I have an overdue library book. Unfortunately I can’t find it. I couldn’t even remember what the name of it was. I usually just scoop up three or four paper backs at a time at random; it is the only way for me to overcome a bias that ends with me reading the same type of books (and even the same book) over and over and never EXPANDING MY MIND.
I asked the librarian what the name of the book I seem to have lost is, get this, it’s title is:
LOST AND FOUND IN PRAGUE.
Is that funny? Should I move to Prague? Besides now having literally fallen on my face, this new phase of my life is seeming all too literal!
“Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.”–Douglas Adams May 25. Towel day. It’s a tribute to one of the wittiest writers in recent history. My lunchtime, though, is never an illusion. I’d sooner miss Game of Thrones than miss my lunch. Maybe I’ll even eat something messy at lunch today and bring a towel to clean up […]
via Cosmic Quote #66: Happy Towel Day! — The Millennium Conjectures™
I thought I had one but it vanished.
allegory in art
When we make a snap judgement about what we see, we are being human.
the way we perceive, how we perceive, what we perceive, is it’s manipulation art?
Is the frame we put around a picture, the duration of a performance, the context, are these the things that make it digestible? And within what we can bare to see and experience, the difference between entertainment, distraction and trauma?
I’ve been having a hard time with Facebook and the spectrum of information it assaults one with, this was even before I started chronicling my recovery from a fall. I have posted a picture of my face next to a piece of art everyday. (Doing this was my son’s suggestion. He is a Vancouver artist, Linton Murphy). I have joined the fray as it were with my posts. I have no idea how many people are screening me from their news feed now. Ha!
Having a concussion has been interesting. I have enjoyed an increased sensitivity to colour, while I am more exhausted by the rigours of conversation, preferring cats, dogs and small children to most adults except for the ones who are physically emotive. People who have hugged me: A technician who spent a lot of time talking about how she loves her children (while prodding me with an ultrasound device) and the effect of war and poverty on her mother in her home country; The receptionist at the doctor’s; The nurse’s assistant from the Philippines who helped me wash my cuts at the hospital. My daughter, her mother-in-law, my son-in-law, my upstairs tenant… I am not an emotive person normally, nor a hugger. Moments outside watching dramatic cloud formations and being transfixed by awesomeness, for lack of a better word. As it wanes the usualness of my space and my expectations is settling in. Some changes. Some.
I want to soften my tone. Since my first post about my ordeal I have seen a lot of medical personnel and they have all been lovely.
Most notably a strange plastic surgeon who made me laugh and gave me a story that I have shared and shared and made others laugh with.
I was scared waiting to see the Ear Nose and Throat guy because I had no idea if it would hurt or how much or if my nose would have to re-broken etc. My daughter her husband and four month old were waiting and I didn’t know how long anything would take, feeling bad about all the inconvenience I have heaped on wonderful friends and family.
I sat in the exam chair gripping the arm rests and a doctor in very new blue scrubs walked by, looked at me and said, Don’t I know you?
I looked like a pretty gruesome stiff…
I said, I must just have one of those faces.
He returned, No, I think we’ve met…
Perhaps the Zoo, AT THE PANDA EXHIBIT?
Later I thought of this one:”THE FIRST RULE OF FIGHT CLUB…”
It must be hard working in a downtown ER where you help the same people over and over and yet you can’t really help them at all. You witness hopelessness over and over and you get jaded.You work twelve hour shifts and days get strung together without end and its hard to muster any emotion other than exhaustion.
What has to change is the way we make E.R. staff work. We have to allow them reasonable work environments and improve the scope of what they can do on an individual basis. Then the brightest of the bright, our doctors, can do all sorts of healing, maybe starting with themselves.
And yes, for me at least, laughter is the best medicine.
My face is looking better. Going to see the nose doctor about my clogged nostril.
My bruises include my to favourite colours: Payne’s grey and Naples yellow. The painting I did twenty-five years ago using a kid’s water colour set on bond paper. It is of my friend and our children at the park in Stratford Ontario.
Three days ago I fell and broke my nose. I spent a horrible nine hours in the ER of a downtown hospital (a place where they see many people who end up looking like I did who are judged because of how they got that way, nepharious activity that no doubt gains them no sympathy and perhaps wears down the staff with its repeditive and unsatisfactory treatment.) I was tested for drugs and alcohol and sent a social worker to talk to. I started showing people pictures of myself before the fall so they could see that I AM NOT THE BLOODY THING YOU SEE. Once you are in those hospital gowns you become someone who is less.
I wasn’t drunk or drinking or taking drugs. I didn’t get beaten by my partner or dealer or pimp.
I fell on a busy street because, i think, I was dodging people with oversized bags who were in a hurry, one of whom clipped me the other I avoided and lost my balance on weak ankles and met the curb with my face. A lot of tests were done to see why I fell. At one point I was told I could have a blood clot that could kill me. A contrast dye CT was done. The results sat for three hours just a few feet away from me (I had been there six hours already) and no one would tell me what they said because they had to be read by the doctor who could not be found.
I washed my own wounds with the help of a nursing assistant. I got no stitches. The tip of my nose is on the pavement on a downtown street.
I flipped out finally. Numerous pages on the loud speaker did not turn him up. I dressed myself. Got someone to take out the IV. One of the nurses said, “She found him! Go, follow her!” I followed the nurse. I stood while he chatted for 15 minutes with a pretty young woman who twisted her ankle. Finally he told me I DO NOT HAVE A BLOOD CLOT. I was given all the paper work and allowed to leave. I was given no instructions on how to care for myself in the following days. The previous doctor had written me a referal to see a Ear, Nose and Throat doctor. It was suggested I see my GP.
I don’t blame anyone specifically. To some extent it was the fickle finger of fate, but bit less superficial judgement and just a few more moments of compassionate attention I think could have made a world of difference to what felt like insult added to injury. Remember, you really don’t know who you are looking at, it could be your own face. I know I will try harder to question any story that arises in my mind when confronted by what appears to be suffering that is someone’s own “fault”.
Things change. People are born and others die. Seasons change, sometimes with violence and sometimes with quiet thankfulness.
Losses cannot accumulate, they can be only be released. An empty house fills up as need arises. A heart mends, a new day begins.