medical terminology

Artery:    The study of paintings
Bacteria:    Back door to a cafeteria
Barium: What doctors do when treatment fails
Bowels:    A letter like A, E, I, O, or U
Cesarean Section:    A district in Rome
CAT Scan:    Searching for kitty
Cauterize:    Make eye contact with her
Colic:    A sheep dog
Coma:    A punctuation mark
Congenital:    Friendly
D&C:    Where Washington is
Dilate:    To live long
Enema:    Not a friend
GI Series:    Soldier ball game
Grippe:    Suitcase
Hangnail:    Coat hook
Labor Pain:    Getting hurt at work
Morbid:    Higher offer
Nitrate:    Cheaper than a day rate
Outpatient:    Person who has fainted
Pelvis:    Cousin of Elvis
Prostate:    Flat on your back
Recovery Room:    Place to do upholstery
Seizure:    Roman Emperor
Tablet:    A small table
Terminal Illness: Getting sick at the airport
Tumor:    More than one
Urine:    Opposite of you're out
Varicose:    Near by
Vein:    Conceited

waHOOOO!!!

My sister, her kids, and I went to visit my daddy on Monday. He is in the memory unit at the Southern Utah Veteran's Home. He has Alzheimer's. I try to get some time in with him while I'm in the area, because he's my daddy and it has to be so lonely and boring hanging out in a facility all day. I also have selfish reasons; those being that he is so much more loving and outspoken about his love for me. He never told me he loved me or hugged me or anything before he got sick. I don't know why, he just didn't do it. Now that he is sick, even if he doesn't know my name, he always says "Hi, sweetheart," and tells me that he just loves me so much. I can never get enough of that.

He doesn't have too much to say most days. I'm a pretty quiet person myself, so our visits can be pretty silent. He does ALWAYS ask me where I'm living these days. Sometimes he asks me where I live about ten times in one visit, but I don't care. I'll answer him every time he asks. It is nice to bring my sister and her kids with me to the visit, because she is chatty and the kids always have something to say.

We chatted for a little while, brought him some more shirts and some decorations for his room. He remembered exactly the cowboy boot and hat that belonged to his father, my grandpa. My name? Not so much.
Then we ventured out into the commons area, where I played a very out of tune piano. He loves to listen, and I love to play: we are the perfect pair. The only music of my own I had were solo arrangements of songs. Not so fun for anyone to sing along to. Then I found gold: a book in the piano bench that contained old time songs. It also included a couple soldier songs. Any time I could hear daddy singing, I would play the song at least one more time, if not more. I'm a sucker for making people happy. 

When I played the Marine's Hymn, my daddy sang along, and at the end of the song I heard this loud "WAHOOOOO!" Good ol' Daddy. I played that song a couple more times, just to see if he would do it again. (He did, once)

There were a couple others he liked such as: Tie a Yellow Ribbon, Jimmy Crack Corn, Battle Hymn of the Republic, I've Been Working on the Railroad... There were even a couple of the other tenants (inmates?) who danced and clapped for me. 

I played the piano for two hours straight, without stopping. I have never loved playing for an audience so much in my life. I love my daddy. 

the lady of shalott

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
           To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
           The Lady of Shalott.

Took a bath in the old bath tub today. This is the house I was raised in, so that is the first bath tub I have ever bathed in. It was difficult not to revert back to pretending I was a mermaid, when I could recite "The Little Mermaid" line for line.... the entire movie. Then I wet my hair and instantly I was Anne of Green Gables, in the boat with a hole in it, pretending I was the Lady of Shalott floating away in my watery grave. I reenacted that scene many times in the tub, perfecting the moment when she realizes her boat is sinking, as her hair becomes soaked with water. Oh, I was quite the dramatic child!
Today is probably the last time I will ever have the opportunity to soak in that bath tub. Strange to have almost 34 years of memories sinking, just like the boat in Anne of Green Gables. As my sister said, Momma's death is the end of an era. Life will never be the same; I will never have this beautiful, creepy, old, blue house to come home to, ever again.
Forgive the quality of the video. There were better ones, but they left out the beginning part that this one kept, and I love it.

Frowny Days

A priceless gem I just found. I wrote this probably about fifth or sixth grade. Pretty appropriate for me, and for me right now.

Some days I just don't wanna smile.
I call them "frowny days."

My whole family laughs at me
When I have frowny days. They
Say I'm grumpy, but I'm not, really.
I'm just having a frowny day!

Even the dog can't make me smile.
CANDY doesn't even get a grin.
I'm just not in a smiley mood.

My sister dares me to not smile
And says she'll tickle me if I
Don't smile, so she does and I pretend
To cry. She gets in trouble, and
My insides smile, but not my 
Mouth.

One time when I had a frowny day,
All the kids at school thought my
Pet mouse had died. But she was
Still alive. I just didn't want to smile!

Then something sad really did
Happen. My best friend said she
Was moving to Las Vegas. I was so
Sad I DID cry, right in front
Of everyone. It was really embarrassing
So I hid in the bathroom until
All the kids went home.

My friend wrote me a letter all
The way from Las Vegas! It would have
Made me smile, but I was having
A frowny day, so I didn't.

I told mom and dad it was okay if
I had frowny days, because they were
Worried about me. I told them it
Helped me to have more smiley days
If I had a frowny day once in a while,
And to keep giving me hugs and kisses
Like they always do, so I can save them
All for extra frowny days. Even my sister
Played a game with me and my brother got me
A flower from the neighbor's garden.

I'm glad I have frowny days because
They make smiley days lots better!

The Basement

This is a poem that my brother Adam wrote, I think for a class in college. In my parents' house there is a root cellar, complete with dirt walls, crawl space that leads outside, and also a portion of the ceiling where you can see light from the yard above. I didn't mind going just to the bottom of the stairs to retrieve a can of corn or fruit cocktail, but to have to go all the way to the back to pick out some bottled fruit was too scary! When I read this poem, I was relieved I wasn't the only one who was scared of the basement. It is also the PERFECT description of that root cellar.

My name is called. Chills
run down my arms and my heart becomes
tightly clenched as I hear the words, "I need you
to go and fetch."

I go to the door that, but for the latch, would disappear
into the wall surrounding it. Once unlatched,
the door swings outward, releasing a grave-cool breath
that smells of earth. Next to the dangling
broom and mop, hanging by their necks, the light switch is found.
I strain to lift the switch, it stubbornly
refuses, and desperation causes my heart to pound.
After an endless struggle
that lasts only seconds, with a click
that loudly echoes, the switch acquiesces to light provide.

The stairs before me
descend, steep and three miles long. Each step
precarious,
the aging wood creaks 
beneath my light footsteps. Various strata
my descent mark; first wood,
then brick,
then stone.

Upon the last steps I duck my head; even my sleight
height is almost too much
to pass the overhang. I reach the rough
concrete floor and feel unseen eyes
register my unwelcome presence.

A hesitant step propels me
forward; to the furthest reaches I must go. On my left
I see the cans of peas, fruit cocktail and corn,
both creamed and kernel. The metal trash bin, once
its lid is pried, reveals an open, twenty-five pound
bag of sugar, pure and white. A small pinch is sweet, with a metallic taste, very light.

A sharp pop, then a muffled roar make me jump and turn
to face my foe. I find my fear is misplaced; the only things I see
are the water heater, and the furnace,
which gives off an orange glow. My eyes follow
a series of dusty brown-grey cobwebs
to the dark hole that leads to the crawl space under the house.
I quickly avert my gaze so that I won't see
the hidden dangers lurking inside.

Continuing past the boxes of holiday decorations,
I pause
next to the old highchair, yellow and white, with a teddy bear
painted on the back. His cheerful grin seems to mock
the memories of babies crying from fingers pinched by the tray.

Reaching above this torture chair, I turn on the old shop lamp. It's bare bulb reveals more webs, reflecting dully in the beam of light.
My goal is exposed:
a rainbow of mad scientist's bottles, arranged neatly
on the shelves, in rows.

First rejected are the bottles of thick, golden-brown gloop.
Applesauce is not what I seek.
Next passed are the yellow-orange hemispheres floating in amber syrup.
Apricots are not what I seek.
Flesh-colored halves, floating in clear liquid do not tempt me.
Pears are not what I seek.
In viscous purple, the marble-sized globes
of cherries are what I seek.

Two select bottles now hugged tightly to my chest, my pace quickens
as my steps I retrace. Yet I dare not run for fear of pursuit.
The steep steps I climb, my fears behind,
it is time for dinner.

the psychiatric hotline

Hello, welcome to the
Psychiatric Hotline:

*If you are obsessive-compulsive, please press 1 repeatedly

*If you are co-dependent, please ask someone else to press 2.

*If you have multiple personalities, please press 3, 4, 5, and 6.

*If you are paranoid-delusional, we know who you are and what you want. Just stay on the line and we will trace your call.

*If you are schizophrenic, listen carefully and a little voice will tell you which number to press.

*If you are manic-depressive, it doesn't matter which number you press, no one will answer.

who writes this crap?!?!

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross wrote in her book "On Death and Dying" that there is generally five stages in the grieving process. I am sure this is not fool-proof and varies from person to person, but I have seen people in different stages so I feel it is somewhat applicable. I think I am still pretty much in isolation mode. I am not in denial; I am fully aware of what has happened. I just don't really want to associate with people in the "real" world. Family is okay and Becky because she knows all too well what I'm going through. Strong opinions are not my friend right now. Patience and understanding are my best friends. Sleep is my lover. All I want to do is sleep. This stinks.

1. Denial and Isolation

The first reaction to learning of terminal illness or death of a cherished loved one is to deny the reality of the situation. It is a normal reaction to rationalize overwhelming emotions. It is a defense mechanism that buffers the immediate shock. We block out the words and hide from the facts. This is a temporary response that carries us through the first wave of pain.

2. Anger

As the masking effects of denial and isolation begin to wear, reality and its pain re-emerge. We are not ready. The intense emotion is deflected from our vulnerable core, redirected and expressed instead as anger. The anger may be aimed at inanimate objects, complete strangers, friends or family. Anger may be directed at our dying or deceased loved one. Rationally, we know the person is not to be blamed. Emotionally, however, we may resent the person for causing us pain or for leaving us. We feel guilty for being angry, and this makes us more angry.

Do not hesitate to ask your doctor to give you extra time or to explain just once more the details of your loved one’s illness. Arrange a special appointment or ask that he telephone you at the end of his day. Ask for clear answers to your questions regarding medical diagnosis and treatment. Understand the options available to you. Take your time.The doctor who diagnosed the illness and was unable to cure the disease might become a convenient target. Health professionals deal with death and dying every day. That does not make them immune to the suffering of their patients or to those who grieve for them.

3. Bargaining

The normal reaction to feelings of helplessness and vulnerability is often a need to regain control–

• If only we had sought medical attention sooner…
• If only we got a second opinion from another doctor…
• If only we had tried to be a better person toward them…

Secretly, we may make a deal with God or our higher power in an attempt to postpone the inevitable. This is a weaker line of defense to protect us from the painful reality.

4. Depression

Two types of depression are associated with mourning. The first one is a reaction to practical implications relating to the loss. Sadness and regret predominate this type of depression. We worry about the costs and burial. We worry that, in our grief, we have spent less time with others that depend on us. This phase may be eased by simple clarification and reassurance. We may need a bit of helpful cooperation and a few kind words. The second type of depression is more subtle and, in a sense, perhaps more private. It is our quiet preparation to separate and to bid our loved one farewell. Sometimes all we really need is a hug.

5. Acceptance

Reaching this stage of mourning is a gift not afforded to everyone. Death may be sudden and unexpected or we may never see beyond our anger or denial. It is not necessarily a mark of bravery to resist the inevitable and to deny ourselves the opportunity to make our peace. This phase is marked by withdrawal and calm. This is not a period of happiness and must be distinguished from depression.

Loved ones that are terminally ill or aging appear to go through a final period of withdrawal. This is by no means a suggestion that they are aware of their own impending death or such, only that physical decline may be sufficient to produce a similar response. Their behavior implies that it is natural to reach a stage at which social interaction is limited. The dignity and grace shown by our dying loved ones may well be their last gift to us.

Coping with loss is a ultimately a deeply personal and singular experience — nobody can help you go through it more easily or understand all the emotions that you’re going through. But others can be there for you and help comfort you through this process. The best thing you can do is to allow yourself to feel the grief as it comes over you. Resisting it only will prolong the natural process of healing.