And So This Was Christmas

 

The bells were ringing out for Christmas Day:  

RE: 11/04/2023 Advice Heeded

 I'm writing this to myself, to remind myself not to act like a jerk. My memory may be a little hazy, due to several reasons, but this is what I recall.

    After M. joined me,  and Dr. B., cardiologist on duty, laid out the optimal procedure with M. and me, which meant a trip to the Cath. lab., M. was on her phone, talking to her brothers mainly. It seems there were  a lot of messages of love extended, and as M. was departing the scene just before the transport, she relayed another "I love you" and told me to say "I love you" in return to who was on the phone. I guess I must have felt like a character in a Hallmark movie or such, because I kind of muttered, mostly to myself, "This seems like a cliche."  

  A young nurse was on the other side of the room. I didn't know he was there and I don't think he was attending me. (It is true that whenever I am near any kind of sedation, everything seems like a mile away, so I could have been missing a connection.)  Anyway, he spoke up and in a very serious tone, said to me, "Yes, it is a cliche, to say I love you, but people like to hear it, so you should say it." So I did. Again.

December 29, 1939

    I was standing next to my brother, pressed as close as possible to the back side of the kitchen wall in our grandmother's house. Way back against the wall, next to the kitchen sink and the bucket that held potato peelings. We knew something different was going on, because the old wooden kitchen table, the one with the curved rounded legs, was the center of some kind of activity, with different items being placed on top of the table, or so it seemed to us.  So we backed up against the wall in order to be able to see what was happening, being too little to see if we were up close and also no doubt knowing to keep out of the way. 

  My grandmother's bedroom was directly off the kitchen, and that was the hub of activity. People, grownups, were going back and forth from the room. I remember feeling a little upset because I couldn't see or know what was going on. I was 18 months old, and was not used to very many people bustling about as they were.   

   Eventually, someone came out of the room holding something which they deposited on the kitchen table. And after a while Helen picked me up and carried me to the table to view  the newly placed item. And that is as far as my memory takes me. 

   I knew  that my mother had heard my grandmother  exclaim, during the process, "Jaysus, it's got red hair!"  But that must have been my mother telling me later. 

   

   

RE: E.R. FYI or TMI Read at your own risk...

 Trying to put things in perspective, I have observed that (1) the accepted term now is Emergency Department, not emergency room., and  (2) the process is more "concentrated" than previously.

  Example #1, the person seeking help walks in through the door marked Emergency, checks in at the desk along the entry wall, and then sits there in the emergency waiting room until called into the adjoining triage area, where interview and assessment are conducted. Person may then be assigned to one of the 6 or 8 rooms to await further assessment by a medical professional who determines their fate. And the wait    in that cubicle can be lengthy, determinated by availability of staff and the attention of others who may be in greater need. 

   Example #2, the person arrives by ambulance, result of call to 911. Sometimes the call is evidently more routine. I'm not aware of the entry process but do know the person is often discharged with minimal medical intervention. However, if the information about patient condition  relayed to the hospital from the responding vehicle is a significant health threat, the patient is "admitted to the floor,"  which I assume is the essential part of the Emergency Department.  Doctors and staff  in attendance there  evaluate the patient and treatment begins, surgery, infusions, whatever is required.

A Slice Of Dream

     Sometimes when I dream, the person in the dream is not me, but since I think and feel as if I am that entity, I'll use the pronoun "I." 

   I had driven my car into a large rectangular lot; there were cars in random areas, though it was not a parking lot per se.  It seems my intent was to enter the building there, probably a medical office, but I was distracted by a man walking around the lot. He was dressed in clothing of two colors, subdued shades of magenta and blue, I think. He was known as Bopper and liked to talk to people in that area. I had gotten out of my car, and talked with him for a while, until suddenly I felt threatened and wanted to get away from him. I told him I needed to get something from my car, fully intending to drive away. I reached my car, and tried to start it, but I couldn't because his hand was on top of the driver's side door. The key wouldn't turn in the ignition.   I tried slamming the door shut, thinking he would move his hand, or maybe lose it. I didn't care. I slammed the door three times, but his hand stayed there. I opened the window on the passenger side and called for help. 

    A woman with curly blonde hair came over to where I was. She looked like a medical worker in one of the offices I had recently visited. She asked what was  wrong, and I told her. I was trying to get away from that man over there. She laughed and said "Oh, that's Mopper. He's harmless, just likes to hang out here and talk."   I said, "No, his name is Bopper and he has done some bad things. I need to get away from here." She hadn't known that, and seemed inclined to believe me, but things got worse.

 The second part of the dream was even more eerie and disturbing, but in the way of dreams, all memory of it has vanished from my mind. When I woke up from the dream, I had that  feeling of terror that accompanies bad dreams. 

   I suppose the dream, nightmare that it was, reflects to some degree the events of my life at present:  watching too many Seinfeld reruns (though not recently "The Bopper" episode);  reading the psycho-drama posts  a local woman airs in detail; driving to too many medical facilities. Or maybe it could be the drugs... 

    

Move over, Jorgen Moe...

 Instead of listening to your beautiful voice  singing "Dancing in the Dark" and other songs, I have become almost obsessed with the life and works of Shane MacGowan.  If I had ever heard of the Pogues, I'd long since forgotten, and not until his death did I know of Shane MacGowan. Danny had emailed me that news, and mentioned that he had wanted one of his songs played at his wedding, but that the DJ had forgotten it. I think he said the song was "Dirty Old Town,"  which intrigued me enough to go to google and acquaint myself with Shane MacGowan and the Pogues. 

   I did learn that Fairytale of New York is considered by many, even the erudite, to be one of the greatest  Christmas songs of all time, and indeed is the most listened to "Christmas song"  in such places as Great Britain and Ireland. (That would be worth a million or more of "All I Want For Christmas."  Ugh.

The first line: "It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank."  Now some devotees of MacGowan claim to find the song both hilarious and heartbreaking as the rise and fall of a young couple in love in the city is recounted in shockingly vivid language.  "Happy Christmas, you arse, I hope it's our last."   I would agree that this song and others  is  testament to the brilliance and creativity of the writer/ singer, but, Irish as I may be, I don't get the hilarity. I see heartbreak.  "The boys of the NYPD Choir still singing Galway Bay, and the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day."

  It appears to be true, though I can't vouch for its authenticity, that Johnny Depp, longtime friend of Shane MacGowan, had interloper Megan Markle ousted from the funeral service in the cathedral. 
  

Stamp, Stamp

 Pretty much the only time I use U.S. Postage Stamps to mail anything is when I send Birthday Cards to the 5 youngest grandkids. And because those cards end up being overweight, exceeding 1 ounce, I just pay the going price at the P.O. window. Today's card was not very heavy, so in addition to the regular stamp,  I added another: Horrors---not a Forever Stamp. The card turned out to weigh just one ounce, or maybe a hair over, so it required additional postage. 

  The clerk could not tell how much the rogue stamp was worth---sorry, can't help with that. However, the man next in line said he could help. And he used his phone to quickly find out that the stamp in question has a value of 21 Cents. Good to know since I have a sheet of them, from 2007, I think he said. 

Unfortunately that man does not work for the USPS.  Maybe they could use him as a consultant.   (I figure it will now take 4 of those .21 stamps to cover the cost of a single regular weight letter, which I learned today is 66 Cents.