I got to work on time today and within the first few minutes of report was informed of a patient being discharged for illegal drug use. Patient aware. Too bad, I thought. But a relatively easy discharge. Almost fifteen minutes later one of my patients walked by with the supervisor . The patient was yelling in a foreign language. Someone popped in to tell me that this patient had caned someone in a wheelchair across the skull. This patient was also being discharged, effective immediately. Ok, I thought. As soon as I'm done with the early medications I'll do the paperwork. I finished medicating the slew of patients with early morning appointments, completed the first discharge, and completely deescalated both a panic attack and (separately) an emotional breakdown in the hallway before the DON appeared and asked how much I knew about "the situation" with another one of my patients.
"Situation?" I asked.
"Don't be cute," the DON kidded me, laughing at my expression.
"Seriously, I have no idea what you're talking about."
She stopped laughing, visibly distraught at her role as official bearer of the latest news.
"The patient kicked someone, hard and for no reason. We have it on camera. The patient has to go."
It was only 9am. What's with today, today?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Burning and Cooling the Spirit
Burnout isn't any fun. People can burn out on anything, even other people sometimes. Irritation and anger find their place just under the surface and become quickly and easily provoked. Frustration is almost constant, and when frustration subsides, apathy arises quickly to fill its place. But the worst of it is that burnout almost always happens from something you used to love. So underneath the barely controlled temper or the inability to care about outcome of action is a horrid, nagging guilt. Self hate, depression and despair well up inside and manifest as sarcasm, excuses and fatigue.
In a word, it sucks.
Some professions are probably more "prone," to it than others. The medical field seems to be a big one. I would say that comedy can probably burn people out just as quickly. As you can see,I haven't chosen the safest two passions to indulge in simultaneously.
Before this entry begins to raise some eyebrows*, I should say that I am not burned out right now. But I was on the verge as recently as earlier this month, which is what made me want to write about it.
Being "on the verge" is what I like to call a "first degree burnout." I'm going to write mostly about occupational situations, but I feel like the same things apply to burnout of relationships too.
Warning: I have made up everything I am about to say. Don't look for this in any books.
First degree burnout manifests as getting easily frustrated with tasks that were once considered challenging and worthwhile. It can also feel like a lack of interest in tasks or outcomes. Usually however, the person also has periods of time or days where they do not feel like this, so they may write off the feelings without recognizing the bigger problem First degree burnout can be fixed with some refocusing of priorities.
Second degree burnout is similar, but the negative feelings are more constant and may begin to disrupt daily activities of the person experiencing it. It can be fixed the same as 1st degree burn out, but also needs more space and a bit of time to gain perspective.
Third degree burnout is serious and requires some major time and space. The negative feelings are almost constant, even when the person is not at work. The feelings disrupt the well being and functionality of the person. They also have a negative effect on the people around the person. It might not be possible to ever return to the person, place or occupation that caused the problem.
I am twenty five years old and have experienced the third type of burnout once with a job already. I was a sophomore in college, taking a semester off to work. Although it was not a pleasant experience to go through I am grateful for it because I am more sensitive to the signs and symptoms than many others might be. At the time, however I had no idea. I just thought I needed more sleep. In the end, I quit. I never want to feel that way again.
So how did I fix what I felt at the beginning of this month?
Prayer. (Ok. Stay with me, Readers of Dubious Religious Stock. I promise to not get too preachy.)
I didn't even realize I was doing it. But it is Lent after all, and I saw that I hadn't been doing much in the way of setting a ton of prayer time aside**. I saw that something was out of balance (work versus play versus prayer) and I adjusted without thinking about it too much more. After spending time one night, and then the next morning before work to focus on my relationship with God I felt immensely better. I arrived at work so full of focus and energy that I couldn't believe it myself.
A co worker asked if I was getting better sleep. I laughed. My schedule hasn't changed at all. I'm working harder at night if anything.
But when I felt like I was burning out and then suddenly felt like myself again, the only thing I had done differently was prayer time.
When I was in college I was once asked to guest lecture at another college in a class called Spirituality and Nursing. I was only a junior, and had NO IDEA the class was for men and women who already held nursing licenses, until I got there. I was shaken off my little Catholic rocker. The pleasant and heartwarming story of how that turned out for everyone is a whole different entry.
I have since lost all of my well planned notes from that afternoon. However, the take aways I would offer now that I've actually been a nurse aren't too different than the ones I remember offering to those men and women with only a CNA under my belt and a well examined 21 year old faith:
Nursing is by nature a giving profession. We give time, we give our intelligence and we give of ourselves emotionally and physically. In order to give so much, it is necessary to know where we are taking from, and to know the limits of that bounty. We take from family, friends, and hobbies, but for many of us our spirituality is one of the biggest areas we'll be taking from because it is limitless. And for that reason, feeding our Spirituality is the most important thing a caregiver can do to stay sane.
Spirituality - not religion, or dogma; not catechism, not guilt or a hero complex, but that real and true relationship with the Divine is what will allow us to be honestly balanced. It will allow us to hear the voices of those who need us plainly and honestly while at the same time listening to the quiet whispers of our selves, knowing when to step back and when to reconfigure our senses.
But it's not just nurses. It's everyone, doing everything. Whatever it is we're doing with our time, most of us have a lot to give, and have found really unique and fitting ways to do that. Hopefully we will continue to find new and interesting ways to give our entire lives.
But if we do that without checking into a place to "take," we're going to come up empty all the time. And burned. So whether it's an organized religion, a personal relationship with Christ***, or your pragmatic awe and scientific respect for mankind, I hope you take note of whatever it is you feel is your life source. That way it remains something you can always return to when burnout creeps in.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Put those eyebrows DOWN!
** Read this as, "I could have done far better with Lent this year."
*** Which I am obviously biased in favor of.
In a word, it sucks.
Some professions are probably more "prone," to it than others. The medical field seems to be a big one. I would say that comedy can probably burn people out just as quickly. As you can see,I haven't chosen the safest two passions to indulge in simultaneously.
Before this entry begins to raise some eyebrows*, I should say that I am not burned out right now. But I was on the verge as recently as earlier this month, which is what made me want to write about it.
Being "on the verge" is what I like to call a "first degree burnout." I'm going to write mostly about occupational situations, but I feel like the same things apply to burnout of relationships too.
Warning: I have made up everything I am about to say. Don't look for this in any books.
First degree burnout manifests as getting easily frustrated with tasks that were once considered challenging and worthwhile. It can also feel like a lack of interest in tasks or outcomes. Usually however, the person also has periods of time or days where they do not feel like this, so they may write off the feelings without recognizing the bigger problem First degree burnout can be fixed with some refocusing of priorities.
Second degree burnout is similar, but the negative feelings are more constant and may begin to disrupt daily activities of the person experiencing it. It can be fixed the same as 1st degree burn out, but also needs more space and a bit of time to gain perspective.
Third degree burnout is serious and requires some major time and space. The negative feelings are almost constant, even when the person is not at work. The feelings disrupt the well being and functionality of the person. They also have a negative effect on the people around the person. It might not be possible to ever return to the person, place or occupation that caused the problem.
I am twenty five years old and have experienced the third type of burnout once with a job already. I was a sophomore in college, taking a semester off to work. Although it was not a pleasant experience to go through I am grateful for it because I am more sensitive to the signs and symptoms than many others might be. At the time, however I had no idea. I just thought I needed more sleep. In the end, I quit. I never want to feel that way again.
So how did I fix what I felt at the beginning of this month?
Prayer. (Ok. Stay with me, Readers of Dubious Religious Stock. I promise to not get too preachy.)
I didn't even realize I was doing it. But it is Lent after all, and I saw that I hadn't been doing much in the way of setting a ton of prayer time aside**. I saw that something was out of balance (work versus play versus prayer) and I adjusted without thinking about it too much more. After spending time one night, and then the next morning before work to focus on my relationship with God I felt immensely better. I arrived at work so full of focus and energy that I couldn't believe it myself.
A co worker asked if I was getting better sleep. I laughed. My schedule hasn't changed at all. I'm working harder at night if anything.
But when I felt like I was burning out and then suddenly felt like myself again, the only thing I had done differently was prayer time.
When I was in college I was once asked to guest lecture at another college in a class called Spirituality and Nursing. I was only a junior, and had NO IDEA the class was for men and women who already held nursing licenses, until I got there. I was shaken off my little Catholic rocker. The pleasant and heartwarming story of how that turned out for everyone is a whole different entry.
I have since lost all of my well planned notes from that afternoon. However, the take aways I would offer now that I've actually been a nurse aren't too different than the ones I remember offering to those men and women with only a CNA under my belt and a well examined 21 year old faith:
Nursing is by nature a giving profession. We give time, we give our intelligence and we give of ourselves emotionally and physically. In order to give so much, it is necessary to know where we are taking from, and to know the limits of that bounty. We take from family, friends, and hobbies, but for many of us our spirituality is one of the biggest areas we'll be taking from because it is limitless. And for that reason, feeding our Spirituality is the most important thing a caregiver can do to stay sane.
Spirituality - not religion, or dogma; not catechism, not guilt or a hero complex, but that real and true relationship with the Divine is what will allow us to be honestly balanced. It will allow us to hear the voices of those who need us plainly and honestly while at the same time listening to the quiet whispers of our selves, knowing when to step back and when to reconfigure our senses.
But it's not just nurses. It's everyone, doing everything. Whatever it is we're doing with our time, most of us have a lot to give, and have found really unique and fitting ways to do that. Hopefully we will continue to find new and interesting ways to give our entire lives.
But if we do that without checking into a place to "take," we're going to come up empty all the time. And burned. So whether it's an organized religion, a personal relationship with Christ***, or your pragmatic awe and scientific respect for mankind, I hope you take note of whatever it is you feel is your life source. That way it remains something you can always return to when burnout creeps in.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Put those eyebrows DOWN!
** Read this as, "I could have done far better with Lent this year."
*** Which I am obviously biased in favor of.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Vampires at Boston Latin School - Revealed
I am proud of having graduated from Boston Latin School. Founded in 1635, its alumni include Ben Franklin, Sam Adams and Leonard Bernstein. It's an exam school and fairly prestigious. For six years I studied Latin, presented in public declamation competitions, and enjoyed the knowledge that "doors would be opened" because of my developing organizational skills and work ethic. Since then I am happy to say I have found that last part to be absolutely true. The things I learned at BLS have brought me very far.
So when I woke up today and checked the weather on boston.com and saw this article I became very, very embarrassed.
Apparently, the new Headmaster had to send home a letter to parents quelling a rumor that vampires are in attendance at Latin. The whole thing made me feel like we were in some sort of fantasy novel world because the tone of the article intimated that the HM's message was not "vampires do not exist," only that "vampires do not go here."
Like, maybe the undead just don't score as high on the entrance exam.
Thanks to the comment section on the article as well as Facebook and Twitter I have not been alone in this. I came home from work to the typefaced griping of many members of the Latin family.
However, also due to virtual social networking, bits and pieces of the real story have been surfacing. A former classmate of mine, Adam Pieniazek shed some light on the situation for me by linking me first to this superior article from channel five news. Apparently there are some underclassmen who are calling themselves vampires, and when one student bit another the police were called to the school.
This news story which I think is actually a lot more interesting (why did she bite? was the other student teasing her? was it self defense? were they goofing off? does she really think she's a vampire or does she just dress in black and say that to keep the 'posers' away?) didn't get published until it was far too late.
Mr. Pieniazek, who is co founder of the growing web media company The 42nd Estate, also has a blog entry related to the event on which a couple current BLS students commented, further detailing the circumstances of the sensational story.
One of the comments was fairly intelligent. (So I will skip it.) The other one says this:
"well i jsut wanna answer this question fo is it true,
no noone got arrested but someone in my grade does thinks eh is a vampire. its scarey, but true. so dont try to hide it, because the bls student body know the truth. sorry teta [BLS Headmaster] you can’t cover up the truth."
I would like to point out just few things about all of this so I can take a nap and go to my show in peace tonight.
When I was in school I knew several girls who claimed to be witches. I also know one of my brother's friends at English High claimed to be part of a coven of vampires. I think ( I hope) they most of them were just trying to be different and they knew it deep down. They could admit to someone in private "I'm not actually an undead mythical creature." But I don't know. There are two types of "those kids," in high schools. Some of them are trying things out, and some are actually mentally disturbed.
Now, from my knowledge of psych as well as my experience being one of "those kids," in high school I am willing to make a blanket statement suggesting that if this student actually bit another student to "prove," he or she was a vampire they may be the second kind of kid. They may need some extra attention from the guidance counselor.
"The bls body knows the truth," is an unsettling statement from one of the country's "best and brightest," because it suggests that this BLS student believes that mental illness is the same thing as actually being a vampire. The headmaster did not try to persuade the public that BLS students are without biochemical flaws.
If this student actually did bite another student there are a large number of things that could be at work, and almost all of them have to do with an undiagnosed or obviously unadvertised mental illness. None of them have to do with actual vampires. The headmaster isn't "covering up the truth," she's just trying to make everyone feel safe.
That being said, "there are no vampires here," is not a very useful position for a HM to take. "It is true and unfortunate that an assault occurred on school property but please be advised that the proper measures are being taken to ensure your child's safety on school grounds," sounds a bit less ridiculous and is a lot more on point. And doesn't even include the "V" word which guarantees a less embarrassing press release.
So when I woke up today and checked the weather on boston.com and saw this article I became very, very embarrassed.
Apparently, the new Headmaster had to send home a letter to parents quelling a rumor that vampires are in attendance at Latin. The whole thing made me feel like we were in some sort of fantasy novel world because the tone of the article intimated that the HM's message was not "vampires do not exist," only that "vampires do not go here."
Like, maybe the undead just don't score as high on the entrance exam.
Thanks to the comment section on the article as well as Facebook and Twitter I have not been alone in this. I came home from work to the typefaced griping of many members of the Latin family.
However, also due to virtual social networking, bits and pieces of the real story have been surfacing. A former classmate of mine, Adam Pieniazek shed some light on the situation for me by linking me first to this superior article from channel five news. Apparently there are some underclassmen who are calling themselves vampires, and when one student bit another the police were called to the school.
This news story which I think is actually a lot more interesting (why did she bite? was the other student teasing her? was it self defense? were they goofing off? does she really think she's a vampire or does she just dress in black and say that to keep the 'posers' away?) didn't get published until it was far too late.
Mr. Pieniazek, who is co founder of the growing web media company The 42nd Estate, also has a blog entry related to the event on which a couple current BLS students commented, further detailing the circumstances of the sensational story.
One of the comments was fairly intelligent. (So I will skip it.) The other one says this:
"well i jsut wanna answer this question fo is it true,
no noone got arrested but someone in my grade does thinks eh is a vampire. its scarey, but true. so dont try to hide it, because the bls student body know the truth. sorry teta [BLS Headmaster] you can’t cover up the truth."
I would like to point out just few things about all of this so I can take a nap and go to my show in peace tonight.
When I was in school I knew several girls who claimed to be witches. I also know one of my brother's friends at English High claimed to be part of a coven of vampires. I think ( I hope) they most of them were just trying to be different and they knew it deep down. They could admit to someone in private "I'm not actually an undead mythical creature." But I don't know. There are two types of "those kids," in high schools. Some of them are trying things out, and some are actually mentally disturbed.
Now, from my knowledge of psych as well as my experience being one of "those kids," in high school I am willing to make a blanket statement suggesting that if this student actually bit another student to "prove," he or she was a vampire they may be the second kind of kid. They may need some extra attention from the guidance counselor.
"The bls body knows the truth," is an unsettling statement from one of the country's "best and brightest," because it suggests that this BLS student believes that mental illness is the same thing as actually being a vampire. The headmaster did not try to persuade the public that BLS students are without biochemical flaws.
If this student actually did bite another student there are a large number of things that could be at work, and almost all of them have to do with an undiagnosed or obviously unadvertised mental illness. None of them have to do with actual vampires. The headmaster isn't "covering up the truth," she's just trying to make everyone feel safe.
That being said, "there are no vampires here," is not a very useful position for a HM to take. "It is true and unfortunate that an assault occurred on school property but please be advised that the proper measures are being taken to ensure your child's safety on school grounds," sounds a bit less ridiculous and is a lot more on point. And doesn't even include the "V" word which guarantees a less embarrassing press release.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Twilight
I am reading the Twilight series by Stephanie Meyer. I picked them up as a distraction from the serious things in life. Wise move. They are absolutely entertaining. However, despite being thoroughly entertained, I am finding a lot to complain about.
Laura is also reading them. So right in my cozy little apartment I have someone to commiserate with about generally bad writing, transparent characters, a predictable and hole-filled plot and persistent themes of misogyny. Monday afternoon we sat in separate rooms, each with a big thick book and a blanket and yelled at the books. A lot.
I am already on the third book as you read this, but for what it's worth I have prepared my impression of the first.
There are probably spoilers, but if you don't already know the plot you live under a rock/are Stephanie Jones, and it won't matter anyway.
It's raining.
Edward: Stay away! I am no good for you.
Bella: Fine. No wait. You monster. I can't.
Edward: I know. It's inevitable. We're fated. I'm a vampire.
Bella: Kiss me!
Edward: (almost touching her) No! We can't! I am..... a vampire.
Bella: I know that already! But I love you and do not care that you have no soul!
Human Guy Chorus: Bella, you are pretty! Date me!
Bella: Go away! I only like vampires.
Edward: Bella, if you know what's good for you, you will stay away. Because I am a vampire.
Bella: Let's keep having this conversation over and over, I will never get tired of it.
Charlie: Hi, everyone. I'm her Dad.
.....SILENCE.......
Bella: Help! Help! I almost died again! I am so clumsy!
Edward: Oh! I have saved your life only to push you away again! Now my eyes are smoldering.
Bella: I am grateful and I hate you and I love you.
Edward: You should hate me. But since you don't I will now command your every move and be jealous of everyone else you know. That's what love is.
Bella: Yes. Yes it is.
Jacob: Werewolves exist. That's all. Certainly not foreshadowing.
Bella: I no longer need family or friends because I have found true love!
Edward: You also no longer need any of your own ideas or interests! Our entire relationship can just be based on our forbidden love and discussions about it.
Bella: Thank goodness!
Bella's Narration: There are so many things I'm pretending to not know yet!
Edward: And now I will now dismiss about 150 years of literary tradition about the Undead in a few quick lines.
Bella: Ooooh! Sparkly!
Still I am addicted to reading them. It's all junk food. I know it's bad for me but I don't want to stop. I suppose that since I have no comparable reality t.v obsession I've already made up my mind to forgive this new vice in my life because at least it's a fun escape.
Mmmmm.... teenaged vampire romance. It makes my brain all slow and happy.
So what I'm saying is, this is not the last you will hear about my new favorite fiction and addiction. For better or for worse.
Laura is also reading them. So right in my cozy little apartment I have someone to commiserate with about generally bad writing, transparent characters, a predictable and hole-filled plot and persistent themes of misogyny. Monday afternoon we sat in separate rooms, each with a big thick book and a blanket and yelled at the books. A lot.
I am already on the third book as you read this, but for what it's worth I have prepared my impression of the first.
There are probably spoilers, but if you don't already know the plot you live under a rock/are Stephanie Jones, and it won't matter anyway.
It's raining.
Edward: Stay away! I am no good for you.
Bella: Fine. No wait. You monster. I can't.
Edward: I know. It's inevitable. We're fated. I'm a vampire.
Bella: Kiss me!
Edward: (almost touching her) No! We can't! I am..... a vampire.
Bella: I know that already! But I love you and do not care that you have no soul!
Human Guy Chorus: Bella, you are pretty! Date me!
Bella: Go away! I only like vampires.
Edward: Bella, if you know what's good for you, you will stay away. Because I am a vampire.
Bella: Let's keep having this conversation over and over, I will never get tired of it.
Charlie: Hi, everyone. I'm her Dad.
.....SILENCE.......
Bella: Help! Help! I almost died again! I am so clumsy!
Edward: Oh! I have saved your life only to push you away again! Now my eyes are smoldering.
Bella: I am grateful and I hate you and I love you.
Edward: You should hate me. But since you don't I will now command your every move and be jealous of everyone else you know. That's what love is.
Bella: Yes. Yes it is.
Jacob: Werewolves exist. That's all. Certainly not foreshadowing.
Bella: I no longer need family or friends because I have found true love!
Edward: You also no longer need any of your own ideas or interests! Our entire relationship can just be based on our forbidden love and discussions about it.
Bella: Thank goodness!
Bella's Narration: There are so many things I'm pretending to not know yet!
Edward: And now I will now dismiss about 150 years of literary tradition about the Undead in a few quick lines.
Bella: Ooooh! Sparkly!
Still I am addicted to reading them. It's all junk food. I know it's bad for me but I don't want to stop. I suppose that since I have no comparable reality t.v obsession I've already made up my mind to forgive this new vice in my life because at least it's a fun escape.
Mmmmm.... teenaged vampire romance. It makes my brain all slow and happy.
So what I'm saying is, this is not the last you will hear about my new favorite fiction and addiction. For better or for worse.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Oriented to person place and time... and change
Having only been a nurse for a short time I am still very honored when the administration lets me be one of the several orientation mentors for a new nurse. I feel like I have a lot to pass on since it wasn't so long ago that I began making the transition from student to professional. I love to teach, and teaching also helps me to learn, and to think about all those decisions I make in one shift that I usually don't think twice about.
Plus, towards the end of orientation the novice nurse is basically doing all the work while I just follow her around and field unexpected situations. It's a nice break in the routine.
It has been a great pleasure to orient our newest nurse additionally because she is just a very cool person to spend time with. I apologized to her the other day for how harried I have been these past two weeks, which had nothing to do with her and everything to do with my life outside of work.
Things are settling down now.
I won't embarrass her by getting into too many more details but she's doing great. She's constantly developing her intuition and natural bedside manner. Her very first day she jumped right into long and involved conversations with the patients about their health, fearless and eager to help them any way she can. I was there as she did her first CIWA, going right down the list of questions as I watched and smiled. She has her share of struggles, but she's shouldering them all with grace.
I had dinner recently with two other nurses who started when I started and we reminisced about our own orientation. It's like another lifetime ago thinking back to the very first CIWA assessment I did, my hand clutching a printed list of guideline questions. I thought it would take ages before I'd be able to just rattle them off like my co workers did. And I was convinced that it would take just as long to plant a perfect PPD, or take an apical pulse in a crowded hallway, or get all of my notes finished by 3pm. Those frustrations were so real to me then.
Being a student is so different from being an actual nurse. It's like a whole other life. My journey from student to professional had an awkward stage I was afraid would never end. And yet here I am, at the other side and helping someone else go through it.
It's my hope that I am always this in touch with where I came with (and where I am at any given moment in time) so that I can remain an eager and useful resource to the men and women who chose to join the profession. It's the best way to pay homage to those who helped me get to where I am now.
Plus, towards the end of orientation the novice nurse is basically doing all the work while I just follow her around and field unexpected situations. It's a nice break in the routine.
It has been a great pleasure to orient our newest nurse additionally because she is just a very cool person to spend time with. I apologized to her the other day for how harried I have been these past two weeks, which had nothing to do with her and everything to do with my life outside of work.
Things are settling down now.
I won't embarrass her by getting into too many more details but she's doing great. She's constantly developing her intuition and natural bedside manner. Her very first day she jumped right into long and involved conversations with the patients about their health, fearless and eager to help them any way she can. I was there as she did her first CIWA, going right down the list of questions as I watched and smiled. She has her share of struggles, but she's shouldering them all with grace.
I had dinner recently with two other nurses who started when I started and we reminisced about our own orientation. It's like another lifetime ago thinking back to the very first CIWA assessment I did, my hand clutching a printed list of guideline questions. I thought it would take ages before I'd be able to just rattle them off like my co workers did. And I was convinced that it would take just as long to plant a perfect PPD, or take an apical pulse in a crowded hallway, or get all of my notes finished by 3pm. Those frustrations were so real to me then.
Being a student is so different from being an actual nurse. It's like a whole other life. My journey from student to professional had an awkward stage I was afraid would never end. And yet here I am, at the other side and helping someone else go through it.
It's my hope that I am always this in touch with where I came with (and where I am at any given moment in time) so that I can remain an eager and useful resource to the men and women who chose to join the profession. It's the best way to pay homage to those who helped me get to where I am now.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Methadonia Part II
Last week I wrote about some first impressions I had of the documentary Methadonia. My thoughts came from a highly specific place because of the work I do. However, I did not specify that in my entry.
I received a very well thought out response from a stranger informing me that the film did a lot of damage within the MMT (methadone maintenance therapy) community. This was the result of Michel Negroponte's decision to only depict MMT clients on the edge of society, mostly homeless or close to being homeless. Because of this small percentage represented, "Zenith" explained, MMT was further stigmatized. Many people who are using methadone to prevent withdrawal and relapse live healthy and productive lives.
Although I am already aware of everything Zenith brought up, I didn't write much on it. My interest in the film began and ended with those who have not had success stories. I watched the film with a group of other nurses who also work specifically and almost exclusively with the homeless. On a daily basis I am confronted with members of our society for whom a "normal," life with a job, home and family is, for various reasons, out of reach.
However, I did not take into account that many other people reading this may not know anyone on MMT and may take my word as the only one on the subject. And it is never my intention to mis-educate people, so I would like to re-post the comment I received in the hopes that it will at least begin to explain why methadone maintenance therapy as shown in Methadonia is not the experience of every man or woman who undergoes it.
Mr Negroponte's film was the source of a great deal of conflict within the methadone community. The film focused solely on patients who were abusing their medication and combining it with other drugs, specifically benzos, to get high. They were shown nodding off, drooling, slurring speech, etc. In addiction, almost every pt shown was homeless or very nearly so, living a marginalized life at the fringes of society and spouting common methadone myths like they were going out of style. No effort was made to correct them nor to show the other side of methadone treatment.
Due to the uproar of anger this caused, an 11 minute add-on called "Addiction 101" was added to the DVD release of the film. This included two stable, professional methadone patients--an attorney and a businessman--who have been on methadone for decades, and two doctors who are experts in the field of MMT. Sadly, however, even their noble efforts were too little too late--most people did not see the add-on, and people were strongly influenced to accept Mr Negroponte's vision of the methadone patient as a homeless, drooling, pitiful character that they wouldn't want anywhere near their children or their homes.
This kind of filmmaking simply leads to increased discrimination and stigma on an already stigmatized population. The reason clinics do not generally encourage withdrawal from treatment is not, as is commonly though, because they are crazed with greed. There is an enormous shortage of clinics and clinics are NOT hurting for patients--most have lengthy wait lists--so there is no $$$ motivation for them to hang on to those who wish to leave. The fact is, 90% of those leaving MMT relapse within one year. Sure, most pts would like to be "drug free"--who wouldn't? Diabetics and epileptics would rather be "drug free" too, I'm sure, but their doctors do not encourage them to stop taking their meds because of this.
Long term opioid addiction can produce permanent changes in the brain chemistry--specifically in endorphin production. If the patient has a permanent suppression of endorphins, they are very unlikely to do well in an abstinence based recovery. The methadone serves to stabilize the brain chemistry without causing a high or euphoria. It enables people to resume a normal life. I know many many professional people, suburban mothers, college students, etc on MMT and none of them look like the people in the film--but that isn't very "entertaining" so it wasn't shown, sadly enough.
Right now, methadone is the MOST effective method of treatment available for opiate addiction, and has a high rate of keeping pts free of illicit drugs. Yes, there are some that continue to use illicits, but far fewer than in other modalities of care.
I agree with all of that.
If there were a movie that came out about the rate of diabetic related co morbidities in low income patients it probably wouldn't focus on any success stories either. The difference is that no one out there is arguing to stop the use of insulin in patients with diabetes, but many people including entire governments (what's up, Russia?) are dead set against helping opiate addicts.
And so I will end with this: the end of my lengthy comment in response to Zenith's:
My interest would never be to stop MMT for people who benefit from it, but rather it's my intention to urge the medical community to continue to look at the cases that aren't so successful and to push forward on remedying that.
I received a very well thought out response from a stranger informing me that the film did a lot of damage within the MMT (methadone maintenance therapy) community. This was the result of Michel Negroponte's decision to only depict MMT clients on the edge of society, mostly homeless or close to being homeless. Because of this small percentage represented, "Zenith" explained, MMT was further stigmatized. Many people who are using methadone to prevent withdrawal and relapse live healthy and productive lives.
Although I am already aware of everything Zenith brought up, I didn't write much on it. My interest in the film began and ended with those who have not had success stories. I watched the film with a group of other nurses who also work specifically and almost exclusively with the homeless. On a daily basis I am confronted with members of our society for whom a "normal," life with a job, home and family is, for various reasons, out of reach.
However, I did not take into account that many other people reading this may not know anyone on MMT and may take my word as the only one on the subject. And it is never my intention to mis-educate people, so I would like to re-post the comment I received in the hopes that it will at least begin to explain why methadone maintenance therapy as shown in Methadonia is not the experience of every man or woman who undergoes it.
Mr Negroponte's film was the source of a great deal of conflict within the methadone community. The film focused solely on patients who were abusing their medication and combining it with other drugs, specifically benzos, to get high. They were shown nodding off, drooling, slurring speech, etc. In addiction, almost every pt shown was homeless or very nearly so, living a marginalized life at the fringes of society and spouting common methadone myths like they were going out of style. No effort was made to correct them nor to show the other side of methadone treatment.
Due to the uproar of anger this caused, an 11 minute add-on called "Addiction 101" was added to the DVD release of the film. This included two stable, professional methadone patients--an attorney and a businessman--who have been on methadone for decades, and two doctors who are experts in the field of MMT. Sadly, however, even their noble efforts were too little too late--most people did not see the add-on, and people were strongly influenced to accept Mr Negroponte's vision of the methadone patient as a homeless, drooling, pitiful character that they wouldn't want anywhere near their children or their homes.
This kind of filmmaking simply leads to increased discrimination and stigma on an already stigmatized population. The reason clinics do not generally encourage withdrawal from treatment is not, as is commonly though, because they are crazed with greed. There is an enormous shortage of clinics and clinics are NOT hurting for patients--most have lengthy wait lists--so there is no $$$ motivation for them to hang on to those who wish to leave. The fact is, 90% of those leaving MMT relapse within one year. Sure, most pts would like to be "drug free"--who wouldn't? Diabetics and epileptics would rather be "drug free" too, I'm sure, but their doctors do not encourage them to stop taking their meds because of this.
Long term opioid addiction can produce permanent changes in the brain chemistry--specifically in endorphin production. If the patient has a permanent suppression of endorphins, they are very unlikely to do well in an abstinence based recovery. The methadone serves to stabilize the brain chemistry without causing a high or euphoria. It enables people to resume a normal life. I know many many professional people, suburban mothers, college students, etc on MMT and none of them look like the people in the film--but that isn't very "entertaining" so it wasn't shown, sadly enough.
Right now, methadone is the MOST effective method of treatment available for opiate addiction, and has a high rate of keeping pts free of illicit drugs. Yes, there are some that continue to use illicits, but far fewer than in other modalities of care.
I agree with all of that.
If there were a movie that came out about the rate of diabetic related co morbidities in low income patients it probably wouldn't focus on any success stories either. The difference is that no one out there is arguing to stop the use of insulin in patients with diabetes, but many people including entire governments (what's up, Russia?) are dead set against helping opiate addicts.
And so I will end with this: the end of my lengthy comment in response to Zenith's:
My interest would never be to stop MMT for people who benefit from it, but rather it's my intention to urge the medical community to continue to look at the cases that aren't so successful and to push forward on remedying that.
Friday, March 20, 2009
jam out with your jam out
Things are moving fast again because I'm out of vacation days at work and Improv Aslyum shows are in full swing. Plus, I had some guests in town this week.
Thursday during a lunchtime in-service on pap smears I got this phone call from Jay "Action" Petrone:
Jay: Hey. I'm in Connecticut on a road trip with a friend. Can I-
Me: Sure!
Jay: (laughs) Well then. That's all. I'm not giving you any other details.
Me: That's fine. I already put the key in your pocket.
Jay: Good. I copied it and gave it all all my friend's friends.
Me: They better be hot.
Jay: Seriously. It's tonight.
Me: Even better. I have some other guests staying over whom you know very well.
Agent Heart* and one Mr. Brennan Clark came to see my show that same night and afterwards we were met by Jay and his friend Chris. The timing was perfect. We all got to JP at the same time.
I showed the boys around my digs (of the group only Brennan has been there) and then we stayed up and spent some time in my living room making music. You know, like people do.
All day long my veins had been electrified by anxiety. I was worried about making it to the theater on time due to some scheduling problems. I didn't want to let anyone down. Not my cast, my patients or my co workers. The adrenaline was actually physically overwhelming. The taxi I hailed at 6:45pm might as well have been a spaceship. Doing a show helped, but I still had plenty of energy to burn off, and I needed something to unwind my chest muscles.
Two guitars, one harmonica and as many of the words to Sweet Home Alabama as we could remember or make up, and that's all we needed. We played and sang for a couple of hours; it made my chest cavity feel light and empty. I didn't stop smiling. It reminded me of college, where I took so many similar nights for granted.
The night in its entirety made me some of the happiest and burden free I have felt in quite a while. From getting out of the show to the first time I opened my eyes in the morning it was like nothing else mattered, and like nothing could go wrong.
In the morning we all had breakfast at Java Jo's and then I took everyone on a tour of one of my other favorite places, The Forest Hills Cemetery. I showed off e.e. cummings' grave ad some of the best sculptures, and we tried to find Fern Hill with no luck. "It's super spooky," I promised, "I just can't find it right now."
They've all left; I just got home from dropping one of them off at his parents' house to spend the last night of spring break. It'll be nice to go to bed early for the long day ahead of me tomorrow (work, church and then two shows). Still, I can't help but feel a little bit lonely in the quiet. I wish that every night could have guitars and harmonicas - no drama or stress, just a ton of laughing, feeling safe and happy and being surrounded by love.
And I wish that for everyone. Because I know there are people who experience it even less frequently than I get to. Or maybe not ever, not even at all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* I'd use his real name too, but in his blog he gave me a code name which I think is bad-ass and awesome.
Thursday during a lunchtime in-service on pap smears I got this phone call from Jay "Action" Petrone:
Jay: Hey. I'm in Connecticut on a road trip with a friend. Can I-
Me: Sure!
Jay: (laughs) Well then. That's all. I'm not giving you any other details.
Me: That's fine. I already put the key in your pocket.
Jay: Good. I copied it and gave it all all my friend's friends.
Me: They better be hot.
Jay: Seriously. It's tonight.
Me: Even better. I have some other guests staying over whom you know very well.
Agent Heart* and one Mr. Brennan Clark came to see my show that same night and afterwards we were met by Jay and his friend Chris. The timing was perfect. We all got to JP at the same time.
I showed the boys around my digs (of the group only Brennan has been there) and then we stayed up and spent some time in my living room making music. You know, like people do.
All day long my veins had been electrified by anxiety. I was worried about making it to the theater on time due to some scheduling problems. I didn't want to let anyone down. Not my cast, my patients or my co workers. The adrenaline was actually physically overwhelming. The taxi I hailed at 6:45pm might as well have been a spaceship. Doing a show helped, but I still had plenty of energy to burn off, and I needed something to unwind my chest muscles.
Two guitars, one harmonica and as many of the words to Sweet Home Alabama as we could remember or make up, and that's all we needed. We played and sang for a couple of hours; it made my chest cavity feel light and empty. I didn't stop smiling. It reminded me of college, where I took so many similar nights for granted.
The night in its entirety made me some of the happiest and burden free I have felt in quite a while. From getting out of the show to the first time I opened my eyes in the morning it was like nothing else mattered, and like nothing could go wrong.
In the morning we all had breakfast at Java Jo's and then I took everyone on a tour of one of my other favorite places, The Forest Hills Cemetery. I showed off e.e. cummings' grave ad some of the best sculptures, and we tried to find Fern Hill with no luck. "It's super spooky," I promised, "I just can't find it right now."
They've all left; I just got home from dropping one of them off at his parents' house to spend the last night of spring break. It'll be nice to go to bed early for the long day ahead of me tomorrow (work, church and then two shows). Still, I can't help but feel a little bit lonely in the quiet. I wish that every night could have guitars and harmonicas - no drama or stress, just a ton of laughing, feeling safe and happy and being surrounded by love.
And I wish that for everyone. Because I know there are people who experience it even less frequently than I get to. Or maybe not ever, not even at all.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* I'd use his real name too, but in his blog he gave me a code name which I think is bad-ass and awesome.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small
I recently got a chance to watch Michel Negroponte's documentary, Methadonia. I highly recommend that you also see it. It moves quickly, isn't preachy, and packs a lot of information into an engaging structure.
The film has met a lot of controversy for many reasons. One is that Negroponte takes the "addiction is a disease" point of view, which many people reject. (For more about rejection of the addiction as a disease model you can read Gary Greenberg's book Noble Lie: When Scientists Give the Right Answers for the Wrong Reasons.)
Also controversial is the documentary's suggestion that methadone treatment is not, as previously thought, the best modality of drug addiction therapy. In fact, it might be just as harmful as addiction to illicit drugs in a lot of ways.
Methadone is a synthetic opiod. It is used both for chronic pain management because of its long acting analgesic properties, as well as to treat withdrawal from opiates.
The way it works as an opiod antagonist is by binding to opiod receptor sites in the brain. In doing so it effectively stops withdrawal cravings as well as blocking the "high" of any secondary opiod. (You don't get a buzz from shooting up while on methadone). When an individual is dosed properly they aren't getting high or nodding off from the methadone. They are simply avoiding the pain and unpleasant side effects of withdrawal and should be able to live healthy and "normal," lives otherwise.
In the United States methadone has been used as treatment of choice for opiod addicts for about 30 years. We are not alone, as of last year there were 69 other countries using methadone clinics. The Netherlands takes it a step further, as they are still carrying on research which involves some patients having heroin actually prescribed and administered intravenously in clinics designated for that purpose.
Both the legal doling out of heroin and the clinical dosing of methadone fall under the broad category of "harm reduction" therapy.
I understand the damage that can be done by removing all ownership of behavior from the addict's control. After all, "I can't help it, I'm addicted," is a phrase that isn't useful to anyone.
However, I do have enough belief in neuroscience to understand the relationship between behavior and nerve pathways. And I believe enough in chemistry to understand how opiates, (and any other chemical we put into our bodies), change the way our brain responds to those substances subsequently. I also know enough about pathophysiology to say with confidence that some people are more genetically predisposed to certain illnesses than others, including mental illness. This is why I believe that addiction is more like a disease than it is not like a disease.
As for methadone dosing being the best/worst treatment for addicts, I'm not convinced either way.
Clearly, a legal and safe dose of methadone is better than people shooting up bad batches of heroin with dirty needles. However, it seems to me that the system right now is flawed. Ideally, someone with an addiction would receive the lowest dose needed to stop cravings and would be able to live a normal life. As it stands there is a lot of abuse in the system. Many people on methadone "play" with their dosage because they aren't actually trying to stay sober, they're trying to get high. As Methadonia points out, it's cheaper and safer to get dosed and then to buy some "sticks" (benzodiazapines) on the street than to buy a bag of dope. The high from combining methadone with a benzo is just as good as (if not better than) shooting up, according to Negroponte's subjects.
Perhaps if all methadone treatment programs also involved counseling, groups, or mandatory day programs the mind could be trained along with the body.
Methadonia also points out that even those who are trying honestly to stay sober are never really free of "the liquid handcuffs." It's almost unheard of to completely taper off of methadone. It's like insulin for a diabetic, a life long medication. But unlike insulin there is a stigma attached to methadone that can be socially debilitating. Whether this is the fault of clinics being unwilling to help patients detox (as one addict in the film claims), or whether it is the nature of long term management of the disease or just an inherent flaw of methadone itself, is never really answered.
I guess for myself I'd rather see people taking methadone every day than living the desperate, dangerous and risky life of an addict. However I think that there needs to be a push for the next best thing. We've been doing it this way for 30 years, and there's got to be something better; a new and better way to treat addiction and the people who are still people underneath the label of their disease.
The film has met a lot of controversy for many reasons. One is that Negroponte takes the "addiction is a disease" point of view, which many people reject. (For more about rejection of the addiction as a disease model you can read Gary Greenberg's book Noble Lie: When Scientists Give the Right Answers for the Wrong Reasons.)
Also controversial is the documentary's suggestion that methadone treatment is not, as previously thought, the best modality of drug addiction therapy. In fact, it might be just as harmful as addiction to illicit drugs in a lot of ways.
Methadone is a synthetic opiod. It is used both for chronic pain management because of its long acting analgesic properties, as well as to treat withdrawal from opiates.
The way it works as an opiod antagonist is by binding to opiod receptor sites in the brain. In doing so it effectively stops withdrawal cravings as well as blocking the "high" of any secondary opiod. (You don't get a buzz from shooting up while on methadone). When an individual is dosed properly they aren't getting high or nodding off from the methadone. They are simply avoiding the pain and unpleasant side effects of withdrawal and should be able to live healthy and "normal," lives otherwise.
In the United States methadone has been used as treatment of choice for opiod addicts for about 30 years. We are not alone, as of last year there were 69 other countries using methadone clinics. The Netherlands takes it a step further, as they are still carrying on research which involves some patients having heroin actually prescribed and administered intravenously in clinics designated for that purpose.
Both the legal doling out of heroin and the clinical dosing of methadone fall under the broad category of "harm reduction" therapy.
I understand the damage that can be done by removing all ownership of behavior from the addict's control. After all, "I can't help it, I'm addicted," is a phrase that isn't useful to anyone.
However, I do have enough belief in neuroscience to understand the relationship between behavior and nerve pathways. And I believe enough in chemistry to understand how opiates, (and any other chemical we put into our bodies), change the way our brain responds to those substances subsequently. I also know enough about pathophysiology to say with confidence that some people are more genetically predisposed to certain illnesses than others, including mental illness. This is why I believe that addiction is more like a disease than it is not like a disease.
As for methadone dosing being the best/worst treatment for addicts, I'm not convinced either way.
Clearly, a legal and safe dose of methadone is better than people shooting up bad batches of heroin with dirty needles. However, it seems to me that the system right now is flawed. Ideally, someone with an addiction would receive the lowest dose needed to stop cravings and would be able to live a normal life. As it stands there is a lot of abuse in the system. Many people on methadone "play" with their dosage because they aren't actually trying to stay sober, they're trying to get high. As Methadonia points out, it's cheaper and safer to get dosed and then to buy some "sticks" (benzodiazapines) on the street than to buy a bag of dope. The high from combining methadone with a benzo is just as good as (if not better than) shooting up, according to Negroponte's subjects.
Perhaps if all methadone treatment programs also involved counseling, groups, or mandatory day programs the mind could be trained along with the body.
Methadonia also points out that even those who are trying honestly to stay sober are never really free of "the liquid handcuffs." It's almost unheard of to completely taper off of methadone. It's like insulin for a diabetic, a life long medication. But unlike insulin there is a stigma attached to methadone that can be socially debilitating. Whether this is the fault of clinics being unwilling to help patients detox (as one addict in the film claims), or whether it is the nature of long term management of the disease or just an inherent flaw of methadone itself, is never really answered.
I guess for myself I'd rather see people taking methadone every day than living the desperate, dangerous and risky life of an addict. However I think that there needs to be a push for the next best thing. We've been doing it this way for 30 years, and there's got to be something better; a new and better way to treat addiction and the people who are still people underneath the label of their disease.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Just Kidding
I'm sure I meant to give you this for St. Patrick's Day instead.
My Mom watched it with me last weekend and commented,
"Yeah. That's about how every St. Patrick's Day ended at the K of C."
Thanks to TC and Conor, but also my cousin Laura who I believe was the first to bring it to my attention.
My Mom watched it with me last weekend and commented,
"Yeah. That's about how every St. Patrick's Day ended at the K of C."
Thanks to TC and Conor, but also my cousin Laura who I believe was the first to bring it to my attention.
Monday, March 16, 2009
made of bees
I was going through files on my phone and came across a video clip from last spring, or maybe even the spring before, and it reminded me to tell you this anecdote.
I didn't notice anything strange on my way down the street, but about halfway to the corner I saw them. Blocking a section of the street was a swarm of bees. As suddenly as I saw them, I began to hear them. The buzz was phenomenal, otherworldly, and terrifying.
I've hated bees since I was a kid. I got stung on my hand, which swelled up like a balloon rendering it useless for a week. One doctor guessed I was allergic to bees. It made sense since my Mom is allergic to bees, but it's not like I had an anaphylactic reaction. Still, growing up the sound of even one bee humming induced a lot of anxiety.
As I continued my approach I saw that the swarm, although it appeared chaotic, was self contained to the middle of the street. The sidewalk was a safe zone. I inched past.
There was a man standing nearby and watching. He turned to me. "It's incredible, isn't it?"
I hadn't looked very closely, but now I did. "I guess it is," I said, "but so many bees is a bit scary."
He smiled, "there's no way they'll hurt you. They're looking for a new queen. Migrating. they are all very, very focused. You see that branch, covered in bees?"
The branch, black against the sky was animated with crawling bodies.
"That's the site of their new hive. These guys are all communicating with each other about it. Eventually, everyone will settle in. By night time. You watch."
I stood, fascinated, unable to turn away as the black cloud moved up and down in the air, undulating but never defying its seemingly arbitrary boundaries. The swarm was about six feet in length, and began only a few feet up from the pavement, and extended up to the top of the branch. It was impossible to tell how many bees there were.
The man continued to tell me about the bees. He had grown up, the son of a beekeeper, on a farm. He explained that what we were witnessing is an anomaly, and that we were really lucky to be watching. It also meant it would be a good year for local honey.
Then he did something I never expected. He grabbed my arm and said, "come on, walk through them with me. It's perfectly safe." I stared at him blankly. "They won't even know we're here," he added. I nodded and took a breath. If this was a rare thing to witness, I was going to witness it as closely as possible.
With his hand gripping my wrist he walked me right into the middle of the swarm. He continued to talk about the bees. The noise was unbelievable, but even more unbelievable was that, as we stood there bees flew around us in every direction, but never paid us any attention. Bees flew past my head, right by my bare arms, and dodged in between the man and me, but never hit or stung us. I looked straight up and saw the blue sky shaded by their wings, a million black ovals against the sunlight coming through the trees.
We stayed.
Eventually I had to leave to catch my train. But before I did I thanked the stranger profusely.
I'm not afraid of bees anymore.
I didn't notice anything strange on my way down the street, but about halfway to the corner I saw them. Blocking a section of the street was a swarm of bees. As suddenly as I saw them, I began to hear them. The buzz was phenomenal, otherworldly, and terrifying.
I've hated bees since I was a kid. I got stung on my hand, which swelled up like a balloon rendering it useless for a week. One doctor guessed I was allergic to bees. It made sense since my Mom is allergic to bees, but it's not like I had an anaphylactic reaction. Still, growing up the sound of even one bee humming induced a lot of anxiety.
As I continued my approach I saw that the swarm, although it appeared chaotic, was self contained to the middle of the street. The sidewalk was a safe zone. I inched past.
There was a man standing nearby and watching. He turned to me. "It's incredible, isn't it?"
I hadn't looked very closely, but now I did. "I guess it is," I said, "but so many bees is a bit scary."
He smiled, "there's no way they'll hurt you. They're looking for a new queen. Migrating. they are all very, very focused. You see that branch, covered in bees?"
The branch, black against the sky was animated with crawling bodies.
"That's the site of their new hive. These guys are all communicating with each other about it. Eventually, everyone will settle in. By night time. You watch."
I stood, fascinated, unable to turn away as the black cloud moved up and down in the air, undulating but never defying its seemingly arbitrary boundaries. The swarm was about six feet in length, and began only a few feet up from the pavement, and extended up to the top of the branch. It was impossible to tell how many bees there were.
The man continued to tell me about the bees. He had grown up, the son of a beekeeper, on a farm. He explained that what we were witnessing is an anomaly, and that we were really lucky to be watching. It also meant it would be a good year for local honey.
Then he did something I never expected. He grabbed my arm and said, "come on, walk through them with me. It's perfectly safe." I stared at him blankly. "They won't even know we're here," he added. I nodded and took a breath. If this was a rare thing to witness, I was going to witness it as closely as possible.
With his hand gripping my wrist he walked me right into the middle of the swarm. He continued to talk about the bees. The noise was unbelievable, but even more unbelievable was that, as we stood there bees flew around us in every direction, but never paid us any attention. Bees flew past my head, right by my bare arms, and dodged in between the man and me, but never hit or stung us. I looked straight up and saw the blue sky shaded by their wings, a million black ovals against the sunlight coming through the trees.
We stayed.
Eventually I had to leave to catch my train. But before I did I thanked the stranger profusely.
I'm not afraid of bees anymore.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Stories About my Dad: he flies through the air with the greatest of ease...
"Dad taught me the words to the Our Father, or at least taught me what they all meant." This is one my earliest memories. We were in the kitchen. There were Peppermint Patties involved, I'm certain of it.
My brother and mother had a hard time believing this today, when I mentioned it casually over lunch. "Are you sure?" asked Mom carefully, "your father wasn't... a very religious man."
"I'm sure," I replied. "He at least wanted me to know what I was saying if I was going to be saying it."
Six years ago today, March 15th, my entire life was turned upside down when I lost my father. He died after only being sick a few months; he was young and the entire thing was completely unexpected. There are no words to explain what losing him did to me or to my family, so I won't try that. This is the first time I've tried to address his death in public writing at all, so bear with me.
Even when Dad was alive there was legend about him. He was a firefighter in Boston, and he had done everything from fighting fires, to driving the chief, to doing fire inspections for buildings all over the city. Dropping his name got me parking places, got me hugs, invited stories, and even made creeps stay away from me on the dance floor at local pubs. I was Warren Whitaker's daughter, and everyone knew it.
More than just being known for the quality of his work, my Dad was even better known for his kindness, generosity, sense of humor, intelligence, loyalty and fun loving nature. It felt like everyone in Boston had a great story to tell me about my Dad. People he lent money to, people whose computers he fixed, whose houses or decks he helped build, locks he had changed for free. Guys who thought of him like a brother. Women who took his advice about their boyfriends. I followed attentively as he led by example.
My father was my hero. Except for a brief period of time when I was 14 to 17 years old or so, he could do no wrong. To this day I regret every single time my teenaged head butted his about vegetarianism or the merits of being allowed to wear mascara to school. Deep down he had to have known he was just helping me learn how to stand up for what I believed. Luckily for both of us, by the time I went off to college I believed the sun rose and set over him all over again.
I get my sense of humor from my Dad. For him, laughter was the center of any good friendship. He would riff on jokes with us in the car, or plan elaborate pranks on his friends for weeks. My mother would laugh so had she cried sometimes, and those were the best times. Sometimes when we're all together I catch my brother and myself vying for the same reward of cracking Mom up so hard we all forget why we were laughing.
When I expressed the tiniest bit of interest in Monty Python he went out and bought me the DVD of Holy Grail that night. I said it on the way to a rehearsal, and when he picked me up he handed it to me with two other movies we had talked about. He was just so excited that we could start to share a similar sense of humor. I know that if he were alive today we'd send each other YouTube videos all the time, he would have been at IB all last spring helping to build the theater, and he'd be bringing friends every weekend to see me at Improv Asylum.
He never did get to see me do improv. When he was in the hospital I had just debuted in Mission:Improvable. I brought my shirt to show him and he told me how proud he was. I looked at my head shot hanging in the lobby this weekend and thought of how wide he'd smile if he could see that too.
He'd be just as proud of my day job. This isn't widely known, but I became a nurse because of my Dad. When he was in the hospital he told me in passing, "you'd make a good nurse." I thought it over and switched majors within a month of his death.
Both he and Mom had already set me up for a life of service in a much less direct way. Mom and Dad met in EMT school. My Mom worked as a radiologist. My Dad became a firefighter. Caring for strangers was second nature to them, and they passed that on to me quietly, intuitively. I had never considered a career in the medical field but when I was exposed to it something deep within me responded clearly. There was no way I would quit. And today, because of him I have a job that fulfills that part of me as well as pays the bills.
There are plenty of things in my life I've done that I imagine might not elicit his pride. But his forgiveness taught me how to forgive others, and how to forgive myself.
It was a sweltering hot day in July when I accidentally drove my mother's car - backwards - into our kitchen. I tore the electrical boxes and doodads straight off the house. The sparks and noise alone would have gotten the neighbor's attention, but the subsequent shutting down of the power for the entire street is what really brought people outside. I slumped over the wheel, wishing I had been at least knocked unconscious by the error so I wouldn't feel so terrible. Inevitably, I had to exit the wreck.
I turned to face him. He was standing at the end of the driveway, dressed for work. He was chewing on a cigar. (This was during his Sopranos phase). He took the cigar out of his mouth, held out his arms for me, smiled and said, "Hey. Stuff happens."
I think of my Dad in some way almost every day. Some days more than others. I am apparently even more like him than I can know. "Have you always put vinegar on your french fries?" Mom asked at the beach last year, "your father did that." "I had no idea." I munched, a little happier knowing that parts of him were tucked away unbeknownst even to me.
I have his nose and his love of jazz. He taught me that it's almost always worth it to give someone a ride home if you have the means to do it. He taught me that even low brow humor has a time and place, but he also taught me what "deliver us from evil," means. When I'm feeling good I can feel him right there with me. And when I'm not feeling so good... I can still see his smile and hear him say "stuff happens," and know that I'm strong enough to get through whatever it is. Because through and through, I'm still his daughter, and always will be.
My brother and mother had a hard time believing this today, when I mentioned it casually over lunch. "Are you sure?" asked Mom carefully, "your father wasn't... a very religious man."
"I'm sure," I replied. "He at least wanted me to know what I was saying if I was going to be saying it."
Six years ago today, March 15th, my entire life was turned upside down when I lost my father. He died after only being sick a few months; he was young and the entire thing was completely unexpected. There are no words to explain what losing him did to me or to my family, so I won't try that. This is the first time I've tried to address his death in public writing at all, so bear with me.
Even when Dad was alive there was legend about him. He was a firefighter in Boston, and he had done everything from fighting fires, to driving the chief, to doing fire inspections for buildings all over the city. Dropping his name got me parking places, got me hugs, invited stories, and even made creeps stay away from me on the dance floor at local pubs. I was Warren Whitaker's daughter, and everyone knew it.
More than just being known for the quality of his work, my Dad was even better known for his kindness, generosity, sense of humor, intelligence, loyalty and fun loving nature. It felt like everyone in Boston had a great story to tell me about my Dad. People he lent money to, people whose computers he fixed, whose houses or decks he helped build, locks he had changed for free. Guys who thought of him like a brother. Women who took his advice about their boyfriends. I followed attentively as he led by example.
My father was my hero. Except for a brief period of time when I was 14 to 17 years old or so, he could do no wrong. To this day I regret every single time my teenaged head butted his about vegetarianism or the merits of being allowed to wear mascara to school. Deep down he had to have known he was just helping me learn how to stand up for what I believed. Luckily for both of us, by the time I went off to college I believed the sun rose and set over him all over again.
I get my sense of humor from my Dad. For him, laughter was the center of any good friendship. He would riff on jokes with us in the car, or plan elaborate pranks on his friends for weeks. My mother would laugh so had she cried sometimes, and those were the best times. Sometimes when we're all together I catch my brother and myself vying for the same reward of cracking Mom up so hard we all forget why we were laughing.
When I expressed the tiniest bit of interest in Monty Python he went out and bought me the DVD of Holy Grail that night. I said it on the way to a rehearsal, and when he picked me up he handed it to me with two other movies we had talked about. He was just so excited that we could start to share a similar sense of humor. I know that if he were alive today we'd send each other YouTube videos all the time, he would have been at IB all last spring helping to build the theater, and he'd be bringing friends every weekend to see me at Improv Asylum.
He never did get to see me do improv. When he was in the hospital I had just debuted in Mission:Improvable. I brought my shirt to show him and he told me how proud he was. I looked at my head shot hanging in the lobby this weekend and thought of how wide he'd smile if he could see that too.
He'd be just as proud of my day job. This isn't widely known, but I became a nurse because of my Dad. When he was in the hospital he told me in passing, "you'd make a good nurse." I thought it over and switched majors within a month of his death.
Both he and Mom had already set me up for a life of service in a much less direct way. Mom and Dad met in EMT school. My Mom worked as a radiologist. My Dad became a firefighter. Caring for strangers was second nature to them, and they passed that on to me quietly, intuitively. I had never considered a career in the medical field but when I was exposed to it something deep within me responded clearly. There was no way I would quit. And today, because of him I have a job that fulfills that part of me as well as pays the bills.
There are plenty of things in my life I've done that I imagine might not elicit his pride. But his forgiveness taught me how to forgive others, and how to forgive myself.
It was a sweltering hot day in July when I accidentally drove my mother's car - backwards - into our kitchen. I tore the electrical boxes and doodads straight off the house. The sparks and noise alone would have gotten the neighbor's attention, but the subsequent shutting down of the power for the entire street is what really brought people outside. I slumped over the wheel, wishing I had been at least knocked unconscious by the error so I wouldn't feel so terrible. Inevitably, I had to exit the wreck.
I turned to face him. He was standing at the end of the driveway, dressed for work. He was chewing on a cigar. (This was during his Sopranos phase). He took the cigar out of his mouth, held out his arms for me, smiled and said, "Hey. Stuff happens."
I think of my Dad in some way almost every day. Some days more than others. I am apparently even more like him than I can know. "Have you always put vinegar on your french fries?" Mom asked at the beach last year, "your father did that." "I had no idea." I munched, a little happier knowing that parts of him were tucked away unbeknownst even to me.
I have his nose and his love of jazz. He taught me that it's almost always worth it to give someone a ride home if you have the means to do it. He taught me that even low brow humor has a time and place, but he also taught me what "deliver us from evil," means. When I'm feeling good I can feel him right there with me. And when I'm not feeling so good... I can still see his smile and hear him say "stuff happens," and know that I'm strong enough to get through whatever it is. Because through and through, I'm still his daughter, and always will be.
Friday, March 13, 2009
isn't it strange how things can change you?
Last night was the official opening night of Pretty in Pink Slips. After the show there was a party; toasts were made and the entire cast got gift bags. I caught Scott's eye as Norm singled out me and Steph as the newest members of the group and everyone toasted. I met both Scott and Steph at the same time and place: at Earthfoods at Umass Amherst. It was the night of auditions for Mission:IMPROVable, 2002. And now we're here. The whole thing makes my head spin. Everything was so different in my life even just one year ago. And yet some things haven't changed in all of seven years. I gave Scott a ride home after the festivities:
"I'm not really sure how to get back to Brookline. Aaaannnd... I'm out of gas."
"It's like we're back in college", he observed, "we're having adventures!"
"I'm not really sure how to get back to Brookline. Aaaannnd... I'm out of gas."
"It's like we're back in college", he observed, "we're having adventures!"
Thursday, March 12, 2009
i saw this guy go down - wasn't time for fear before his body hit the ground
The night air smelled like spring mixed with a city waking up, but all I could think about was bed. Rehearsal was physically grueling as we finished and then drilled choreograpahy for the closing number and I had a 7am shift with my name on it. It was midnight when I got off the train.
Like a straight shot I careened past other commuters, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by a man laying on his side, mostly empty bottle rolling by his feet. His eyes were glassy and he had been incontinent. A man standing in the stairwell nearby waved at me to go on, "they already called the police," he said. But I couldn't leave. I'm a healthcare professional. Until there were more appropriate responders on the scene there was no way I was going to walk by.
I saw that he was breathing, and knelt by his head to see if he was responsive. His eyes followed me, but he didn't speak. I asked him questions, and got only syllables as answers, but he was at least awake. I didn't like the angle at which his left arm was draped, and he seemed to be nodding out a bit. I began to dig for my cell phone. "Did you hit your head?" I asked. He moved his neck in response. "I'm going to just move around behind you now," I warned him, "I want to see if your head is bleeding." As I moved to touch his hair, the doors to the train stations swung open:
"Don't touch him. He could be seriously injured!"
"I'm a nurse, it's alright." Although the words were true and slipped out easily, I hadn't been planning to say them. I stood up and faced the MBTA worker.
"Oh thank God, me too," she said. "What do you think? Besides drunk. I think he's hypoglycemic."
"I'm afraid of an OD," I admitted.
We kept an eye on the man and kept him awake while we waited for a truck. The man couldn't tell us whether he as a diabetic or whether he had taken anything. When I knelt to ask him he perked up and began to swear. I backed away, maintaining the unexpected eye contact but he didn't get up. "Least we know he's alert now," chuckled the former RN.
We chatted about our work. Another nurse came by, fresh off a ten hour shift in an ortho surigcal unit, and she stayed too. " I feel like I have to."
"I know what you mean," said the MBTA worker, "I quit that job for this one, but every night something like this happens I'm a nurse again."
"I'm exhausted," the ortho nurse said, "but you can't help staying. You're always a nurse, even when you're off."
Like a straight shot I careened past other commuters, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by a man laying on his side, mostly empty bottle rolling by his feet. His eyes were glassy and he had been incontinent. A man standing in the stairwell nearby waved at me to go on, "they already called the police," he said. But I couldn't leave. I'm a healthcare professional. Until there were more appropriate responders on the scene there was no way I was going to walk by.
I saw that he was breathing, and knelt by his head to see if he was responsive. His eyes followed me, but he didn't speak. I asked him questions, and got only syllables as answers, but he was at least awake. I didn't like the angle at which his left arm was draped, and he seemed to be nodding out a bit. I began to dig for my cell phone. "Did you hit your head?" I asked. He moved his neck in response. "I'm going to just move around behind you now," I warned him, "I want to see if your head is bleeding." As I moved to touch his hair, the doors to the train stations swung open:
"Don't touch him. He could be seriously injured!"
"I'm a nurse, it's alright." Although the words were true and slipped out easily, I hadn't been planning to say them. I stood up and faced the MBTA worker.
"Oh thank God, me too," she said. "What do you think? Besides drunk. I think he's hypoglycemic."
"I'm afraid of an OD," I admitted.
We kept an eye on the man and kept him awake while we waited for a truck. The man couldn't tell us whether he as a diabetic or whether he had taken anything. When I knelt to ask him he perked up and began to swear. I backed away, maintaining the unexpected eye contact but he didn't get up. "Least we know he's alert now," chuckled the former RN.
We chatted about our work. Another nurse came by, fresh off a ten hour shift in an ortho surigcal unit, and she stayed too. " I feel like I have to."
"I know what you mean," said the MBTA worker, "I quit that job for this one, but every night something like this happens I'm a nurse again."
"I'm exhausted," the ortho nurse said, "but you can't help staying. You're always a nurse, even when you're off."
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Phone Calls With Pim
"Do you do anything else during the week?"
"No, not really. My rehearsal schedule is very demanding."
"Sounds abusive to me. I bet you even have to tell Rehearsal when you're going to go use the bathroom."
"It's for my own good! Rehearsal loves me!"
"No, not really. My rehearsal schedule is very demanding."
"Sounds abusive to me. I bet you even have to tell Rehearsal when you're going to go use the bathroom."
"It's for my own good! Rehearsal loves me!"
Monday, March 9, 2009
A Community Mourns
When I first met him he had come in off the streets and his legs and feet were in really bad shape. I asked him to take off his boots so I could wash his feet and get the provider to take a look at them.
"No way. I'm not letting you wash my feet." The man was much larger than I was, and had just taken off a leather jacket and some big steel toed boots. He had a thick Boston Italian accent and looked like he could have co starred in The Departed.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's degrading to you as a woman. I'm not going to have a lady washing my feet. I can wash my own feet, ma'am."
I looked again at the blood and dried skin. They needed to be clean so we could do an actual assessment. "I appreciate that, sir, but that's why I'm here."
"That's nice. Like Jesus. But I still really can't let a lady wash my feet, I'm sorry."
He passed away this weekend. I wasn't his nurse near the end, or any time recently actually. But all the stories his friends have told me have rung true to my first impression. "He was a big guy, but always gentle." "Always had a smile on his face." And the one that always chills me, "Even in the end, he didn't let nobody know he was dying. He knew, but he faced it with courage. No one else knew."
Of course we as staff knew, but it's always a bit of a shock when it finally happens. I go back and forth about whether it's brave or not to go in that way. It's brave on the one hand, to not complain about one's fate. But on the other hand, is it completely fair to the people who love you to leave them like that?
At any rate, one of the men who spoke at the memorial service last night said "We know he's in a far better place than he was here." For now, that's all that matters.
"No way. I'm not letting you wash my feet." The man was much larger than I was, and had just taken off a leather jacket and some big steel toed boots. He had a thick Boston Italian accent and looked like he could have co starred in The Departed.
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's degrading to you as a woman. I'm not going to have a lady washing my feet. I can wash my own feet, ma'am."
I looked again at the blood and dried skin. They needed to be clean so we could do an actual assessment. "I appreciate that, sir, but that's why I'm here."
"That's nice. Like Jesus. But I still really can't let a lady wash my feet, I'm sorry."
He passed away this weekend. I wasn't his nurse near the end, or any time recently actually. But all the stories his friends have told me have rung true to my first impression. "He was a big guy, but always gentle." "Always had a smile on his face." And the one that always chills me, "Even in the end, he didn't let nobody know he was dying. He knew, but he faced it with courage. No one else knew."
Of course we as staff knew, but it's always a bit of a shock when it finally happens. I go back and forth about whether it's brave or not to go in that way. It's brave on the one hand, to not complain about one's fate. But on the other hand, is it completely fair to the people who love you to leave them like that?
At any rate, one of the men who spoke at the memorial service last night said "We know he's in a far better place than he was here." For now, that's all that matters.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
I don't even know what day it is, nevermind the time.
I switched out of my Sunday morning shift at work, and good thing too because after a 10pm show goes that well I need no convincing to stay for the Midnight Show.
Strangers on the Street: That was great! Weee!
Me: Hey thanks!
Strangers on the Street: We were all thinking of staying for the midnight show!
Me: Ha! Race you down there!
Because of Daylight Savings it was 2am by the time I left.
I feel absolutely wonderful when I'm on stage and on a roll, but when I realize that I've destroyed two Red Bulls and could still be ready for bed at any given moment it's time to call it a night. I ducked out just as the dance party was starting. I drove home, congratulating myself on the foresight to bring a car. I felt bold enough to try a shortcut. Then I got severely lost in Roxbury. Now it's almost 3:30 in the morning and I usually get up for work at 5:30am.
So not having to go into work until later in the day is truly good news. Seriously, thank you to the nurse who took those eight hours. You know who you are. And you are wonderful.
More about my weekend, methadone, and Lent coming soon.
Strangers on the Street: That was great! Weee!
Me: Hey thanks!
Strangers on the Street: We were all thinking of staying for the midnight show!
Me: Ha! Race you down there!
Because of Daylight Savings it was 2am by the time I left.
I feel absolutely wonderful when I'm on stage and on a roll, but when I realize that I've destroyed two Red Bulls and could still be ready for bed at any given moment it's time to call it a night. I ducked out just as the dance party was starting. I drove home, congratulating myself on the foresight to bring a car. I felt bold enough to try a shortcut. Then I got severely lost in Roxbury. Now it's almost 3:30 in the morning and I usually get up for work at 5:30am.
So not having to go into work until later in the day is truly good news. Seriously, thank you to the nurse who took those eight hours. You know who you are. And you are wonderful.
More about my weekend, methadone, and Lent coming soon.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Boundaries Committee Heads North
Early yesterday morning I left Boston with Caroline and Colleen for a work related retreat at our DON's house in Vermont. As I slid into the back of Colleen's car Caroline passed me a mug, a bottle of milk and a pot of coffee. I smiled and helped myself, "Now that's friendship."
We worked most of the day on our goal: to write the script for the Medical Professional Boundaries video we're creating for BHCHP. Later this spring I'll assemble a film crew and direct the actual production. It was my first time running a writing workshop of this kind and I incorporated some improv games to get creativity flowing. It went better than I could have imagined and we finished the script and more. In between writing sessions Debbie's mom fawned over us and fed us delicious meals, and we bonded over shared nursing experiences. When nighttime came we stayed up late all together in the living room, not having run out of things to say.
It was a much needed respite from every day life in addition to being a very productive work session.
I got called in to sub for the 8p and 10p shows tonight so we skipped antique shopping on the way home. Time passed quickly as I was more and more impressed by Colleen's ipod. Our musical tastes are similarly eclectic and we sang everything from Les Mis to Paul Simon to Outkast for at least two hours out of the three. It's great when you can actually be friends with the people you spend most of your time with.
There's so much encouragement at BHCHP for staff to take initiative for seeking better practice all the time. This project is a grassroots movement, nursing driven, which will hopefully help staff in all areas of the program. Bonding with others over our common goal is what makes this job so spectacular. And it's what keeps us doing what we're doing.
A very reaffirming experience all around.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
A Treasure in a Clay Pot
When I went to go visit her Tuesday I knew it was to say goodbye for the last time.
She was intubated and sedated and looked only slightly like the same small, happy woman I had known.
Still, as I held her hand and I spoke to her, her head turned towards the sound of my voice and the arm I was hold moved back and forth. She was in there, and she could hear everything I said. I talked to her, I read to her, and I sat in silence sometimes too.
She is not a family member. She is a fairly young homeless woman. But she herself has no reachable family, and so the hospital has listed us as her contacts. The doctors have been calling us with updates, and with Big Tough Decisions.
I know she has children. And a brother. But I didn't know how to find them then and I still don't. No one does. So it was her nurses and practitioners who visited the hospital and gathered by her bedside. Over many days we told her how brave she was, how strong. How much we missed her. And in the end, that it was okay to let go.
Last night, a little after 9pm I got the phone call that she had passed away. Unfortunately none of us were there. One of my coworkers had just left. My wish is that no one would ever have to die alone. But at least she got to hear how special she was. At least she went knowing she was loved.
She was one of the most amazing people I've ever met. She really did smile through the suffering every single day. She never wished anyone any harm. In the end she reminded me of chapter 2 of Corinthians, the verses about a treasure in an old clay pot. Her body was so broken by the end but her mind and her spirit weren't damaged in the least.
It hurts a lot thinking that she isn't out there anymore, brightening the world with her smile. But it's so much better to know that she isn't hurting. Because the amount of suffering she endured was terrible, and it's now it's over.
She was intubated and sedated and looked only slightly like the same small, happy woman I had known.
Still, as I held her hand and I spoke to her, her head turned towards the sound of my voice and the arm I was hold moved back and forth. She was in there, and she could hear everything I said. I talked to her, I read to her, and I sat in silence sometimes too.
She is not a family member. She is a fairly young homeless woman. But she herself has no reachable family, and so the hospital has listed us as her contacts. The doctors have been calling us with updates, and with Big Tough Decisions.
I know she has children. And a brother. But I didn't know how to find them then and I still don't. No one does. So it was her nurses and practitioners who visited the hospital and gathered by her bedside. Over many days we told her how brave she was, how strong. How much we missed her. And in the end, that it was okay to let go.
Last night, a little after 9pm I got the phone call that she had passed away. Unfortunately none of us were there. One of my coworkers had just left. My wish is that no one would ever have to die alone. But at least she got to hear how special she was. At least she went knowing she was loved.
She was one of the most amazing people I've ever met. She really did smile through the suffering every single day. She never wished anyone any harm. In the end she reminded me of chapter 2 of Corinthians, the verses about a treasure in an old clay pot. Her body was so broken by the end but her mind and her spirit weren't damaged in the least.
It hurts a lot thinking that she isn't out there anymore, brightening the world with her smile. But it's so much better to know that she isn't hurting. Because the amount of suffering she endured was terrible, and it's now it's over.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Deep Thoughts From Norm
"Why'd you get blood drawn today?"
"I had to get tested for Hep C and HIV. I had an exposure at work a few months ago."
"Yeah, you should probably quit that job."
"I had to get tested for Hep C and HIV. I had an exposure at work a few months ago."
"Yeah, you should probably quit that job."
Resignation in the Key C
Today I officially left my current job at Thacher*. As it turns out I can not sustain a model of working for thirteen to fourteen day stretches and work at Improv Asylum at night. It was hard enough before, but my increasingly demanding rehearsal and show schedule tipped my balance.
Because of how much I love teaching in general, and those kids and that school community in particular, I have arranged a new role for myself at Thacher. I will be going in for a month at a time on a volunteer basis and teaching after school improv and acting classes one or two days a week. Much more manageable.
The second half of the job, however, I have left off entirely. The school nurse position is just out of the question for me right now.
So if any RN out there is interested in a school nurse position, let me know. It's a great school, and I've already organized the office for you! **
-------------------------------------------------------------
* To a rousing chorus of "I told you so" from Robert Woo and sympathetic head nods from nicer people.
** I put all the epi-pens in one, easy-to-reach box, and hung up a poster up of "101 Things to Do Instead of Drugs." The sex ed stuff is under the computer desk. We have 22 ice packs.
Because of how much I love teaching in general, and those kids and that school community in particular, I have arranged a new role for myself at Thacher. I will be going in for a month at a time on a volunteer basis and teaching after school improv and acting classes one or two days a week. Much more manageable.
The second half of the job, however, I have left off entirely. The school nurse position is just out of the question for me right now.
So if any RN out there is interested in a school nurse position, let me know. It's a great school, and I've already organized the office for you! **
-------------------------------------------------------------
* To a rousing chorus of "I told you so" from Robert Woo and sympathetic head nods from nicer people.
** I put all the epi-pens in one, easy-to-reach box, and hung up a poster up of "101 Things to Do Instead of Drugs." The sex ed stuff is under the computer desk. We have 22 ice packs.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Development of Humor
Let's go back to Matrim laughing.
Now, I'm not what anyone would describe as "baby crazy," however, I am fascinated with human development. I am also, because of my 'night job' inherently interested in the idea of a sense of humor, and what makes things funny. The anatomy of a laugh.
To me, a baby laughing in response to a non physical stimulus is the most interesting thing a baby can do because it's a sign of the development of thought process as well as a sign of a developing sense of humor.
To break it down developmentally, Matrim is 15 months old which puts him in the Sensory Motor cognitive stage of development. He is not just a little adult. His brain works differently than mine or yours. He achieves all of his learning through his senses and his developing physical relationship with the world.
By four to eight months infants engage in repetitive behavior to produce interesting effects, such as batting at a mobile to make it move. Or, in the case of Matrim's YouTube video, dropping a toy to produce a noise/make his uncle pick up the toy again.
By the time an infant is fifteen months these repetitive behaviors increase and take on even more intention, as the effects can be predicted by the baby.
When you want to start talking about the beginning of the Development of a Sense of Humor you're beginning to talk about Social Development.
Babies smile in recognition of their mother or father's face or voice when they are only two months old in some cases. They laugh by the age of four months, usually in response to tickling or facial recognition. It's not until months and months later that laughter is elicited by engaging in games like "Peek a Boo." The reason is that only by then has the baby gained the cognitive concept of "object permanence." When Mom's face disappears Baby knows she's behind her hands, but there is some very tense time waiting for her to return. When she does return, with a noise and an abrupt motion Baby laughs, the same way we jump and laugh at the sudden loud noises in scary movies.
But by the time an infant is Matrim's age he is actually finding humor in noises or events. He might laugh if Mom or Dad pretends to eat his food. Or if they make funny faces. This in and of itself is fascinating to me. I have spent many a day in Baystate Children's Hospital trying to make an infant laugh. And most babies past 8 months have already developed enough sense of taste to know what's funny and what's just not. Think about that for a second.
But THEN, even more amazing, the infant learns how to make other people laugh. The same way physical cause and effect was once established, social cause and effect begins to set in when he begins to process which actions or events are positively reinforced by the laughter of those around him.
Matrim, although he is unable to stand on one leg or talk in complete sentence, can make a joke. He is intentionally repeating an action that he knows will be funny, and he thinks it's funny too.
Someday he will move on to more sophisticated humor: first, intentionally garbled words in otherwise familiar songs, moving on quickly to non sequitors, and graduating eventually to puns and knock knock jokes by the time he's nine*. The rule of three comes later. Scatological jokes though, as far as I can tell, are forever.
If the kid is smart, no matter what he'll keep playing to his audience as well as he does now.
And then we'll go on tour.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Uncles automatically revert back to this stage once they become Uncles.
Now, I'm not what anyone would describe as "baby crazy," however, I am fascinated with human development. I am also, because of my 'night job' inherently interested in the idea of a sense of humor, and what makes things funny. The anatomy of a laugh.
To me, a baby laughing in response to a non physical stimulus is the most interesting thing a baby can do because it's a sign of the development of thought process as well as a sign of a developing sense of humor.
To break it down developmentally, Matrim is 15 months old which puts him in the Sensory Motor cognitive stage of development. He is not just a little adult. His brain works differently than mine or yours. He achieves all of his learning through his senses and his developing physical relationship with the world.
By four to eight months infants engage in repetitive behavior to produce interesting effects, such as batting at a mobile to make it move. Or, in the case of Matrim's YouTube video, dropping a toy to produce a noise/make his uncle pick up the toy again.
By the time an infant is fifteen months these repetitive behaviors increase and take on even more intention, as the effects can be predicted by the baby.
When you want to start talking about the beginning of the Development of a Sense of Humor you're beginning to talk about Social Development.
Babies smile in recognition of their mother or father's face or voice when they are only two months old in some cases. They laugh by the age of four months, usually in response to tickling or facial recognition. It's not until months and months later that laughter is elicited by engaging in games like "Peek a Boo." The reason is that only by then has the baby gained the cognitive concept of "object permanence." When Mom's face disappears Baby knows she's behind her hands, but there is some very tense time waiting for her to return. When she does return, with a noise and an abrupt motion Baby laughs, the same way we jump and laugh at the sudden loud noises in scary movies.
But by the time an infant is Matrim's age he is actually finding humor in noises or events. He might laugh if Mom or Dad pretends to eat his food. Or if they make funny faces. This in and of itself is fascinating to me. I have spent many a day in Baystate Children's Hospital trying to make an infant laugh. And most babies past 8 months have already developed enough sense of taste to know what's funny and what's just not. Think about that for a second.
But THEN, even more amazing, the infant learns how to make other people laugh. The same way physical cause and effect was once established, social cause and effect begins to set in when he begins to process which actions or events are positively reinforced by the laughter of those around him.
Matrim, although he is unable to stand on one leg or talk in complete sentence, can make a joke. He is intentionally repeating an action that he knows will be funny, and he thinks it's funny too.
Someday he will move on to more sophisticated humor: first, intentionally garbled words in otherwise familiar songs, moving on quickly to non sequitors, and graduating eventually to puns and knock knock jokes by the time he's nine*. The rule of three comes later. Scatological jokes though, as far as I can tell, are forever.
If the kid is smart, no matter what he'll keep playing to his audience as well as he does now.
And then we'll go on tour.
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* Uncles automatically revert back to this stage once they become Uncles.
Monday, March 2, 2009
what I do about this weather? what I do what I do.
I did some spring cleaning over the weekend, I guess a bit preemptively because now it's snowing.
I don't know what I was thinking, but I had some honest to goodness visions of putting away the rock salt.
Friday night I had the night off from performing so I had dinner with some friends from work at Summer Shack. I had the mussels and a side order of griddled brown bread. I was not disappointed. Then we went next door to Kings where Emily, the N.P I work the most with, was having a birthday party. Everyone else from work had apparently gone home and it was mostly Emily's other friends, but we stayed for a drink and to watch people bowl a bit before it got too late.
Saturday was my day of cleaning. I woke up in a frenzy and without any planning just pulled apart two closets and my dresser. I finished just in time to pick up Kaminga for church.
After church it was a quick change and I caught the train to Haymarket.
I was in the 8p, the 10p and then decided to do the midnight show was well. A Saturday night is a lot different than any other night of the week down there, but I felt pretty good at the end of it all. Kiley confirmed my satisfaction by telling everyone that I really held my own. I had never experienced this, but apparently every Saturday night the midnight show ends with a dance party with the audience. Then, as the audience leaves it just becomes an all night dance party (literally) for the cast, staff and invited guests. I stayed out all night dancing and had more fun than I've had at most dance clubs this year. Fewer creeps.
Sunday I woke up mid morning and was absolutely dismayed by the weather. Nevertheless, I kept my plans to meet Aimie and my 15 month old godson, Matrim at Applebee's in Auborn. Aimie and I dined on Applebee's finest entrees and caught up on life as Mat threw grilled cheese all over the floor* and laughed.
"Oh my gosh," one woman commented, "listen to him!" Matrim has a very unique laugh. So much so that no one was bothered by his sandwich throwing. Staff and strangers alike were delighted. I can't explain the laugh. I have almost only seen him laugh that hard when he's throwing things. Here's a video of him doing it when he was much younger.
When I got home I napped. And I shouldn't have. I spent the rest of Sunday night in a hazy fog that dissolved too late, leaving only a mental alertness that made a reasonable bedtime impossible. Good news for sketch writing. Bad news for work in the AM.
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* We cleaned up the sandwich pieces, of course.
I don't know what I was thinking, but I had some honest to goodness visions of putting away the rock salt.
Friday night I had the night off from performing so I had dinner with some friends from work at Summer Shack. I had the mussels and a side order of griddled brown bread. I was not disappointed. Then we went next door to Kings where Emily, the N.P I work the most with, was having a birthday party. Everyone else from work had apparently gone home and it was mostly Emily's other friends, but we stayed for a drink and to watch people bowl a bit before it got too late.
Saturday was my day of cleaning. I woke up in a frenzy and without any planning just pulled apart two closets and my dresser. I finished just in time to pick up Kaminga for church.
After church it was a quick change and I caught the train to Haymarket.
I was in the 8p, the 10p and then decided to do the midnight show was well. A Saturday night is a lot different than any other night of the week down there, but I felt pretty good at the end of it all. Kiley confirmed my satisfaction by telling everyone that I really held my own. I had never experienced this, but apparently every Saturday night the midnight show ends with a dance party with the audience. Then, as the audience leaves it just becomes an all night dance party (literally) for the cast, staff and invited guests. I stayed out all night dancing and had more fun than I've had at most dance clubs this year. Fewer creeps.
Sunday I woke up mid morning and was absolutely dismayed by the weather. Nevertheless, I kept my plans to meet Aimie and my 15 month old godson, Matrim at Applebee's in Auborn. Aimie and I dined on Applebee's finest entrees and caught up on life as Mat threw grilled cheese all over the floor* and laughed.
"Oh my gosh," one woman commented, "listen to him!" Matrim has a very unique laugh. So much so that no one was bothered by his sandwich throwing. Staff and strangers alike were delighted. I can't explain the laugh. I have almost only seen him laugh that hard when he's throwing things. Here's a video of him doing it when he was much younger.
When I got home I napped. And I shouldn't have. I spent the rest of Sunday night in a hazy fog that dissolved too late, leaving only a mental alertness that made a reasonable bedtime impossible. Good news for sketch writing. Bad news for work in the AM.
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* We cleaned up the sandwich pieces, of course.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
My first Midnight Show as a Mainstage Actor
The lights are flashing and the music is pulsing and I can barely hear her even though she's dancing next to me.
"I said, this is why you should do the midnight show!"
We're screaming "Don't Stop Believing," and even when I have a mic pointed at my face I can't hear myself.
Strangers are coming from every direction, their faces painted red, green, blue by the lights to congratulate me, to shake my hand, to get a dance in.
The music doesn't stop for hours, and neither do I.
"I said, this is why you should do the midnight show!"
We're screaming "Don't Stop Believing," and even when I have a mic pointed at my face I can't hear myself.
Strangers are coming from every direction, their faces painted red, green, blue by the lights to congratulate me, to shake my hand, to get a dance in.
The music doesn't stop for hours, and neither do I.
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