel.

Hours passed, letters filled little squares, pages turned in both books, and soon it was noon, and the very nice and very cheerful clerk of court was telling us to go ahead and break for lunch, mmmkay? and be sure to be back at 2:30. The longest lunch break in the building...

The sunshine was beautiful and I regretted not bringing my camera. I ate my salad in front of the library, where a group of boisterous, cheerful and hilarious black teenagers kept up a banter of fabulous chatter until they were interrupted by the fat white stereotype of a security guard who would have none of that. An adorable little Latino boy hopped up on the stone wall but was "no-no"ed by his mom right away, with a tilt of her head, and "Policia, huh?" He gripped his Transformers book tighter and hopped down, all cheeks and mohawked hair and big brown eyes as he passed me before breaking into a run to catch up with mom and the roundroundround baby in her arms.

I walked to Brightleaf for an iced mocha where I bumped into the Mr. Bacon's Big Adventure board game at Parker and Otis. I strolled through Morgan Imports, and 2:30 found me back under my coatrack, now with coats, which made it even more bizarre, and by 3:30 we were being told we would soon be set free. Our job had been done--when the threat of a jury trial became real, the defendants had all reached plea bargains, something the judge said happens in 98 percent of cases.

Many thank-yous later, we were sent home, letter in hand, freeing us from this obligation for two more years. Our $12-dollar check would arrive in the mail, mmmkay?, and off we went.

Close parentheses.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

This has been one of those weeks.

Monday morning started out with a call from my neighbor and the announcement that one of my cats was dead. I went to the neighbor's lawn to retrieve her, and I couldn't help but feel like she was sleeping. On the one hand I hoped she'd jump up and greet me, and on the other, I knew I'd scream if she did. All the cliches, I thought, as I approached her.

I've lost many cats, of course, over the last ten years, but this was the first time I had to move the body myself. I knew I could have called Bill or Ish or one of the scores of Villagers who are willing to help me out no matter what, but I realized, as I debated the details, that this was an opportunity to be a big-girl-grown-up, so I was alone as I gingerly picked up my beautiful girl and laid her on the cardboard box top I'd enlisted to be her gurney. (For the curious about such things, I took her to the vet, who sent her off to be cremated.)

At work I had to deliver the news of her death to my friend because Blue had not always been my cat, and I had been charged with her care. The good part was that it appeared to be a natural passing, simple and elegant in its horribleness.

And the truth of my crazy life these days is that I don't have time to worry about any one thing for long, because before I knew it, I was zooming through amazing days of seeing patients, meeting with social workers about their caseloads, team meetings, writing notes, checking on people in the hospital, designing a tracking system for our billable hours, developing a flowchart for how we decide who gets what services, planning a training course, exploring the possibility of a textbook about ethics, keeping up with changes in the state system, and just the gazillion different pieces that go into my pull-me-in-fifty-different-directions job.

And then it stopped.

My whole being focused on an instant. It was as if I were living one of those scenes in the Matrix where the camera pans around a still figure, and the world slows down, and everything you know, everything you've learned, every cell in your body is en pointe to do one thing.

I sat across from the gentleman in the family session and felt the ultimate privilege of my job: to sit with people in their pain; to hear their stories; to witness the raw beauty that is the strength and resilience and will and power that people draw on to get through. It really is a rare experience for me to be so moved by a particular person or family that they linger so long in my thoughts, but it is these families that give me strength. Because that pool of strength that is there for them, is there for us too. We can give in to it, as I try to do when I sit across from someone, or we can pull from it, like I did when I walked across my neighbor's lawn.

Touching that energy, which I do fairly constantly these days, is an exhilarating thrill ride-- a buzzing hum that allows me to help the folks I work with, but also leaves me raw and exhausted at the end of the day.

If I'm looking not quite myself these days, bear with me. But I also invite you to join me on this electrifying journey. Humans are beautiful creatures, and together, we can truly do anything.