Domestic Psychology

Disinformation is dangerous

// January 26th, 2012 // 2 Comments » // health, people

When a scripted reality show brought in an anti-vaxer as the special celebrity guest for a family whose youngest child had tetanus, I complained. I didn’t complain about the show. I complained about the inclusion of someone who spreads disinformation. Instead of addressing my concerns, the local PR firm pulled the equivalent of Godwin’s Law. “Some people don’t believe in evolution either.” They should have used that line on the celebrity and found someone else for their show.

When an elected TN official states false information about public health, they are a hazard to their constituents. When that same official uses their religious beliefs as a bragging point, it should not have to be said that the teens in that official’s religious sect have made it clear that they consider unprotected sex less of a sin than sex with a condom. Spreading disinformation that implies, no, declares heterosexual sex is not an HIV risk, is dangerous. That kind of disinformation being spread by an elected official who is popular with already poorly informed teens is beyond dangerous. It is life threatening. Destructive.

The guy down the street with disinfowars stickers on everything doesn’t endanger others. His paranoid conspiracy theories only make his life bleak. Celebrities and politicians have fans and followers who make choices based on the words of their heroes. Discouraging immunizations and spreading false information about the spread of HIV hurts other people.

Girls v Boys – Stomach Bug

// November 29th, 2011 // No Comments » // children, health

Girls –
At the first hint of digestive difficulties, girls stop eating to avoid vomit. They would rather sleep on the bathroom floor than have an accident in their bedroom. Girls will quietly play or watch a cartoon between naps. The first sign of recovery is the girl changing from pitiful to cranky. Even when they feel better, girls have to be enticed to start eating again.

Boys -
Boys never stop eating. They don’t care if they just puked. They still want to keep eating. When that food gets rejected, boys just explode like a volcano with little or no attempt made to get to the bathroom. Boys won’t settle down for a nap, they just crumble in a heap on the floor for a few minutes before bouncing back up again. At the first hint of recovery, boys will eat the entire contents of the fridge.

Falling Apart

// October 30th, 2011 // No Comments » // health, me, travel

I have a trick knee. Sometimes, without warning, it just stops doing what I want it to do, as though a loose wire inside has disconnected the power. As quickly as it stops working, it starts back up again. Most of the time, the power returns in time to correct and instead of a fall, I do a funny skip-hop that the children always notice. Every so often, the correction fails me and I fall down… on my trick knee.

My first day in New York, my knee decided to play a trick on me as I walked up one of the city’s trillions of staircases. I corrected poorly and fell down. “How do you fall UP a flight of stairs, mom?”

I went to bed that night sore, but awoke to a knee that screamed at me with every step I took. Just to be extra tricky, my knee completely refused to walk down steps, while awkwardly cooperating with going uphill.

With my knee giggling as it performed some kind of comedy routine that I did not find funny, I went on a grueling walk until you drop tour of New York. The blisters that I could feel on my feet thoughtfully distracted me from my knee. Eventually, girl teen made me trade shoes with her. She marched all over the city in my tiny soled Converse while her super soft New Balance sneakers felt so good that I didn’t even notice the blisters forming between my toes.

The shoe change was helpful, but it didn’t make my knee any happier. I developed my own Ratso Rizzo limp-walk to avoid the worst knee movements. Girl teen stared blank faced as I tried to explain the cultural significance of Ratso Rizzo while we stood in the middle of a traffic jam of yellow, beeping cars and shiny, silent limos. My soul was bruised at the thought of her eventual assimilation by the city and loss of delight at the beauty in the everyday.

The limp made fresh new blisters on my feet in places I didn’t know that feet could get blisters. Lifting and throwing my trick knee out of a window I was climbing out of caused my weight to shift on a metal window frame resulting in technicolor bruises on my thigh and ample posterior. On the last day of my New York visit, I went from one place to sit and people watch to another place to sit and people watch. When my abused by five children bladder forced me to seek out one of the city’s elusive bathrooms, I seriously considered remaining seated in the tiny stall and doing a photo essay of bathroom graffiti.

My first two days home in Knoxville, I wore my house cleaning clothes and slippers, although there was almost no cleaning done. I know that the correct response to my aches would have been to continue walking several miles daily. Instead, I chose to avoid additional pain and slump back to my normal, amorphic blobbiness. If I ever get to visit New York again, I will be buying whatever shoes our outdoor outfitters sell to long distance marathon athletes and mountain climbers

or I could simply act my age.

stocking up on pens

// September 13th, 2010 // 3 Comments » // Doug, health, me

Since I don’t know where to go for leeches, I think I’ll try some empty pen medical care. While Doug’s can be stabbed anywhere to relieve his ample blood pressure, mine will be jammed in my sinus windows that are making my face throb. What? You never saw the magical curative powers of writing implements on *Emergency?

*Now we know what John Locke’s father did when he wasn’t being a con man. Come to think of it, maybe stabbing people with pens in every episode should have been our first clue that his career as a paramedic was just a long con.

awake, asleep, whatever

// June 9th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // health, relatives

As my father groggily fought his way out of the sedation from the CABG surgery, he repeatedly asked which leg the doctor amputated. Everyone reassured him that his legs were still attached, but even as he became more lucid, he remained convinced that he was going to lose a leg. “It was just a dream. A very bad dream.”

After he was released from the hospital, he returned to the ER. Twice. Both times, he was sent back home. Everyone became less patient with the patient. Today, he went to his one week post-release checkup. His leg is badly infected and he has been readmitted to the hospital. The first thing he asks every doctor, nurse, orderly or random stranger? “Am I going to lose my leg?” I’m starting to wonder if my father had a dream or a vision.

Grandaddy says:

// June 4th, 2010 // No Comments » // health, relatives

To family/friends: “The pain is terrible.”
To nurses: “I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you to be frightened by all the tubes and wires, but . . . I’m peeing right now.”

“That nurse has a funny accent. Does she have a green card?”

“I don’t want the nurses to help me. That’s your mother’s job.”

“Next time you visit, bring my gun. I don’t want to be unprotected.”

“Your mother may be my oldest child, but your Uncle is the eldest son, so he’s the executor of my estate and living will. Now, your mother can’t pull the plug on me.”

“Why does your mother keep telling the nurses to make me sleep?”

“Keep those male nurses away from me.”

“I’m so proud of you for doing the right thing and coming to America legally. It really is better here.”

“…and then she squished me to stick a tube in there.”
“When boys are toddlers, they deliberately squish it and it doesn’t hurt them.”
“Oh gross! How can you talk about that?”

“My friends told me that if I use my arms, I’ll feel this pain in my chest for the rest of my life. Fix my pillows again. You didn’t do it right last time.”

“The nurse said I can have sex again when I can climb two flights of stairs, but I’m going to find a woman who can carry me two flights instead. She can just do all the work.”

“Now, your mother gets to know what it was like for me when she had her knees replaced.” (fact check)

To 16-y-o grandchild: “The doctors just gave me ten years. Will I get to meet my great-grandchildren before I die?”

Noah: “Mom? Grandaddy asked me to bring him his gun so he can kill Granny.”
me: “What?!?”
Grandaddy: “Your mother didn’t give me my afternoon pain meds.”
me: “Do I need to drive over there or call 911?”
Granny: “Hello?”
me: “Dad asked Noah to get a gun so he can kill you.”
Granny: “WHAT?!?”
Grandaddy: “You didn’t give me my pain meds and made me suffer.”
Granny: “Your medicine is sorted and sitting on the kitchen counter.”
Grandaddy: “See? She isn’t taking care of me.”
Granny: “I’m so glad you’re feeling better.” <- /sarcasm ->
me: “I’m going to start forwarding these calls to your eldest son.”

CVICU waiting room

// May 27th, 2010 // No Comments » // health, people

Three quickies:

1. The people in this room aren’t just family and friends. Everyone in this room is a former or future CVICU patient. As someone who is conservatively a good 15 pounds heavier than they should be, I am willing to be annoying by saying that everyone in this room is or will have their health affected by lifestyle choices. While the waiting area in other hospital spaces is diversely populated, this room is filled with heavy and obese people. The trash cans overflow with McDonald’s bags. Funyun and Cheetos wrappers are scattered everywhere. My own idea of fun is sitting, listening to music and writing. I am the poster child for sedentary hobbies. The obese man eating a Big Mac reassured me that he’s had CABG surgery twice and it didn’t change anything in his life. He is a former AND a future patient.

2. CVICU has two waiting rooms. The private CVICU waiting room is an isolation box. The walls are bare and the room has no television. Cell phones don’t work and the hospital’s wi-fi refuses to cooperate. The room temperature is so low that ice cream would not melt on the table with the magazines from 2003. The main CVICU is the place without secrets. Teenagers in jammies, fresh from the shower, play games on cell phones while their hair dries. A woman makes multiple calls to give concerned people updates while complaining about the “Bearden pusherman” who she blames. Strangers weave in and out of each others’ conversations with words of experience, compassion and reassurance. Sometimes, the layers of human suffering get too dense and everyone laughs at something that really isn’t funny. “They threatened to put a lien on her condo over a $40 fee she can’t pay because she is unconscious? Ha-ha.” In the evening, a group of homeless adults wander through in search of an empty recliner for an evening of safety. They know the main waiting room is better than the private room.

3. The Whip It soundtrack and a cup of caffeine are your friend in the CVICU.

weapons of extreme annoyance

// April 13th, 2010 // No Comments » // health, local

The next time the government needs to have a chat with people holed up in a compound, maybe they should mist a bit of East TN air over the compound. Sometime in the following 24 hours, everyone inside the compound will begrudgingly put down their weapons and come outside in exchange for the promise of allergy meds for their itchy eyes and stuffy noses.

my third boob

// February 5th, 2010 // 4 Comments » // health, me

Remember when I demonstrated my special sense of coordination at the end of December? I pretty much avoided touching my bruised knees for a week or so and then I completely forgot about them after I burned my face with a flattening iron. A few weeks ago, my left knee felt hot and when I rubbed it, it felt . . . odd. It felt like my knee had a breast implant. Well, I’ve never actually touched an artificial breast, but I’m pretty sure that it would feel something like my knee felt.

I did what I usually do when I have a boo-boo. I waited for it to go away on its’ own. Unfortunately, instead of shrinking, my knee boob ached and the lump that was still visible through my jeans made the dreaded panty line seem desirable. On a less vain note, the knee boob made kneeling excruciatingly painful and this caused the twice daily Lego/Playmobile disaster cleanup to take much longer than it should have taken. Eventually, I showed Doug my knee boob and after gagging, he made a doctor appointment for me.

I prepared for the appointment by digging a dust covered skirt out of the closet in an effort to avoid the need to disrobe at the doctor’s office. I enjoyed the dry humor of my doctor and his nurse’s seemingly unwitting role as the straight man for his jokes. I tweeted nervously while they noisily prepared for their highly scientific plan to “drain it and see what’s in there.” I didn’t make a sound when the doctor numbed my knee with super unpleasant needle sticks. I made casual small talk as the doctor readied the syringe with a needle the size of a coffee stirrer. As the words “expect clear liquid” left his lips and blood filled the turkey baster, I sat calmly.

I was the poster child for good patient until the doctor’s soothing voice explaining the inner workings of my knee started to bounce about my head like a moth in a ceiling light. At the same time that I found myself unable to focus on his words, I felt the room spinning and had to instantly decide if I should ignore the symptoms of what was coming next and risk falling off the exam table or announce my weeny-hood. I chose the latter. The doctor acted like he’d lost a bet. “I would have seen it coming if you weren’t wearing lipstick.” I leaned back as the doctor and nurse grabbed my ankles and hoisted them up in the air. At that moment, my clever skirt plan failed me completely. I was walked out of the exam room by a tiny nurse and handed to a husband just like every other 70-year-old in the building.

I started my day with three boobs and ended it as a senior citizen.

keep them behind a locked gate

// January 28th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // health, home, local, mental health, politics

After meeting opposition at every proposed site, the plan to create permanent supportive housing for the chronically homeless all over Knox County has ended where so many wanted it to be, Lakeshore. Pessimistic voices argue that this keeps the mentally ill homeless near mental health services. Optimistic voices argue that Lakeshore is lovely and one of their favorite places to go for a walk. How many of those voices have ever been inside the locked buildings at Lakeshore? How many had no idea there are still patients at Lakeshore? How many understand that Lakeshore is not an out-patient medical center, but a crisis stabilization facility? How can they miss all the news reports that identify Lakeshore as the forensic facility for people whose dangerous crimes may have been connected to personal illness?

Do I take my children to the trails at Lakeshore? Of course I do. The difference is that those buildings with locked doors aren’t invisible to me. I am constantly aware of their presence and the seriously ill people inside them. People who are struggling to survive. People in very real pain. People who have been victimized by their extreme vulnerability. Human beings in locked rooms, in locked buildings, behind locked gates. Lakeshore is a hospital and no matter how much they have to sell their land to stay in business for the people who desperately need care, it is still a place where sick people go to get better.

Is permanent supportive housing a place for people with special needs who lack the support systems needed to fully function in society? If so, why isn’t it being put in neighborhoods with other people? Group homes belong among other homes. Apartments cluster with other multi-family housing facilities. Where are the other families living at Lakeshore? They are not there. Where can the PSH residents go when they need a cup of sugar? Shall they knock on the hospital door? Even the Lakeshore chapel was sold to make additional parking for soccer moms. That’s not a community. It’s a business. It’s not a business that will hire them though.

Oh, ha-ha Cathy. You’re so stupid to claim Lakeshore is not a community. Look at all the people walking their dogs and watching children play soccer. If a crowd of strangers decided to let their dogs poop on my street, they would not make this a community. Community is the all of the neighbors who know each other. Community is the ability to walk next door for a cup of milk or collect a neighbor’s mail when they are on vacation. Community is knowing that everyone in this neighborhood recognizes my children and keeps an eye on what they are doing just as I know and watch over their children. Community is not a place surrounded by gates and designed for lock-down protocol. Not gates to keep the scary out, but gates to control the residents and keep them inside the facility. Gates to keep the mentally ill and now the homeless out of sight and out of mind.

The people who don’t want this site discussed because they think this is the issue that will put someone in or keep someone out of the mayoral office are helping nobody. Constant media attention has made politicians completely ineffective people whose primary goal is their next elected office. The only decision politicians make that isn’t based solely on campaigning are the ones they make when they take off their britches. I know that the League of Women Voters could revoke my membership for saying that, but I suspect they recognize frustration and aggravation as the predecessors to focus and motivation.