Friday Night Update

Alexis is developing some serious attitude, which, as long as it doesn't cause her to be evicted from the hospital before she's physically ready, is probably a good thing. Her point of view is that, had they done their jobs properly, she would have been out of there for good a long time ago, so if she happens to be a tad unpleasant in the interim, they'll just have to deal with it. Her surgeon is inclined to agree with her, so she's being very cooperative with him. The resident assigned to monitor her is earning every penny he's paid. She says to say that she would like to be typing her own messages if we would just give her computer back to her, but Dad says not yet. Surgeon is defering to Dad. Resident assigned to monitor her doesn't think she should ever get it back.

Some patients on the floor where she received her inpatient PTSD treatment have been allowed to visit, which has helped her outlook somewhat. She's still eating one Baskin Robbins clown cone each day, and is managing to eat a bit more regular food. She's burning up a lot of calories by being so obnoxious, and it's increasing her appetite. She says to thank everyone who has sent messages of support.

Thursday PM Update

This is Aunt Jillian reporting on Alexis' progress. Today, for the first time since surgery, Alexis supported her own weight while walking. She also sat up for dinner and fed herself. Her appetite isn't great, but what's new in that regard? She willingly ate an entire Baskin Robbins clown cone. She said to tell everyone that all the Judge Alex cases currently being aired are repeat episodes and are hardly worth watching.

Update from Aunt

This is Pseuso-Aunt jillian again. Alexis is eating a bit. It's only been jello and sherbet so far, but that's better than nothing. Her mom and dad are back from (seriously) helping their niece, Alexis' not-too-smart cousin, escape from a polygamous compound in Canada. They had to come back to be with Alexis because she was too sick and the psycho chief resident who created this problem by ignoring Alexis' complaints wouldn't even let my husband see her. If he went near Alexis' room in his off hours, the witch would tell him that if he was going to spend his hours off at the hospital, she would be the one to decide what he did during them. Tomorrow, or by Friday at the very latest, she'll be history in her present capacity, and Alexis' Uncle Scott will have much comp time coming.

Alexis perked up a bit when her mom and dad got to her. She's still very sick and weak, but she at least looks like she wants to live, which is a big improvement over yesterday. She's a tough little cookie and will be fine in a couple of weeks, no thanks to the evil doctor.

Sorry! No New Insights on Hospital Sex or Pubic Lice for Awhile

This is Alexis' PseudoAunt Jillian. Some of you may have known that Alexis was in the hospital with pneumonia. Her fever eventually went down enough for her to be released (paroled is how she expressed it). What you may not have known, and what I certainly didn't know, is that appendicitis can be a relating factor, or even a cause, of pneumonia.

After she came home to my house from the hospital, as her parents are handling an emergency family matter that truly is an emergency, we have to keep reminding her, or they would be with her right now , she got up in the night and was behaving strangely even for Alexis. (Sorry, kid. I couldn't resist.) We checked her temperature and found it to be 105.4 Her PseudoUncle Scott was working at the hospital, but we were able to reach him. He told us to put her on the floor of a cold shower for a few minutes, then to get her out and dry her. By that time, he said, he would be home to take her back to the hospital.

A few blood tests and scans later it was discovered that her appendix had ruptured. She went into emergency surgery and came through it fine. She still has a drain at her wound site because there was a great deal of poisonous matter that released itself into her systerm when her appendex burst. The doctors cleaned things out as well as they could, but now, with the aid of antibiotics and a drain in her abdomne, her body must do the rest of the work of ridding her body of those nasty toxins and mending itself.

I can say this because no lawsuits will be filed in relation to this case, but Alexis complained repeatedly to the doctor assigned to her care that her tummy was hurting. Eaach time she was told that her problem was constipation; she needed more fiber in her diet, the doctor said, or perhaps the nurses could give her an enema. This was ironic in that all the antibiotics being given to her had actually caused her to have diarrhea, so whatever was causing her tummyache obviously wasn't constipation. The doctor had instructed the nurses not to take seriously any of Alexis' complaints of abdominal pain. Alexis had been branded a whiner, so she eventully stopped complainining about her tummy. Then the appendix ruptured. The doctor in charge of her case has egg all over her face and is no lnger in charge of Alexis' case.

Doctors who do not listen to patients are in the wrong profession. My husband, who is in his first year of medicl residency, told me that one night last week, 3 pediatric patients came into the emergency room with suspected appendicitis. In each case the symptoms were actually caused by constipation. He said that such will be the case more often than not, but the doctor has to forget the statistics and treat each case as though it was the first of its kind ever seen. The one time a doctor doesn't properly heed the symptoms may be the time it actually is appendicitis.

Alexis has greatly apppreciated messages from those who have sent them through various forums. Please continue to send cheerful messages. She's unhappy right now and we're not exactly sure what the problem is, but a few more "Get Well" wishes may snap her out of whatever it is that's making her unhappy.

Thanks!


Alexis' PseudoAunt Jillian!

Random Thoughts on Pubic Lice

How much do you know about pubic lice? If you're the average person, you probably don't know a great deal about them. You probably know that they are a form of lice, and if you have reasonable intelligence, you may have deduced that they inhabit primarily the pubic region of the body. Beyond that, what else is there to know? How much do you really want to know about this topic? Why do you want to know whatever it is you desire to learn about pubic lice? For now, we'll leave these questions unanswered and address basic information relating to pubic lice.

Before we proceed any further, take a close look at the word pubic.
If you look at it closely, you may notice that it has a strong visual resemblance to the word public. In terms of spelling, only one letter differentiates the two words, yet there is a world of difference in the pronunciation, and an even larger world (think Mercury versus Jupiter) in the meaning of the two words. If you are ever asked to read aloud at a public function, you do not want to confuse the words pubic and public. If you do make the error of saying pubic when what you should have said was public, people will begin to wonder about you and just what is on your mind. It might even be a good idea to repeat over and over in your mind, or quietly while standing in front of a mirror, before giving a reading containing the word public in front of a group of people, almost as a mantra, "Don't say pubic. Don't say pubic." Say this over and over in your mind until the concept is firmly locked into your brain and onto your lips.

Now, concerning facts about pubic lice . . . there really aren't many that you have to know. They're sometimes called "crabs." This has seafood ramifications, as in when you're ordering at a restaurant. If it's crabs that you want, say "I want crabs." It would be better not to say, 'I'll have crabs," because that sounds a whole lot like, "I have crabs." Do you really want to announce to a waiter or waitress, along with a table full of people, that your crotch region is infested with pubic lice, which are normally contracted through sexual intimacy? If you are married, does your spouse have crabs as well? Or did you catch them during some extramarital liaison? Or, if your spouse has them, did he or she become infested with them during a bit of extramarital activity on his or her part, and then bring them home to you? One thing is almost certain: if either you and your spouse have anything resembling normal intimacy in your marriage, if one of you has crabs, the other does as well. If you do not wish for your dining companions to spend the duration of the meal looking strangely at you and your spouse and wondering which of you brought the crabs home to the other, or if you perhaps participated in some sort of orgy wherein you and your spouse contracted the tiny critters simultaneously, remember, don't say "I'll have crabs." (It sounds like "I have crabs.") Or even more importantly, don't say ."We'll have crabs." ( It sounds like "We have crabs.") Then again maybe you shouldn't say either "I want crabs" or "May I have crabs?" because all who hear you may think you're requesting to have sex with someone who will transmit tiny blood-sucking insects to your pubic region. Order lobster or tilapia instead. If you don't like it, learn to like it. In the long run it wil save your reputation as well as that of your spouse.

Back to the subject of vital information about pubic lice. Pthirus pubis is the scientific name for pubic lice. They are not (DUH!) true crabs, who are decapod crustaceans of the infraorder Brachyura. They are distant cousins to the infamous head lice (pediculus capitis) and body lice (pediculis corporis ) all of which are technically insects. Head lice and body lice are more closely related to one another than either one is to pubic lice. Pubic lice are the cousins that even other lice refuse to acknowledge.

How are pubic lice contracted? The answer to this depends upon whom you ask and, likely, whether or not that person has ever contracted pubic lice. One cheerleader at my school said. "You know when we have to do those routines where we do splits on the floor? Well, there must have been a pubic louse just sitting there waiting for a crotch to hook up to." Right; we all believed that. With all the splits I did before I was banned from gymnastics, I could very easily have contracted pubic lice thousands of times. It must have been all the Windex that the gym employees were always spraying all over the mats and apparati that saved us all. Additionally, it's more difficult for prepubescent individuals to contract it because pubic lice (hence the name) are partial to pubic hair. In a pinch they'll attach to underarm hair, or even eyebrows or a mustache. It's not beyond possibility that lice could be contracted through sharing of towels or underwear, or conceivably even bedding, depending upon what one wears in bed (or upon what one does in bed and with whom; one could, I suppose, be sexually intimate in a bed with someone who already had pubic lice, then claim to have gotten it from the bed linens, and it might even be true; it's a "chicken or egg" sort of thing).

Despite claims people have made, it is virtually impossible to contract pubic lice from a toilet seat. I'm not advocating that one expose one's private parts all over every toilet seat he or she encounters just to prove a point, because there could be other hazards associated with doing so. Still, the famous line "I got it from the toilet seat" from the satirical Frank Zappa song, is a lame excuse. One would almost have to deliberately work at it to get pubic lice from a toilet seat. Pause for the visual image. Is that really how you want someone to think you got pubic lice? Likewise, it is theoretically possible to get it from sharing underwear. Anyone else is free to hold any opinion he or she desires, but I think I'd just as soon have others believe I had sex with someone as that I share unwashed underwear on anything resembling a regular basis.

Allow me to end with a few final words of caution. First, repeat to yourself, ideally in a quiet voice in front of a mirror, "Don't say, pubic," before reading any passage containing the word public. Second, when ordering crabs in a restaurant, proceed with caution. Almost anyway you say it may arouse suspicion in the wait staff as well as among your companions.

SEX IN THE HOSPITAL

When I first checked in to the hospital (actually, I think the preferred terminology is "When I was first admitted to this hospital;" I've spent so much time in hotels recently that they've become my new reality) I was told it was just an overnight stay. Then it became a two-nighter. I'm now on my fourth night in this satellite station of hell. If I'm going to live, let me out! If I'm dying, allow me to do so in the comfort of at least a three-star hotel. Four-star would be preferable, but I'm in no state of denial regarding my parents' spending habits, and I'll be lucky, if I really am dying, not to take my final breath in a Motel 6. Tom Bodette will leave the light on for you in case you'd care to show up to pay your final respects.

So tomorrow I'll be sprung from this joint whether it be through general discharge or the infamous AMA (againsy medical advice). You may think that AMA discharges are for adults only, but believe me when I tell you that I have my ways.

Assuming that the worst-case scenario hasn't materialized and that I'm not actually dying when I get out of this place tomorrow, my parents will drop me off at the Pseudos' condo when they pick me up from the hospital. My parents are having a brief romantic get-away (I know; the thought makes me gag as well) and then will be preparing our home in northern California for transfer to its new owners. I will spend most of the summer with my Pseudos. If I become substantially ill with anything communicable via airborne means that PseudoAunt doesn't also have, I'll go to stay with Dr. Jeff's family. PseudoAunt has a weakened immune system and cannot be exposed to pathogens any more than is absolutely necesary.

I was actually mildly happy to be in the hospital today. It seems that a male doctor and a female nurse, both of whom are married, had been carrying on some sort of extra-curricular activity. They were so serious that they had made tentative plans to leave their respective spouses, or that's what the intern assigned to me told me after the fact. Then it ended up that the nurse, who is attractive but not THAT hot, was having extra-extracurricular activity with another doctor. The doctor (her original extracurricular diversion) demanded the ring back. (I guess they really did have tentative plans to dissolve their respective marriages.) She first told him he couldn't have the ring back because A) it was a gift and B) he was the one breaking off the relationship. She eventually changed her mind, apparently. She took the ring off and threw it at the doctor, but her aim was exceedingly poor. He glanced in the general direction in which she threw it, but didn't see it and walked away. The intern assigned to me said that what we had just witnessed was at least as compelling as anything we were likely to see on "Grey's Anatomy" reruns, and we didn't even have to wait through any commercial breaks.

The nurses were huddled around the extracurricularly active nurse, patting her shoulder as she cried, as though she was a woman scorned. Eventually someone needed a crash cart and the drama, as do all things, eventually came to an end.

When nurses were changing shifts and my intern was taking a break a few hours ago, I snuck out of bed, dragging my oxygen and IV tubes and pole with me. I walked, slowly because that's the only way I can walk right now, to the approximate spot where I thought the ring might have landed. I got down on my hands and knees and began searching for it. Eventually I became tired, so I took a bit of a nap right there on the floor just beyond the nurses' station where carts of supplies are kept.

Someone must have looked for me in my bed. Eventually my intern found me asleep on the floor behind a cart of supplies. "What are you doing here?" he asked

I told him that I had gotten up to take a short walk but had become tired. He gave me a puzzled look, then smiled and said, "You were looking for the ring, weren't you?"

I nodded in assent. There wasn't much point in lying about it by then, anyway. "Want to go halfsies on the reward if we can find it?" I asked him.

"Sure," he answered, and we shook on it. (I'm actually giving all of whatever I get to him. The doctor will probably be generous with a kid, but wouldn't give the intern anything, because attending physicians more often than not treat first-year residents (intern are first-year residents in most programs) as though they are axe murderers and/or pedophiles who are HIV-positive and are bleeding profusely out of all orifices. This intern doesn't have much money and needs every cent he can collect.) I found the ring about three minutes later in the bottom shelf of a cart between plastic bottles of isopropyl alcohol. It was too big for any of my fingers, including my thumb, which was just as well because a nurse might have thwarted our plans by noticing it on my finger during the night. It fit nicely into a buttoned pocket on the overalls of a stuffed kitty that I always sleep with and that I'd brought with me to the hospital. The plan is that when the doctor shows up tomorrow morning, my intern or whoever else is around will tell the doctor I have something to say to him. I'll give him the ring. If he doesn't cough up a suitable reward, his colleagues will harass him until he does. (My intern held the ring up to the light to make sure it wasn't a zircon. He said the doctor in question was enough of a tapeworm that he'd try to pass off a zircon as a diamond, but the intern concluded that this particular piece of glass was, indeed, a diamond.) We're not trying to make a killing here; in fact we could probably get a lot more than the standard reward for such a ring just for promising not to return the ring to the doctor's lawful wife. All we want is fair and just compensation for the time we spent crawling around on the floor looking for the ring.

Tomorrow night when I blog, it should be from the relative comfort of the Pseudos' sofa in the den of their condo.

Why can't hospitals be more like spas? No one recovers in standard hospitals.

I would recover from any illness or injury faster in a spa-like environment than in a typical hospital. Wouldn't you? As it stands, I finally go to sleep because my mom rubs my back while my dad plays guitar for me. Then some half-wit technician comes in and injects me with something that's supposed to help me sleep, which wakes me up for the next ninety minutes. Then my lungs get all congested. Someone calls the repiratory therapist and she comes in with her apparati that makes me look like R2D2. The stuff that goes into my lungs also makes sleep difficult to come by, but I bear ill will toward neither the therapist nor the nurse or doctor who ordered his procedure, because my lungs cannot be left congested. So then my mom rubs my back and my dad plays music on his guitar and I doze off until some nurse comes in and says she heds to check my vital signs. It went on like this for hours until my dad put a "Quarantine" sign on my door. I have heart and blood pressure monitors, as well as instruments that tell the content of oxygen in my blood. My dad is smart enough to read the instruments and tell someone if there is a problem.

I'd like to get out of here tomorrow, but it's looking like one more day here. Some of my friends from the loony bin came down to visit me. They kidnapped me and took me in a wheelchair back up to the crazy ward. We had a good time for about an hour until I was found. My mom was picking up my dad at the airport, so neither one even found out. Dr. Jeff said he'll rat me out if I make one more false move. I don't need to make another false move. I've already had my fun.

Now I just want to sleep, but no one will let me. I want to go to a freaking spa.

Love You Forever

When my mom was being treated in a southern California hospital for leukemia, I was spending most of my time in Florida. I had become seriously ill from malnutrition and related complications. My father's best friend, my Uncle Jerry (who was neither an uncle by blood or by marriage) and his wife, whom I call my Aunt Ilianna, took care of me. Uncle Jerry was the OBGYN who was present when I was delivered. (My dad actually removed me from my mom's uterus,while Uncle Jerry lifted Matthew out during the Caesarean delivery.) In any event, when my father was very concerned about my health, he called upon his friends Ilianna and Jerry to fly across the country and take me home with them to Florida. He knew that, despite their own four kids they were busy raising, they wouldn't allow me to die. This freed my dad up to focus on my mom and to ensure that she received the very best of care.

About every three or four weeks, I would start to miss my mom. Uncle Jerry and Aunt Ilianna first tried to console me out of my homesickness for my parents, but soon realized that no amount of attention or sympathy was going to cause me not to miss my mother to the point that it made me sicker. They gave in and decided to buy round airplane tickets from Florida to Los Angeles and back once every three weeks. Aunt Ilianna would bundle me up in fresh pajamas and a clean blanket and would carry me onto the plane. I would spend two days in bed with my mom, with dad nearby to remove ne from my mom's bed when medical procedures needed to happen. After two days Aunt Ilianna would dress me in another set of clean pajamas and swaddle me in another clean quilt, and I would return to Florida until it was time for the next two-day visit.

I don't remember a great deal about the visits. Both mom and I were pretty sick and slept much of the time. One thing I do remember is that someone had brought a basket of children's books that sat on a shelf out of reach of my mom's bed. She would ask someone to hand the books to her. One book that I remember her reading to me almost every night was a Robert Munsch book, Love You Forever. It was a bit silly in that a mother went through her son'a entire life with the mother sneaking up by his bed to see if he was really asleep. If he was, she'd pick him up and sing the same lullaby to him each time. Eventually the mother was too old and frail to pick up her son, so he picked her up and sang it to her. Robert Munsh had a set melody in his head for the lullaby, but he said that readers should make it their own and should sing their own melodies. My mom sang it to the Welsh folk song "The Ash Grove."

I can remember being worried if my mom was going to become weak and frail too early in our lives for either Matthew or I to pick her up and hold her as we sang the lullaby to her. It was clearly about the cycle of life, and it reminded me all the more of all of our mortality but especially of my mother's. I wondered why she chose to sing it every night when she had to know (I know now that she couldn't have known) how much it bothered me. Still, I had to hear it each night I was with her. If she didn't choose the book, I did.

I learned not too long ago that Robert Munsch and his wfe hd lost two babies, as my parents had. Although I don't know the circumstances surrounding the deaths of the Munschs' babies, I assumed they were too early to make it as our babies had been. Maybe my mom knew this as well, and perhaps it made he song more personal to her. Then again, maybe she had no idea.

Tonight I was in a pediatric ward, someone had left a basket of books in the room. At the very top of the books was Love You Forever. My mom asked me if I wanted to be read to before I slept. I told her yes, and she chose Love You Forever. I pretended to fall asleep so she would sleep. Then I grabbed my computer to make a few notes. I'm so grateful that my mom made it through leukemia and is still around to read and sing it to me, along with the many other songs she sings and things she does for me when I'm sick and even when I'm not. I'm so lucky to have my mom.

Hospital Politics at the Lower Levels

I watch "House" religiously, while my dad endeavors with equal religious devotion to reinforce to me that what I'm seeing is not in any way a realistic portrayal of any facet of a functioning hospital. What my dad says about Dr. House's dream team of diagnosticians is absolutely true. Even the wrold-renowned Mayo clinic, famous for its collective diagnostic capabilities, could never afford to have an eccentric but Einstein-like disostician with a merry contingent of followers only a few IQ points below that of of their boss, all of whom akulk around avoiding clinic duty while waiting for a patient to show up with a sensational and mysterious illness, the diagnosis of which is typically elusive until the end of the hour-long program. I wish such really were the case. Wouldn't everyone who's ever been seriously ill love to believe that a group of sub-specialists also specializing in diagnostic medicine (I'm not sure there is such a specialization; I think that's ordinarily what specialists in internal medicine do) ia on his or her case in just the way maggots are on the food my brother leaves in his room if my mom is not careful to insist that he clean it and carry his dishes to the kitchen on occasion?

On occasion, hospital politics are shown. Those shown are usually the ones happening at the higher level of hospital operation; the board and hospital director meet periodiclly, In almot every case someone important either threatens to quit or threatens to be fired. That sort of thing may or my not happen; it's so far removed from anything that i see that I ould have no way of commenting intelligently on the degree of reality depicted in that aspect of "House." The political activity I see is more likely to be between doctors and other doctors, or between various therapists, interns, nurses, and others endeavor to do their jobs or to do as little as possible of their jobs while forcing the bulk of their duties upon someone else. the politcs I'm seeing now revlove mostly around doctors and nurses. Doctors are clearly considered superior to nurses in the chain of command. They've had more schooling and have a higher levdl of certification. They give the orders. It is up to the nurses to see that the orders are carried out. The chain of command at times becomes a bit blurry or ambiguous, particularly at a certain time of the year - right npw -- whena new class of first-year residents is ontroduced and takes up the spots formely held by the newly promoted second-tear residents. First-year residents, with few exceptions, are considered pond scum -- the lowest of the low -- and have to prove their mettle even to those who are theuretically beneath them on the chain of command. This practice is both pejorative and dangerous, but it is what it is. To quote a a portion of an old Protestant liturgy, "As it was in the beginning, is now, amd ever shall be." No one knws why it is tis way. Doctors know they went through it and that each upcoming batch of doctors will wade his or her wy through the same muck when the time comes.

My Uncle Scott came by my hotel room to check on me because I've been sick. My dad, who would ordinarily check on me, is working in northern California. My Uncle Scott didn't like the way my lungs sounded and wanted me to go to the hospital. I tried to to convince him that my mom could take me there before and after my classes for repiratory therapy and that I could even have intravenoua antibiotics as an outpatient. I suggested that he could call in a change of my antibiotics that night, and that my mom would drive me to the hospital so I could receive an injection. My Uncle Scott didn't like any of my ideas, so I'm in the hospital tonight. My Uncle Scotr and the attending physician both said if things go really well I may be released as earliy as Thursday.

Since it's the same hospital that houes the loony bin, I asked if I could be admitted to the isolation unit of the loony bin. The doctor said no because I need more regular monitoring and care than I would receive there. As much as I am loathe to admit that he is correct, the nght staff there probably wouldn't do much for me. They're maybe good for a Klonopin or an Ativan in a pinch, but that's about it. Right now I really don't need either Klonopin or Ativan.

Because of doctor's prders I was able to bypass most of the usual admittance procedure. I had a respiratory treatment right away. The treatment usually involves having stuff puffed into one's lungs and also forcing one to breathe to a certain level of strength as measured by an instrument. I must admit that I really don't know as much as I should about this procedure because I'm seldom coherent when it happens to me. After an IV bag with a different antibiotic than the one I've been given by injection, I'm somewhat awake and feeling vaguely human. For now the hurses are letting me stay up, but they say if I'm still up in an hour, after my next breathing treatment, I may have to have something that will make me sleepy.

I'm concerned about my classes because, being summer-term courses, they're extremely short, and attendance is mandatory. My doctor told me he would speaa to the preofessors and set up skyping sessions, although he's not certain if I'll be up to participating much, depending upon my state of pharmaceuticalization, if there is such a word. Reggardless, I'm sure any readers understandss the intended meaning.

My mom is here with me. My dad is coming here tomorrow. Their policy is that we, meaning my brother and I, do not spend nights in the hospital without at least one parent present. If they're both out of the country when one of us is hopitalized, the person or persons acting in loco parentis stays in the hsopital with the one of us who is admitted to a hospital. This is especially true, my dad says, at any teaching hospital in the month of July, when much treatment is handled by very green rookie first-year residents who are also very exhausted. My dad knows this for an absolute fact because he was once a very green and exhausted resident ohysician. Tired and inexperienced physicians, my dad says, are a perfect equation for major and potentitally life-threatening medical errors. My dad would prefer to be here, but since he can't, my mom looks at every medication and the dosage, then calls my dad for an OK before it is given to me. Dr. Jeff offered to come in and spend the night in my hospital room as well. Pulmonology is pretty far removed from his specialty oif pediatric psychiatry, but he has kids, so he's had to learn about such things. All MDs have a very basic background in every aspect of medicine, but ib general, one with chidren has leanred a good deal about anything condition that has ever affected any one of his children. Still, to be treated by someone within his or her speciality is the optimal situation for a patient.

I've been assigned to a female first-year resident who is spending the night at the hospital. This is better than if she were at home and being woken up by phone calls about me every hour or so, At that point, physicians, whether interns or fully certified specialists, become overly tired and irritated about being disturbed too frequently. This can lead either to the physician making an error or the nurse on call becoming afriad to call a physician even when the call is warranted. At times the nurse even calls the physician when a call is not necessary simply to irk him or her, which can led to a situation much like "The Boy who Cried Wolf." this is why it's better to be assigned for now to a doctor who iS already here.

The doctor is nervous about caring for me because she has been told my father is important in medical circles. Uncle Scott tried to reassure her that it's a routine case and that I'm only here as a precaution, and that, furthermore, she can call him at home in addition to calling the attending physician if anything at all about my condition makes her nervous. Beyond that, she is free to call my dad or my Uncle Steve.

One thing I've noticed is that there seems to be friction between the first-year residents and the nursing staff. It seems to exist mostly in the form of a power struggle. Many of the nurses feel that they've been at their jobs long enough that they know more than the first-year residents, In some cases this is conceivably true. On the other hand, the doctors, first-year residents or not, are ultimatly in charge of making decisions regarding patient care. Sometimes the nursing staff disagrees with the deisions made by doctors. If a doctor makes a decision that could result in serious medical harm to a patient, as I see it, the nurse has a few options. The dirst and most obvious is to attempt to calmly discuss it with the first-year resident. If the nurse is confident that she is correct and that the first-year resident is wrong, the next option would be to appeal to a higher authority -- one with an MD following his name, and not another nurse. If both of these fail, the nurse can appeal once more to another MD with more authority of either of the others already consulted -- and these important MDs are hard to come by in the wee hours of the morning. That failing or that option not available, the nurse has little choice but to document that her conerns were duly noted, follow the doctor's orders, and be prepared with a crash cart in the event that she was correct in her original assessment.

How frequently these conflicts occur depends both on the nurse and the first-year resident involved. Personalities often get in the way. In some cases it is a first-year nurse who is at odds with a first-year resident, which is a usually a clear idication of a problem between the physicians and the nurses at a given hospital. Even though doctors -- especially first-year residents -- ar human and, as such, fallible, in no case should a first-year registered nurse, who typically possesses either an associate's degree or a bachelor's degree along with her nursing certifiction, presume to have greater knowledge than a physician, resident or otherwise, who must complete, as a bare minimum, a bachelor's degree and a four-year course of study at an accredited colleg of medicine. It is only through many year's of experience that a nurse should ever presume to know more than a doctor about anything related to medical treatment. A rookie nurse is lower on the food chain than is the lowliest first-year resident. Even if he is wrong, in absence of doctors to whom to appeal, it is the firt year nurse's obligation to follow orders and to be prepared to take action if the orders given were wrong.

The nurse assigned to my case is a first-year-nurse. If I had't otherwie known it, the lack of skill she demonstrated in inserting my IV would have made her lack of experience and expertise perfectly clear. My Uncle Scott took the iV kit away from the rookie nurse -- against her protestations -- and inserted it himself. As it is, I'll have bruises on my arms for weeks in the regions of various veins she tried unsuccessfully access. If Uncle Scott hadn't intervened, she's still be looking for veins and i'd be bleeding internally or externally.

the rookie nurse has attitude. She's giving my forst-year resident all sorts of shir, unaware that most of the orders my first year resident id giving are coming directly from either my pulmonologist or my dad. my Uncle Scott has shown up a few time to overrrule her. he's a male, so she grants him slightly more respect despite his own shade of greennes when it comes to the profession. The rN tried to blcok my most recent repiratory therapy, which my dad and the pulmonologist had ordered. If she weren't sucj a complete bitch, my Uncle Scott or the other first-year resident might have clued her in on whom I am related to nd who is giving the order tht she;s ignoring. It appears that the remander of the nursing staff doesn't think all tht highly of her, either, s most of them have some clue that my father is influential , but no one is telling her. She tried to gove me a steroid injection that was contraindicated by what I had inhaled and wasn't ordered by any doctor charged with managing my case. My mother had to physically precent her from giving me the injection. I hate to see someone new blow it so horribly, but I fear that this nurse will be called in by personnel tomorrow morning and relieved of her duties at this hospital.

Dr. Jeff has come into my room. He's concerned that my mom won't get any rest with the status quo. My mom is resting on the extra bed in the room. The nurse had told her to get off of it because it is for sick people, but Dr. Jeff told her to get back on it. He has banned the rookie nure from my room.

Now tht I've finished another repiratory therpy treatment, I'm finally getting sleepy. I'll check in with everyone tomorrow.

P. S. Regarding hospital politics, nurses can only hope to precail against any doctor unless he or she is truly incompetent and/or if they presnet a united from. Neither i the case here. The nurse is Toast.

Surrogacy - Should I go that route?

Many of us in adolescence struggle through identity crises of sorts. Exactly what does one what to do with one's life that will make a difference in the world? I've deciding against whatever my distinction is having anything to do with Casey Anthony. New laws may be enacted as a result of choices made by her, but the new laws or causes won't be championed by me. I'm so over Casey Anthony that if she showed up on my doorstep asking for a package of microwave popcorn, I might conceviably give it to her, but I would tell he to go next door or across the street to microwave it.

My latest idea is that perhaps I should become a surrogate mother - a rented womb, so to speak. My parents, predictably, think this is a bad idea, or even worse than a bad idea. This, alone, makes the concept worth consideration at the very least. I haven't seen such a reaction from my parents since the very first time I announced I was contemplating joining a polygamous cult. My parents now no longer even bat an eye when I bring up the possibility of signing on with the polygs. It's time to move on to bigger and better ideas. Even my threat of becoming a nun no longer gets a significant reaction from my parents.

I could rent out my uterus only to the rich and famous, most of whom insist upon the surrogate signing multiple clauses of confidentiality. Clauses, schmlauses. Clauses, in my opinion, are drafted to be broken,or at least challenged. Then again, I could look for people notable in their respectable fields who are not necessarily Hollywood starlets. Or I could just randomly produce babies out of wedlock and give them to deserving couples. I could be, you know, a slut.


I'm sure this will make my parents the most proud of all. Think of all those childless couples longing for at least one baby to call their own, and think of how proud my parents would be to have me strutting my stuff in various states of gestation all around whatever location in which they reside. For the sheer mystery of it all, I could even claim immaculate conception.

When my brother and I were very tiny, as in probably by the time we were two years of age, my mom was constantly preaching the value of education to us, brainwashing us with the idea that we would go to college before we really had much of an idea of what college even was. My brother changed his desired occupation about once every three hours back in those days. His future job of choice was usually something really high-brow. I can remember when he wanted to be a carney for a few hours. Then he wanted to be a beer taster. Once when it was a clown he wanted to become, he cut off my mother before she could even issue her caveat, with, "I know, Mommy. I have to be an educated clown." So I'll add my concession to my mom: I know, Mommy. I have to be an educated slut.


My life is an unpainted canvas. I can do almost anything I choose to do. Perhaps making babies as a career, or at least as a serious avocation, should be my mission in life. Then again, I could raise lizards instead. These times of life-altering decisions get to the core of one's very soul. A weaker (and more physically mature) female would probably already have gotten pregnant just to deal with the stress of indecision.

You Can Check Out Anytime You Like, But You Can Never Leave: Breaking away from the Mormons

My father used to ba a Mormon. That was after he was Catholic the first time but before he was Catholic again. My mother has always been a Catholic. My brother and I were baptized, first-communicated, and confirmed Catholic, but we were also blessed as LDS children. This laying on of hand was against our will (okay, against MY will; my brother couldn't have cared much less) and without our parents' knowledge, but it still somehow makes us Mormons as far as the LDS church is concerned.

Most churches pretty much let members or attendees come and go as they please. Someone might show up at a church on most Sundays for the better part of a year. The person may even go so far as to formally become a member of that church. The rituals associated with becoming a member of a church vary from being baptised by immersion (I've heard the Moravians dunk you three times, face forward) to baptism by sprinkling to simply agreeing to some sort of general creed, often the essence of which is that the prospective member agrees not to kill anyone except in in self-defense or to steal or commit adultery except among the most extreme of circumstances. Sometimes the member sticks with the church. Other times the person decides he or she has better things to do with his or her Sunday mornings or whatever day the church worships, which may or may not involve attending another church. Some people take joining a church about as seriously as filling out a membership card for the P. T. A. (My parents once signed our Golden Retriever up for membership in the PTA because they didn't have correct change for just rhemselves and didn't want to send a check.) Other people change religious affiliation with about the same degree of regularity that some people change their underwear. I have no problem with any if it, except withthose who don't change their underwear regularly. The framers of our constitution guaranteed us freedom of religion. While not everyone agrees with me, I would interpret this as freedom from religion as well. In any event, most churches do not send their own ecclesiastical equivalent to the CIA after individuals who choose to no longer participate in churches with which they've been formerly associated.

Then there's the Church of Jesus christ of Lattter-Day Saints. . . My dad uses a quote from an old Eagles' hit, "Hotel California," in describing how easy it is to sever ties from the LDS Church: "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave."

That has been our family's experience, and things we've heard from other families who were once LDS but decided to no longer continue the practice lead us to believe that our experiences have been far from unique.

In the olden days, such as the 1980's, whenever Mormons tried to break away from the fold, it was the duty of other members of the congregation to fellowship, harass, or otherwise brobeat them into returning to full activity in the church. (In the really olden days of the Church, such as when Brigham Young was still in charge, individuals acting on Church authority use to literally kill those who tried to leave.) Lately, we've noticed a change in this trend (both the trend of using local members to re-fellowship backsliders and the trend of literally killing dissenters.). Whether it's becuase Mormons simply refuse to harass their neighbors and co-workers into returning to church because it's a socially awkward practice, or whether it is because the world is a more dangerous place than it once was, and it is no longer safe to send ninteen-year-old boys or twenty-one-year-old girls door-to-door in search of potential converts, full-time missionaries now have taken over the bulk of the job of luring lapsed members back into the fold.

Whether this approach is any more or less successful than the previous approach of delegating the chore to the local rank-and-file members, it's decidedly less discommodious both for the local membership and for the full-time missionaries. It must certainly be less embarrassing for local members not to have to badger co-workers, parents' of children's friends, or casual acquaintances in the name of religion. At the same time, it must be slightly less daunting for full-time missionaries to knock on the doors of former members than to seek out total strangers in a similar manner. While the former members more likely than not won't be all that receptive to anything the mishies have to share, chances are that neither will the former Mormons invite the young mishies in, chloroform them, and dismember them with chainsaws. I'm not suggesting such a thing happens often to missionaries, or even that it has ever happened to to any missionary in the history of the LDS church, but the way we've all grown up with warnings of nefarious strangers and the fates even worse than death that we might suffer if we speak to them, much less enter their homes, the thought has to be lurking in the minds of at least some of the mishies.

My brother and I have been directed never to answer the door to anyone we don't know, which includes most LDS missionaires. If they appear when my dad is nearest the door, he usually hits the mute button on the TV and tells us all to shut up. On the rare occasion that he has opened the door expecting someone else, only to find two youmg men in suits and ties facing him, he tries to politely tell them that he's not interested, nor is anyone else in the house. He's been a nineteen-year-old missionairy himself, and he won't be outwardly rude to them. If they look hot, he'll offer them bottled water and allow them to sit on the swing on our shaded front porch until they feel sufficiently rested to go about their duties. Sometimes the missionaries have hung out on our front porch for hours. If either missionary looks especially pale or hungry, he'll load them down with bags of fruit, beef jerky, and granola bars.

The missionaries strike gold when my mother answers the door. She briefly invites them inside. She explains to them that we're staunch Catholics. (This is semi-true; my mother a relatively staunch Catholic with the exception of her objection to people who have neither the financial means nor the child-coping skills to breed like cochroaches relying upon Natural Family Planning as their sole means of birth control. I'm somewhat adherent to the faith, at least as far as believing in Jesus and treating people decently are concerned. My brother picks one of the ten commandments and follows it each week until he's covered all ten, then starts over, or that's what he says, anyway. My dad attends mass most weeks, donates money to the Church, and otherwise keeps a low enough profile as far as the Catholic Church is concerned that no one who hasn't spent enough time in our home to hear his rather extensive R-rated vocabulary questions his devotion to Catholicism.) Anyway, my mom explains that while my father formerly had ties to their church, and that the two children in the family were indeed blessed though without her knowledge or consent, that their time as missionaries would be better spent trying to convert Paris Hilton or the Kardashians than any of us. On the other hand, my mom explains to them that she would be more than happy to invite them to dinner at our house soon. The ground rules for this meal taking place are that one of the missionaries may give a prayer to bless the food, and that someone can even say a closing prayer just before they leave if it would somehow make them feel more justified in spending time with us. Otherwise, religious proselyting is off limits during the time they are with us. The missionaries have taken my mother up on her offer more times than I can remember.

The missionaries usually show up at about 6:00 and eat hors d'ouvres. They're not supposed to watch television. If an important sporting event is in progress while they are there, it's usually on a TV in another room. It is their prerogative to watch or not watch. Uusually at least one of the two mishie wants to watch. If his missionary companion (that's waht they're called" "companions") is a complete tool, the other one usually stays away from the TV. If both missionaries are somewhat cool, they usually watch along with my dad and my brother.

Most of the evening after dinner is usually spent playing and singing music, as that is something that one companion cannot get another companion into trouble for as long as the music doesn't venture too far into rock territory.

My mother serves the missionaries an elaborate meal with dessert. She tries to make enough food that she can send leftovers home with them. She has also told them that if they ever run out of money to buy food, they should call our house 9she gives out our number), and we will deliver food to them. She usually doesn't come right out and say this to them, but if she gets the feeling that it's an appropriate thing to say, she tells them that if there's ever a reason they need either to be in contact with a member of their families or if they need to go home and have no other way of getting there, they should come to our home and she will help them. My mother has actually driven one misionary to the airport and put him on a plane to Hawaii, mostly at her own expense. While my father doesn't get actively involved in my mother's effort to aid and abet in the escape of missionaries, she has his full support.

The Eagles' line, "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave," continues to apply, but my mom has put a different spin on things.
The LDS Church knows nothing of the nature of the missionaries' dinners with my family. The young missionaries know a good thing when they see it. My mom says she hates to think of kids just a few years older than my brother and I being so far away from home with so few creature comforts.
Still, even when we move, the LDS Church will not let us go. They'll track us down with their usual CIA-like precision and continue to visit us. If the missionaries there are as smart as are the ones here, they'll take advantage of my mom's hospitality and keep their mouths shut.

Crazy Grandfather Called My Mom about Polygamist Cousin's Escape Plan

My grandfather had tried calling my dad and my uncle Steve first, but neither of them ever takes his calls. My mom is kinder and feels sorry for the aging and senile old geezer. He called her to warn them off the "mission" to rescue my cousin from the polygs in Canada. "Let it be, Erin," he counseled her. "Just let it be."

My mom should have thanked him for his input and hung up on him, but she was curious as to his motivation for not wanting my parents and other relatives to rescue my cousin. My mom asked him if he had a better plan to get her out of the place. "No," he answered her. "Some things are best left alone."

"So you think she should be left there against her will?" my mom asked him.

"She made her bed," my grandfather responded.

"But she probably had no idea just how many people would be sharing that bed with her," my mom countered.

"Erin, she's not ours anymore. She belongs to the Blackmores now," he insisted. "The less said, the better."

"That's what your're worried about!" my mom exclaimed. "You don't want anyone in Salt Lake City to know about this. You'll sacrifice your grandaughter to keep the family name out of the newspapers."

"You can't put a price on a family's good name and reputation," my grandfather stated firmly.

"I'm not sure sure what it's worth," my mom responded, "but it can't possibly be worth as much as the freedom of a twenty-six-year-old woman."

"She made her bed," my grandfather reiterated. "So just when is it that you plan this reacue operation?"

"August first, " my mom told him. She didn't want to take any chance on sabotage by my grandfather or like-minded relatives. If anyone is reading, the REAL date for the operation rescue is August 3rd.

This entire conversation took place outside my "Western Religions" classroom with the door open. (My mom is babysitting me in my classes because I'm still sick.) The professor stopped lecturing and openly listened. After the conversation ended, the professor asked my mom if she would mind sharing anything about the situation. She gave the class the Reader's Digest condensed version of just how criminally insane my dad's family is (it's easy for her to tell the story in public becaue she' not a blood relative) and how one branch of the family made their daughter feel so inadequate for being unmarried at the ancient age of twenty-six that she hooked up with a polygamous cult. If there had been a hole in the floor large into for me to have crawled into, I would have gladly taken up refuge there.

Polygamy/one of my cousins hooked up with a group that is a off-shoot of Warren Jeffs' group, and now wants out

I blogged much earlier about one of my cousins, who was declared an old maid at the age of twenty-six. Her way of dealing with it was to join up with the some segment of the Blackmore cult up in British Columbia. If you're well-versed in the history of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, you'll know that the Blackmore group broke away from the Johnson/Jeffs group in the not-too-distant past and still retains some ties.

My cousin's parents weren't sure which was more humiliating: having a twenty-six-year-old daughter who was still single, or having her join up with the polygs. This in and of itself and without furhter evidence, plenty of which is available, epitomizes just how screwed up my dad's side of the family is. (Being hooked up with the polygs at least proved their daughter probably was not a lesbian, which made her choice of lifestyle perhaps the lesser of two evils, her parents thought. Becoming a heterosexual prostitute might have lent evidence along the same lines, but would that have made selling her body a viable option?) My grandfather, who is a relatively high-ranking mainstream (although calling any portion of the LDS church "mainstream" seems somewhat oxymoronic, akin to being a known as "a gifted tone-deaf singer") LDS official, has chosen to ignore the situation. (I have to admit that, as sorry as I feel for my cousin, it's gratifying in is own unique way to have someone in the family rank lower in the pecking order than I do for once, however temporary the status may be.) I will offer as a disclaimer that we all know Mormons who are good, upstanding, and apparently sane people. My relatives on my dad's side are not among that faction of the LDS church. My grandfather, who holds a relatively high-ranking poition in the LDS church, has convinced the rest of the family to join hom in his state of denial. (The state of denial and the State of the Deseret, when represented in the form of a Venn Diagram, show a large circle depicting the state of denial, while a much smaller circle, representing the State of the Deseret, lies almost entirely within the larger circle representing the state of denial, with only a tiny shard to the right of the larger cirle as you face it representing the State of the Deseret extending very slightly outside the circle representing the state of denial.) My dad's family does not occupy that tiny shard to the right extending outside the state of denial.

My parents and my Uncle steve have been concerned about this situation ever since they initially became aware of it. My Uncle Steve received a letter from my cousin last week. She said she wants out. She's not sure if they'll let her out. They have supposely told her she's free to leave as soon as her baby is born as long as she leaves her baby. (I forgot to mention that she's pregnant. I don't know how far along she is. For that matter, she could be experiencing a hysterical pregnancy. I've never actually known anyone who's had such a condition, but leave it to her to be the first.) Some church and municipal authorities (one and the same thing where she lives) have supposedly also told her she's free to go at any time and does not need to wait for the birth of her baby before leaving. My cousin told my uncle in the letter that it's not safe to attempt to correspond with her at the compound. There's supposedly a bar fifteen or so miles down the road where mesaages can be left for her.

I've seen Blackmore (his first name may be Winston; that somehow rings a bell) on a TV interview, and he presents as a far more reasonable man than do any of those nutcases I've observed on news programs in either Colorado City/ Hilldale or the Yearning for Zion Ranch in Texas. If I had to trust one of them, he's the one I would trust. Furthermore, this cousin of mine has typically by choice started off most games of Uno with more than a few cards in excess usual startubg amount of seven. (Uno's one of ths egames where onw wanta to be rid of one's cards as soon as possible; it's no advantage to steal extras. That would be like adding strokes to your golf score.) Between Blackckmore and my cousin, he could easily the more lucid of the two.

Still, she has claimed at least once that she's not being allowed to leave until the birth of her child, and not with the child once it's born. This seems worth checking out. Beyond that, she may be thousands of miles away from home with no means for getting home. This alone is a cause for concern. Her parents say she got herself up there. Let her get herself back. I'm not sure it's that clear-cut. She's a simple soul, despite a bachelor's degree, and her options are limited.

This young woman was made to feel that everything about her was so sub-par that she was willig to take a rather desperate step in order either to mke herself more socially acceptable or to get out of the situation that made her feek as miserable as she felt about herself. She is clearly in need of assistance. My parents, my Uncle Steve and Aunt Heather, and a sixty-year-old great Uncle on my maternal grandmother's side who still retains Canadian citizenship are planning to travel to British Columbia to bring her home nd help her to get her life back in order. They admit they have no idea how difficult or how dangerous this may be.

I'm a bit nervous about my parents undertaking this operation, but glad they're not doing it alone. I wish my mother and Aunt Heather did not need to go, as it seems that it could be potentially more dangerous for them. What if, for example, the polygs take a liking to either of them. My father says that the women will not accompany the men to the compound, but are instead there in the event that either ompetency is an issue or that my cousin may be in sohat hteolme sory of danger being released to the company of just three men. Still, what if some extreme polygs find out in what hotel my mom and my aunt are staying, I've seen those polygamous wome, and by comparison, my mom and my aunt are Jennifer Lopez and Cameron Diaz.

This operation will take place early next week. I'm still sick, and my mom will not leave until my fever and most of the symptoms are gone. This whole thing makes me terribly apprehensive, and I wish there were a simpler and safer way of getting my cousin out of there. I've seen too many episodes of "Big Love" not to be afraid of the bad things tha could happen. On the other hand, just think of the stories my cousin will have to tell when she gets out of there,

Lucky me! I My mommy gets to accompany me to my classes tomorrow! Patholigical Liars' Day Part 2

The people in my classes already think I'm a freak. I'm 16 and-a-half and officially in college. I look like I'm eleven, or maybe twelve at the very oldest. Then I had the misfortune of getting a virus, which caused me to faint in class and caused all sort of commotion, including my splitting my chin open on my way down to the floor in the process of fainting. The chin is a highly vascular part of the body, as in it bleeds profusely when split open. So I already have the notoriety of being the only student in this particular section of my human genetics course who has either passed out or bled all over the room.

Unfortunately for me, my fever has not entirely gone away yet, and I have a cough that sounds like either I have whooping cough or am dying of tuberculosis. Neither is the case. Yet I cannot afford to miss anymore classes. So I have to go to class with a SARS mask on my face tomorrow and sit in the back of the room as far as possible from everyone else with my mommy sitting right next to me as though I'm a five-year-old visiting college because I'm curious about what big kids do at their school. Just in case I didn't already stand out like a dislocated thumb, I certainly will now.

I haven't been back to the loony bin much lately. The inmates invited me back for another Pathological Liars' Day as soon as I recover from this virus. I'll come up with all sorts of unusual lies, but I think I will also claim to be pregnant and in labor. I'll have to practice between now and then. Maybe I'll borrow a bra from my mom and stuff it so I can claim to have really large boobs while I'm at it. Pregnant women usually have enlarged breasts anyway, don't they?

Appointment or Election of D. A.s, Judge Alex and Capital Punishment, Minors as Jurors

In response to my most recent blog, Matt has posed tough questions regarding the Casey Anthony case, past which I should have moved by now but am still thingking, talking, and writing about just a bit. My gut feelings tell me that Casey did chloroform the child. Whether the mother merely intended for the child to sleep though mom's party or whether she actually intended to end the child's life, I do not know. I don't think drowning was the manner of death. (In California, I think we term things in the opposite way as is done in Florida. For example, in the Laci Peterson case, "homicide" was the cause of death. The "manner" of death was unknown. In Florida, it seems that the "cause of death" is the specific incident that led to the death, as opposed to "manner of death" being the broader term in Florida.) Regardless of whether the intent was to end little Caylee's life, if the jury had found that Casey had chloroformed the child for whatever purpose, it would have been aggravated assault upon a child leading to the child's death, which would have been first degree murder.

I'm not certain yet how I feel about the death penalty under any circumstances, but in any event, it seems counterproductive to put it on the table in many cases when what it actually does is reduce the chances that the jury will return a guilty verdict even when, in some cases, the jury actually believes the defendant to be guilty. I'm not saying such is the case with regard to the trial in question, as the jury didn't find Casey guilty in any of the lesser charges pertaining to the death of Caylee, anyway. Still, it seems that the possibility of capital punishment could have that effect on a jury. While I like to think I could follow the law as a juror regarding the death penalty or anything else on the table, I can't say with certainty that my vote wouldn't be influenced by the possibility of a death sentence were I on a jury that convicted a defendant. Death is just so . . . final, for lack of a better owrd.

I recall stating in an earlier blog that if anyone was deserving of the death penalty, in my opinion, of would be Scott Peterson. I was wrong in stating that. Regardless of my convictions concerning the right or wrong of the state sentencing anyone to death, I now believe capital punishment is never an appropriate penalty when the evidence is entirely circumstantial. I have no probalem with a conviction based on circumstancial evidence, but circumstantial or even eyewitness evidence by itself to me no longer seems sufficient to condemn someone to the ultimate punishment. People can be mistaken, and circumstances can combine to make an innocent person look guilty. I still feel that if the witness is sufficiently credible or the circumstacntial evidence sufficiently compelling, a conviction may be reasonable, but the finality of capital punishment under such conditions is no longer acceptable to me. Again, I'm still not even sure how I feel about capital punishment, period, but I certainly cannot support it with only a single eyewitness as evidence (as opposed to an entire crowd of viewers or videotaped proof) or circumstantial versus direct evidence.

Several Tweeters and Facebook posters have asked Judge Alex if he is in favor or opposed to capital punishment. In each case I have seen, he as avoided the question. Doing so is probably wise. No one, including the judge himself, probably knows for certain what are his long-term career plans. He could conceivably find himself in the "for real" legal profession again, possibly as a judge at a higher level than he has been in the past. One's position on the death penalty is a highly charged issue for potential judicial candidates -- so much that revealing it could very well mean the difference between confirmation for a judicial post or lack thereof. He seems wise to avoid the issue. Nonetheless, I'll probably ask him if it's a conscious choice on his part not to reveal his position.

Matt asked questions about the relative merits of appointing versus electing district attorneys. His question would probably pertain to judgeships as well. (Some states appoint superior or circuit court judges, while others elect them execept in the event that a vacancy is created between elections.) Matt's question concerned whether the election of district attorneys led to political grandstanding in terms of seeking higher charges or penalities, or otherwise not acting according to one's conscience at the expense of appealing to voters. It's a very valid concern. Still, even with the obvious drawbacks, I'd still prefer for district attorneys and judges to be elected. My opinion is that too much power is given to the governor or a state if the sole means of choosing judges is by political appointment. Too many spoils go the the victor as it is. I'd hate to grant any more political appointments that happen as favors to friends and supporters than already happen under the present system. Still, it's an imperfect system even under the election process.

I'd like to address one more topic, which is that of the right and rsponsibility for citizens to serve as jurors. I very much look forward to the opportunity to serve as a juror. My hope is for a trial that is not so boring that I find myself in contempt of court for falling asleep during testimony, yet one not so grave that someone's life is on the line. That's probably the sort of trial for which every potential juror hopes-- or those of us who do not actively seek to avoid jury service, anyway.

I have one additional thought concerning the jury selection process. It is my opinion that sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds are capable of functioning as jurors. Their service would need to be limited to short-term trials or to trials occurring during summer breaks because the obvious need to avoid missing excessive class time. An entire jury should probably not consist of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, but one or two minors scattered in a panel of twelve citizens should be a positive addition to the system. A constitutional amendment. or at least amendments to state contitutions, would probably be required. Still, if minors in some cases can be tried as adults in crimes, other minors should be allowed to serve as jurors. Most sixteen-and seventeen-year-old can reason intelligently and would take the responsibility of jury duty seriously.

It's OVER!!! The Trial Is Finished! Casey Anthony Will be a Free Woman Soon!!

I'm as disappointed as the next person in terms of the lack of justice for little Caylee, but it's over. If someone wants to create a new law making it mandatory to report a missing child within a reasonable interval, that's great. If someone wants to create a charity in Caylee's name, that's equally good. We can't re-write existing laws and expect them to apply retroactively, though, nor can we try to apply civil rights violation charges when said charges apply only when officers of the law are involved. Whether we like it or not, Casey will be a free woman very soon.

Some of the arguments in favor of the jury's verdicts are backward in my opinion. One argument heard frequently is that he jury saw and heard all testimony, while we, the masses, merely caught snippets of the trial. In some cases that may be true, but in other cases, such as mine, due to the modern miracle invention known as the DVR, I saw and heard every piece of evidence and every word of testimony. Perhaps, as my parents insist, I was obsessing, but I obsess over much lower profile cases than this one. As someone who plans to someday enter the legal profession, I find myself totally engrossed with any and all court procedures. I watched not only what the jury saw, but also what they didn't see. I heard arguments that never made it in front of the jury, and I heard discussion from the experts on a nightly basis, to which the jury panel was not privy.

What the jury didn't see or hear can't be held against them, but I can't help believing that if they knew everything that those of us who watched the totality of coverage knew, the verdict might have been different. Then again, perhaps the members of the jury were in a hurry to get their lives back, and perhaps the "not guilty" voters [on the signifiant charges] felt more strongly than the "guilty" voters did, and the quickest way out of there was to let Casey walk on all but the least consequential charges. Then again, maybe each juror voted according to his or her conscience based on his or her respective ability to process the evidence and testimony as it was presented.

One thing that blows me away about this trial, and about other high profile trials I've seen in my life, is the people who stand outside the courthouse cheering or jeering, or possibly even holding signs. Who among us has the time to put their lives on hold for such activity? It's sheer madness.

Recovery. but not the Twelve-Step Kind

I'm taking twelve units of short-term university summer courses. One simply does not skip class under such circumstances. I knew I had a fever because my eyes always burn when I'm feverish, as oppoed to when I'm merely hot because my parents, who are always cold, crank the heat up too high or don't turn on the AC. I used to think I was sick all the time, but I eventually learned the difference between being in a room too warm and having a fever.

Someday the giant and prolonged roller coaster ride known as the menopause will hit my mother. It will be very interesting to see just how that affects my parents' marriage. Will it mean that they'll need to live in separate ends of their house, with dual AC/heating units, and moving from one part of the house to the other will be like traveling from the North Pole to some island located precisely on the equator? Or will my dad learn to wear sweters and thermals all the time and just tough it out? The sad thing is that, at the rate my mother is aging, I'll be long gone before any of this happens and will only find part of the house comfortable when I'm visiting them.

Anyway, I developed a fever and some sort of illness that accompanied it. I didn't say anything to my parents because I didn't want to miss class. It was a rough day, and I did miss a decent portion of each class due to various gastroenteritic symptoms, but I was at least counted as present and got the gist of what was taught. I expected to be a little better the next day, but I was not. At some point in my final class I lost consciousness. I must have bumped the underside of my chin as I slid from my chair to the floor, because I split it open.

A student in the class is a paramedic when he's not taking classes, so he applied pressure to the bleeding on my chin and carried me outside into the fresh air. It took the maximum of my persuasive powers to convince the professor that I could go to the student health center as opposed to calling 9-1-1. Someone called my mom, and my chin was stitched up. My fever, which was 104.2 at that point, was attributed to a virus, but antibiotics were prescribed because of my history of lung infections.

As far as my parents know. and they're too busy to read my blog anytime soon, I did not become ill until I reached school that day. The health center banned me from campus until Monday. I missed one day of class, but my professors have been notified that it is not by my choice. I don't know about the other two professors, but the one in whose class I passed out and bled all over the place is probably perfectly happy to have been rid of me for today.

Yhe cough portion of my illness, which accompanies every illness I get no matter what are the other accompanying symptoms, started last night. (If I ever develop hemmorrhoids, coughing will be one of my symptoms. That's how consistent it is for me.) My dad finally gave me really strong stuff so he could sleep, because when I cough, it resonates throughout whatever building I inhabit. My dad said it was a good thing no one was in hotel rooms on either side of us, because they surely would have complained to the management. My dad switched the antibiotic from the one precribed at the health center to one that he thinks will be more effective. Antibiotic are basically good things, I suppose, but they often produce the delightful side effect of diarrhea. My life now is one of sheer bliss. I can't even cough in peace without worrying something else will happen as a chain reaction.

Matt, if you happen to read this, I posted comments to your posts. They may not make sense. I'm on drugs. When I'm over this illness, I'll probably be in need of a twelve-step program for detoxification purposes.

Casey Anthony Found Not Guilty of Anything That Matters

Casey Anthony was acquitted of all counts directly pertaining to the death of her daughter Caylee. She was convicted of the counts pertaining to lying to the police. Chances are that the time she's already been in custody will cover any sentence rendered for that. I was cuaght off-guard by that verdict.

What does this mean in terms of seeking justic for Caylee? In the OJ Simpson case, the state declined to join O.J. on the various golf courses to which he traveled looking for the real killer. They were convinced they had found the real killer, but had lost the battle in jury selection. Will the prosecution conclude in this case as well that they tried the real killer and lost, and so there's no point in searching further for the real killer. Perhaps the state will accept that the child drowned, or perhaps they maintain that Casey is, indeed, the killer but that they lost their chance, as double jeopardy prevents and retrial of Casey.

Will anything happen in terms of warnings of sanctions possibly being taken against attorneys after the fact -- particularly of Mr. Baez? Additionally, is Casey still facing any theft charges independent of the death of her child?

My greatest hope is that reality show featuring Casey Anthony will not become a reality. She makes the late Anna Nicole Smith look like the epitome of class by comparison.

Casey Anthony/ Cindy Anthony /Perjury/ Judeg Alex/ Dr. Drew

Surprise, surprise. Witnesses were called in to refute Cindy Anthony's claim that she and not he daughter performed the bulk of the incriminationg computer searches found on the Anthony computer. I debated this point briefly on Twitter with Judge Alex a few days ago. No debate with Judge Alex on Twitter goes on for many exchanges. Judge Alex is a true gentleman and understands that it is more important to behave in a classy manner than to always be right in any argument, and he lets the argument go quickly. In this case, I was actually correct for once when I said that it was feasible to subpoena patient records or other documents with the patients' names redacted for the purpose of establishing that Cindy was at work at the times she claimed to have been at home making the searches. I must give credit to pseudoaunt jillia, who first suggested the idea to me.

Exactly how this impacts the jury's take on anything remains to be seen.
Those selecting the jury don't give out IQ tests or auditory comprehension assessments before seating individuals on a jury. Aunt Jillian has told of jury panels on which she has been where a statement or instruction was given as plainly as day, yet needed further clarification to some jurors. Jillian said if the less-than-genius jurors recognize their shortcomings and will rely on others for interpretations of what was said or instructed, things usually work out. When they're unaware of their shortcomings, however, problems ensue.

Furthermore, many people in tTVland have formed thei opinions based on what the talking heads have had to say. The jurors have not had the benefit of the talking heads' expertise. (In some cases, considering the relative idiocy spewed by the talking heads, this is actually a good thing.) In most instances, however, Vinnie Politan, Judge Alex, and Dr. Drew have been sharing very sensible commentary. Some of the jurors would benEfit from hearing what it is they've heard in testimony via this commentary, yet, for obvious reasons, may not be privy to the commentary.

Some talking heads and forum posters are debating whether or not Cindy Anthony will face perjury charges for her apparently false testimony concerning who conducted the incriminating Internet searches regarding chloroform, neck breaking, and other various and sundry nefarious topics.
Nancy Grace has taken an uncharacteristically compassionate stance toward Cindy Anthony in this regard. She feels that Cindy Anthony should be granted a pass, as she was acting out of desperation in orde to possibly save her daughter from a death sentence. The bald man, whose name I can never recall, who filled in for Dr. Drew, didn't seem to understand what Ms. Grace was saying. his point was that it is wrong to lie for one's child in order to protect one's child from the consequences of the law. I don't think Nancy Grace disagrees with what he said in principle. Especially early on, when stakes are lower, it is very important to allow one's child to suffer the full consequences of his actions in order that he or she might learn from mistakes and never have to face this ultimate consequence that Casey may face. I assume Ms. Grace agrees with that. When it comes right down to a death sentence, however, it's a different matter. I cannot judge Cindy Anthony for what she did, as I do not know that I wouldn't do the same thing under similar circumstances. Even Dr. Drew, the King of Ethics, admitted that he's not sure what he would do under the circumstances.

Many talking heads are betting on a conviction of second degree murder, which, in the opinion of many talking heads, would be a victory for the defense. The jurors have not heard this take. They may not know that were they to convict Casey of such, they would, in essence, be granting a victory to Mr. Baez. I'm hoping the more intelligent jurors are able to convince the less bright ones that the computer searches are sufficient evidence of premeditation, and that no actual evidence of accidental death via drowning was actually present, and that, furthermore, George Anthony's affair, whether or not it happened, is little more than a red herring.

I'm counting on Jeff Ashton and his assistants to deliver a knockout punch in the form of a perfectly delivered closing argument, with the rebuttal portion putting out any fires the defense sets in the name of reasonable doubt. In my opinion, reasonable doubt in this case exists only in the minds of the defense team.

Discrimination Against Small and Youthful-Looking People

As a part of participation in an aquatic program at my high school, members of the swimming, diving, and water polo teams must agree to participate in Red Cross lifeguard courses and in Red Cross Water Safety Instruction courses. My diving coach explained it to me as a way for the aquatic department to give back to the community. Our practices always require sufficient adult supervision with water-safety-qualified individuals that it really wasn't a necessary feature to ensure safety in our practices. The department felt that the skills taught in the courses and the certification offered were of benefit to us as individuals and to any community in which we eventually settled. (I suspect that, in the age of budget cuts and of many sports falling under the axe as a result,this was one way of keeping aquatic programs off the chopping block.) Regardless of the motivation, it was a noble and worthy pursuit. Our coaches were qualified to provide the instruction for the courses, and our team boosters raised money for the books and fees that were required.

I completed the required courses. The prerequisites alone were rigorous and rather daunting for me considering my initial level of swimming skills, involving swimming long distances using both standard swimming strokes in addition to swimming considerable distances underwater. The tests required to pass the training included lugging heavy weights from the bottom of the pool and pulliindividuals more than twice my size out of the water while they struggled to escape my rescue effort or to pull me underwater with them. Many of these tasks were more difficult for me than for many members of the class because I was and am, aquatically speaking, a diver as opposed to a swimmer. Many divers morph from swimming to diving once they realize that diving is in many ways more glamorous except for the 5:00 a.m. practices. Some continue to swim even after they take up diving. While I knew the rudiments of swimming, having been taught the basics at a young age, I had never swum competitively. Furthermore, my low body fat content made and continues to make floating a near-impossibility (if I hold enough air in my stomach, I can meet the minumum requirement for floating), and treading water, while doable, is more difficult for me
with my natural lack of bouyancy. I lack the build of a natural swimmer.

It was my experience as a gymnast, not as a swimmer, that led to my becoming a diver. Nonetheless, I persevered and mastered all of the necessary skills to become both a Red Cross-certified lifeguard and a Red Cross-certified Water Safety Instructor, or swimming teacher. Fifteen is the minimum age for certification as a lifeguard, so I completed that course and was certified my junior year of high school. The minimim age for the Water Safety Instruction certification is sixteen at the completion of the course, so I did not complete that aspect of my training until this past school year. On paper at least, I am qualified to teach every Red Cross swimming course through Advanced Lifesaving, formerly known as Senior Lifesaving. Mouth-to-mouth recessitation, CPR, and basic life-preserving techniques are taught to participants with the caveat that the single best way to save a life is to prevent it from ever becoming endangered in the first place while on your watch. No amount of skill at life-saving techniques supercedes vigilance. I took all aaspects of instruction in these courses very seriously, and thoroughly mastered the curriculum. Though I've never hired myself out as a lifegaurd, anytime I'm near a pool, I maintain a watchful eye even when I have no responsibility
to do so. Red Cross training teaches its students that they are always to be on guard around water whether they have been hired to supervise or charged with supervising or not. While my lifeguarding experience is
limited, I count myself among the more diligent lifesavers ever to have taken the courses.

On Thursday, my parents went with several other singles and couples to watch a movie. One couple, the parents of a three-year-old girl, left me to babysit her. I was given permission to take her to the hotel pool to swim. I took with me, in plastic waterproof covering, my ID and my
Lifesaving, Water Safety Instruction, and CPR/Advanced First Aid cards. I sensed that, because of my youthful appearance, someone on the hotel staff might take issue with my swimming without the presence of my parents or my ability to supervise Leah in the water. In addition to her own personal lifeguard, Leah had the benefit of plastic inflatable floaties on her arms. I did initially take the floaties off Leah to demonstrate to her
that it was the inflatable floaties and not any skill or super-powers on her part that kept her afloat. (My parents did the same to me and to my brother when we were tiny and learning to swim, because they did not wish for us to develop disporportionate confidence in our own abilities, and instead wished for us to have a healthy respect for the potential dangers of water.) I then put the floaties back on Leah and allowed her to enjoy the heated pool, careful to keep her within my reach at all times.

Less than ten minutes after entering the water, I was approached by a hotel employee, who asked me to immediately exit the pool and to take Leah out with me. I did as I was told, but went immediately to my ID and certifications so that I could show him I was qualified to supervise myself and the child in the pool. The hotel employee was not impressed in the least with my credentials. He refused my request to speak with his supervisor or to appeal in any way to a higher authority. I have been raised to respect adult authority, even quasi-authority, to the extent
that my body is not being violated. In this instance, there was no threat to the sanctity or well-being of my body. I wrapped Leah in her towel and carried her as she cried loudly all the way back to her hotel room. I tried my best to pacify her with other games and activities, but she was beyond consolation. I would have liked to have taken her to a park a little more than a block away, but I did not have permission to take her there, and I'm careful not to exceed limits when I'm babysitting. Besides, the two of us were potentially at a much greater risk of harm in a public park, with child predators and all manner of perverts supposedly lurking around every corner, than we could possibly have been in the pool.

When the adults returend to the movie, I didn't even get a chance to explain about the swimming fiasco to Leah's parents or to mine. Leah loudly and tearfully told her side of the story, blaming me as well as the hotel employee for her very short time in the water. The immediate result was that Leah's parents paid me twice the going rate for my having to listen to Leah's whining and crying for most of the time her parents were gone. My parents had asked me not to accept money from Leah's parents, as Leah's father is just beginning his medical residency, and the couple is far from having enough disposable cash to roll around in it and toss it up into the air as though it is confetti. Leah's parents insisted I take the money, though. I didn't feel too sorry for them; Leah's father is PseudoAunt Jillian's brother, and, as such, is being subsidized by the same wealthy parents as Scott and Jillian are. Leah also had a bried timeout when her parents returned. her mom told her that if the babysitter says it is time to get out of the pool for whatever reason, Leah nneds to do so without carrying on for hours. A few moments of disappointment may have been acceptable, but hours of crying and whining were not. Her mom told her she'd get spanked when her parents got home if she behaved that way again with a babysitter.

Leah's father took me, along with my certifications, to discuss the situation with the on-shift manager. She, however, was in the midst of dealing with a mixup in which one couple had been erroneously assigned to a room already inhabited by another couple. The first couple unlcoked the door and walked in on the second couple engaged in a particularly intimate moment. (Have these people not heard of deadbolts?) First things first, in any event. The total dissing of my high qualifications to swim unobserved by an adult and to supervise a young child in the water would need to take a backseat momentarily until the matter of coitus interruptus had been resolved.


That moment came this morning, when my father took me, along with my ID and water certifications, to meet with the on-duty hotel manager. My dad wore his white lab coat over a suit jacket, complete with pins identifying him as an MD with privileges at mutiple hospitals in the area, in order to give himself the benefit of the maximum importance effect. The hotel manager was suitably impressed both with my father's improtance and with my credientials, although in modesty I must say that had my father not appeared so important, my credentials might not have been taken quite so seriously on their own merits. The manager photographed me and immediately printed an enlargement of my mugshot, which was displayed prominently on the employee bulletin board. The manager talked about the hazards of swimming alone for anyone, but especially for someone who appaeared as small and vulnerable as I. My dad explained that I had been taught not to swim when there was either no one or just one or two males with which I was unacquainted in the vicinity, but with a bar and cabana immediately overlooking the pool, the was almost a moot point from 11:00 a.m. until dark. The hotel manager agreed.

This was just one small step for man, and one even smaller step for growth delayed individuals with water safety certifications. Leah is no longer in the immediate area, but if she comes back before my parents have vacated the hotel, I will at least be able to take her swimming.