One student in my Psychopathology class had just taken a final in another class -- one that had soething to do with addictions. One of the essay questions she was asked to answer was the following: If you had to give up either sex or mood-altering substances in any form, including the auto sexual method, or any and all mood-altering substances for the rest of your life, which would you choose, and why? The girl said she's always suspected the professor was a complete pervert, and this question confirmed her suspicions. Then she asked around among others in the class, and in the twenty of twenty-four or so students she was able to ask, her test was the only one containing that question. She said the professor was very specific in handing out tests. The tests of students other than hers that she asked were identical. We all encouraged her to contact a dean today before tests could be destroyed. She's taking a chance on her grade being lowered, but she already has one B on her record, so she's not risking ruining a perfect GPA, plus she's scored 93 or higher on every other test or assignment, and she's confident she nailed this exam (including the invasive question), so the professor would have a tough time justifying giving her anything less than an A. The key is that the dean has to act quickly.
The professor in our Psychopathology class, who is a department chair, accompanied her to the appropriate dean's office to ensure that she was seen promptly and that prompt action was taken. (I initially thought he was kind of a jerk, but I think my first impression was wrong.) Chances are that the test would be destroyed or hidden as soon as the professor had a chance to read it. Quick action needed to be taken. If either her final exam came up missing or all the exams disappeared, that in and of itself would be damning for the professor's case.
My finals in Psychopathology and Asian American Queer Studies were mildly fun. Both were multiple essay. Grades should be posted by Thursday on both of them. Some of the statistics quoted in Asian American queer Studies literature are astounding to the point that they would be or are offensive to some, so I won't mention them here. Suffice it to say that Asian cultures in general are not gay-friendly, and one from one of such cultures would not expect a welcome from family and friends upon emerging from the closet. Our course focused on eastern Asian cultures as opposed to the Mideast and the subcontinent, but I can't see either of those locales being much more -- and perhaps even less -- open and affirming concerning homosexuality.
Other than the prison interviews, Psychopathology was always a blast, and comparing notes on prison experiences was fun. I was the only person in the class whose interviewee had to be cuffed and led back to his cell mid-interview. After the fact, it seems rather funny.
I have only Sports Sociology, which should be fun, or, at the very least, painless, first on Wednesday. I brushed up on readings and notes tonight. Tomorrow I will devote to the Mother of All Finals: The Mechanics and Physics of Fractures. My dad was looking over the course materials and quizzing me, and he says I'm ready,but I am taking no chances whatsoever.
One of the classes I'll be taking this fall will be Human Sexuality. It's a prerequisite to many pre-med programs, and an easy one at that. So despite my lack of experience in the area, I may become the female Dr. Drew or the modern equivalent of the ancient (or no longer with us, may she rest in peace if such is the case) Dr. Ruth Westheimer. I've only heard about Dr. Ruth, never having seen any of her actual work. I think we've all seen plenty of Dr. Drew these days even if all we do is channel surf. He's become an expert on virtually everything. I wouldn't be surprised to hit the weather channel button and find him there discussing Tropical Storm Andrea.
I have seen several clips of another lady, Sue Johanson, on her program, Talk Sex with Sue Johanson. At first I found the program practically roll-on-the-floor funny, because Ms. Johanson looks like she's someone's grandmother and probably is, yet she was discussing sexual topics in very graphic detail with roughly the same demeanor as one might expect of someone in her age demographic if she were
talking about knitting, quilting,or the finer points of baking pies with lattice crusts. As I paid more attention, I realized there was considerable substance to what she said. I say that with the disclaimer that I have absolutely no experience in the matters she was discussing, and for all I know every single thing she said could have come from conversations with lunar aliens. The funniest part of the program was when she would reveal a different sex toy every week, which had been personally tested by a member of her staff or crew. she would discuss the sex toy's pros and cons and give it a numerical rating. My brother isn't so easily amused by all things sexual, and when I showed him a few of the clips, even he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. In my old age, presuming I've had experience in the domain by that time and haven't run off to a nunnery, I want to be Sue Johanson.
As early as it seems, it's now time to schedule fall classes. Music courses (senior recital, junior recital, choral conducting, and accompanist for chamber choir) will make up the bulk of my schedule. the chamber choir accompanist thing is because I have to have a certain number of semesters of performance group participation. I've covered most of it with the a womens' a capella group and the musical theatre participation when I played Chava, but I still need another semester. there will be at least one more accompanist, and we can trade off attendance, which will be nice. The music will be stuff that I can sightread for the most part. If I'm ever sick and can't arrange coverage with the other accompanist, I have my mother upon which to fall back, since she won't be lecturing at that hour. I don't want to abuse my relationship to her, but it's nice to know that she will probably be available if needed.
I'm not taking classes this summer, as I have a few things already on my agenda, including recording voice-overs for the music producer of a Utah film making operation and completing a lab internship. .Furthermore, I have senior recital in piano coming up, followed by a violin junior recital in November, followed by a senior violin recital in March. If I'd known what I know now when I started the whole college experience, I would've skipped the piano performance major and just concentrated my efforts on violin, as the violin performance major is the one that's apparently going to make a difference on medical school applications, and the piano performance major at that point becomes, as Knotty's professor or academic advisor called it, "gilding the lily." Still, once I've come this far, it would be foolish to toss it out, and maybe the dual piano/violin performance thing really will make a difference "sometime and somewhere." It seems that 4.0 math/science majors with dual degreesin violin (most of whom are Asian females) for some reason have a leg up on the competition when it comes to medical school admissions that dual math/science and piano majors do not. Still, the piano major cannot possibly work against me, and since I'm virtually ready for it, I may as well see it through to fruition.
I've also received permission to use my mom or my Uncle Scott as my accompanist for my senior violin recital. My Uncle Scott is my preferred choice since it will not appear that I'm playing the nepotism card by using him, and if he has a date provided far enough in advance,he can be guaranteed of the time off. He will have third-year resident status by then, which will give him even greater priority in scheduling. Actually asking him to play the music is not an imposition, as he is good enough to sightread anything I'm likely to throw at him. I like the option of having my mom as a backup just in the event that his wife were to become ill, which happens once or twice a year. He would still feel obligated to show up unless she were practically at death's doorstep, but I would not want him to be at my senior recital if he were to be needed by his wife at the hospital. The odds are against her body choosing that specific time to become gravely ill, but still, I like the backup plan. Many recital performers use students - in fact over the next two semesters I'm playing for a cello recital, a voice recital, a violin recital, and a flute recital, for all of which I will be paid, to cover performance requirements. I'm not willing to use a student. We're all human, but a student is more human than most, and I don't want anyone manifesting his or her humanity at my senior recital. I have enough to worry about without having to concern myself with what performance jitters might do to my accompanist. My mom and my Uncle Scott are pretty much jitter-free.
My brain is again approaching the malfunction stage, which tells me I've probably studied all I should study tonight. I have a late morning final tomorrow, followed by an early afternoon one, neither of which concerns me terribly. I'm prepared. I've studied all quarter, and I've done a decent review of material that I thoroughly committed to memory much earlier in the quarter. although right now it doesn't totally feel like it, I did most of the preparation almost two months ago. Other than my one really difficult course, I should have been able to walk into the classroom and nail each final without a review. My mildly OCD personality won't allow me to do this, of course, but other than for my Physics/Mechanics of Fractures class, the studying I'm doing isn't as intense as what most of my classmates are doing right now. When I was at the beach yesterday, my company consisted of nonstudents from my university. The few people I saw who were likely **** students on the beach yesterday had textbooks and notebooks open in front of them.
It's technically two finals down, two more to go tomorrow, and the last two, including the blockbuster, on Wednesday. Then it's celebration mode. I'd include a clip of Kool & the Gang's Celebration, but I've always disliked that song.
I took my final in "Interactions in Biomolecular Complexes," which was not nearly so difficult as it sounds. I know degrees of difficulties in courses can vary from one institution to another. For example Cal State University- Fresno's Music Theory I is the equivalent to Music Theory II or even III on some campuses; who would've though such would be the case? Maybe the biomolecular complexes course is a real nail-biter on another campus, but I didn't find it all that hard. Then again, perhaps I'm growing immune to difficult classes. after Risk Theory last quarter and Physics/Mechanics of Fractures this quarter, I'm not sure what could be thrown at me that would cause me any greater loss of sleep. The grades are already posted -- the prof must have had an entire crew grading them, as it wasn't multiple choice -- and I aced it and the class.
My finals tomorrow are in Asian-American Queer Studies (again, I'm not joking; this is a real course) and Psychopathology. Neither final scares me, but I'm not taking anything for granted. I've been studying since about 8:00 a.m. with only a very short break, and I've divided my time between the two courses. I'm taking another short break and grabbing something to eat, after which it's back to Physics of Fractures.
I have a final in Sports Sociology Wednesday, but it doesn't worry me terribly. I'll study for it tomorrow night and Tuesday, but more out of superstition than any actual need. My Appalachian Music professor gave us the option of taking the final on the last class day if we didn't have any courses afterwards. He has a Form B of the final for those who take it on Tuesday so that sharing of information concerning the final will be of minimal benefit. I took it on the day of the last class session. Tomorrow after my two finals I'll study for Sports Sociology, which will leave the entirety of Tuesday for me to once again obsess over the physics and mechanics of fractures. If I ever break a bone again, I'll drive the orthopedist crazy with questions about the specifics of the fracture, and I'll want to analyze the x-rays personally.
I'm feeling as though it's time for another Guinness even though I just had one either yesterday or the day before. I can't remember. For once in my life, I'm going to exercise just a bit of self-control and lay off the Guinness until after all studying has been done on Tuesday. Then, just before bedtime, I'll down my customary half-bottle of Guinness with the hope that I will be able to sleep without dreaming about the various forms of fractures.
I think the one thing that is keeping me from turning into a full-fledged dipsomaniac is that I absolutely abhor the taste of all liquor, including Guinness. I have to plug my nose to get it down. If it tasted as good to me as either grape soda or root beer, I'd probably have been in and out if rehab as many times as Lindsay Lohan.
Which begs another question: what if, when I finally get around to having sex, which will probably happen in about 2020 at the rate I'm going (Jared's lame advances have no effect on me) I actually like it so much that I cannot resist it and hook up with anyone and everyone who has the proper equipment in working order and is not a completely grossed out jerk? I find it hard to imagine, but what if? At least I'll presumably have access to the very best in prophylactics. I hope such does not end up being the case, though, because, at least in a theoretical sense sense, I think monogamy at any given time is a good thing. There's plenty of time to worry about that in the future, though. For now, I have a major final to pass.
La Tour-- People Are Still Having Sex
I was speaking on the phone this evening with the boy who had my name tattooed on his arm in order to avoid serving an LDS mission. As I was explaining to him my nervousness related to my "physics of Fractures" final exam, (keeping in mind that the toughest course he's taking this quarter is microbiology), he told me that with my intellect, I cannot be truly feeling anxiety over the content of the course in relation to the final exam. He said my problem is really repressed sexuality, i.e. sexual frustration, masking itself as uneasiness or a sense of foreboding concerning the final test in my toughest course. I told him he is so full of bullshit that it positively hurts and that he will have to come up with a more innovative line than that if he expects ever to hit anything past a single off me, much less get me to the boinking stage. He said that he would be a fool not to at least try. We ended the conversation there, as I had a call from my Strings professor coming in as I was speaking with Mr. Tattoo.
It occurred to me that if I was getting such a slimy presentation from someone who so recently was officially a good Mormon boy (he can't have learned it all in the relatively brief interval since he desecrated his body with my name unless he had a really good teacher, and my brother, who would have been the logical choice to have coached him in the techniques of hitting on girls, certainly would not have fed him such lines, since he would have known that they were to be used in attempt to lure his twin sister into the sack).
As a postscript in text form, I told the guy, Jared, that he needs to finish law school, medical school, dental school, optometry school, an MBA program, or, at the very least, mortician school or clown school before I would even entertain such a discussion with him, and even then I offered no guarantees as to conjugal privileges. His texted response was that my standards are ridiculously high.
Is there any limit to the lengths to which guys will go to get as far as they can with girls? Is it depravity, or is it normal eighteen-year-old male hormones doing what they do best? My brother may very well behave this way when in pursuit of what every guy his age apparently wants, but I've certainly never seen that side of him. For that matter, for the most part he was pursued in high school far more than he was the one in pursuit, and keeping his ERA as low as possible while his team scored runs was, as far as we in the family knew, more important than the magic score of the other variety. Then again, we in the family may have been quite naive concerning both Matthew's priorities and his purity. Who the hell knows other than Matthew himself? He's a red-blooded American boy.
I just didn't think Jared could transform so fast from someone committed to sexual purity until marriage into someone who makes shamefully lame attempts to get the goods from a girl. Perhaps the sexual purity thing was nothing more than an act in the first place. Maybe Mormon boys are just as horny as any other eighteen-year-old males. They either just hide it better or deal with it in different ways.
I'm clueless in this regard. I admit it. Regardless, I'm not putting away my textbooks because I fall for the idea that relieving sexual tension will get me the "A" I desperately need in "Physics of Fractures."
I've studied until my brain can retain no more information. More studying would be pointless if not counterproductive. It's time for my 2.5 times per week half bottle of Guinness. My parents go along with it in that limited quantity provided that I drink it at home, remain at home for four hours after, and that I drink it when my dad is home or coming home shortly so that the remainder does not go to waste. They can set whatever stipulations they want, because I could get it elsewhere if I needed to do so. as long as their requests are reasonable, however, I'll abide by them.
Tomorrow morning, if I wake up in time, I'll go sit on the beach for awhile before my early afternoon final. Afterwards, I'll be joined on the beach by a few friends. Sunday should be foggy, so I'll put in a couple hours reviewing for Monday's finals and for the dreaded "Physics of Fractures" final, although I'm not sure how much more I can commit to memory without my head exploding, the one consolation to that is that, should the head explosion thing actually happen, and should it involve any fractures of bones in my skull, I'll be able to define the problem precisely once I see the x-rays. I know the material.
I'll have to disrupt my temporary obsession with taking down Walmart to prepare for finals, which are imminent. My first final this year is on Saturday afternoon, of all times, which is a lovely way to spoil a perfectly good weekend. I then have two finals on Monday and two on Wednesday. I don't have to go through the motions of a final in my Strings class because the professor said the time would be better spent preparing for my violin senior recital, which will happen next February. The time will actually be spent preparing for my most difficult final exam, but my Strings professor doesn't need to know that.
The only final that scares me at all is the one for my "Physics of Fractures" course. It's my very last final, which is good because I have more to with which to prepare for it. It's not good, because I have more time to stress out over it. Regardless, it will be finished for better or for worse in less than a week. The stakes are high, as the difference between an A and a B could have tremendous financial implications in terms of graduate awards.
The "Physics of Fractures" class is usually a first-year (or even a second-year in some schools) medical school course. My academic advisor wanted me to take it, knowing it was a huge gamble. It could either ruin my GPA or boost my graduate standing in terms of the degree of difficulty of my overall course program. Getting a B certainly won't ruin my chances of getting into med school, as even in med school I could easily afford to get a B in the class without even a chance of being tossed from a program, but getting less than an A would destroy my 4.0 GPA and take me out of the running for any major graduate awards. Since my parents can afford to pay for my med school tuition and had planned to do so anyway, it was probably worth the risk to take the course, but right now it's giving my stomach major butterflies. I think everyone in the class feels the same way for different reasons. My mastery if the subject matter is as solid as is that of any other student in the class, but anyone can blow a final. I don't know why I would walk into the classroom and forget everything I've ever learned, but I don't wish to be overconfident. The one consolation is that no matter what my performance is on the final, the lowest possible grade I can get in the course is a B.
After I take the final Wednesday, you can ask me anything you want about the various aspects of fracturing any bone in the human body and I should be able to give you an answer as thorough as anyone could give who has not completed a residency in orthopedic medicine. It actually would be useful information even were I to go into law. If I were a prosecuting attorney, for example, in a child abuse case, I could use the information to take apart an expert witness who is providing shaky testimony for the defense as to how a fracture of a bone in a child's body occurred; the ability to ask the proper follow-up questions to shady testimony would be powerful. I could and still might call a rebuttal witness, but taking a witness apart on the stand would have a greater impact.. Another attorney would have to be thoroughly schooled by an orthopedic physician surgeon, and even then might not have the ability to ask decimating folllow-up questions. If I were practicing civil law, it would give me an excellent foundation for determining whether to take a tort case in which a fracture was involved, or whether to take on the defense of such.
It's not a wasted class at all. It's just risky. I'm younger by at least four years than anyone else in the class. Many are taking it as a grad course in order to have a second shot at getting into med school.
Meanwhile, I'm relying upon Pepto-Bismol as my primary source of nutrition. This, too, shall pass.
I reiterate the thesis of my previous post,which was, in essence, that Walmart is quite possibly the anti-Christ. At this point I cannot give more details as to my reasons for speaking out so strongly, as even under the relative anonymity of this blog, and though the situation in question does not pertain directly to me, I cannot risk jeopardizing any possible resolution that may be in the works by sharing details. If this situation changes and I am at liberty to disclose specifics of the matter, I will waste no time in giving you full information supporting my stance.
It goes without saying, of course, that you are free to disagree with me and to furnish your entire house, stock your pantry, fill your bathroom, laundry room, backyard, and what ever other segment of your abode or your life with items purchased from Walmart and we can still be friends and colleagues. You can have a Sam Walton shrine in your living room, bedroom, bathroom, or front yard, and I would totally defend your right to do so, while I might clandestinely question your sanity ever so slightly. For that matter, you may have philosophical opposition to the general practices of the late Sam Walton and his minions yet, for practical reasons, have financial, geographical, or other logistical reasons you must shop at Walmart or at one of its sister stores. That, too, I totally respect. You have no need to explain anything to me. It is simply my wish to leave no ground uncovered as to the intensity of my views on the matter.
Lately I've been awake at odd hours. My dad says I'm running the risk of turning into one of those bizarre creatures who lives in his or her parents' attic or basement well into his or her (for whatever reason, these characters tend to be portrayed by the media as most typically male, but I suppose I could break a few barriers here) forties and ekes out my meager existence by delivering newspapers (a dying occupation, if you haven't noticed, with the shift of news emphasis from print to Internet, so if my dad is even close to correct in his prediction of my future, I probably need to come up with a Plan B in terms of the eking out of my meager existence) while creating my own comic book superhero series complete with plastic action figures to be sold separately, or perfecting the formula for the ultimate expeditiously biodegradable yet functional toilet paper.
As far as I can tell, my dad's sole reason for his concerns in this regard are that I have had recent difficulty in sleeping through the night. My dad could solve this problem in a nanosecond by tossing an Ativan or Klonopin (or Tylenol PM, for that matter; melatonin makes me toss my cookies) in my general direction on occasion, but it gives him comparatively greater personal satisfaction to be able to elaborate on the oddness of my lifestyle to his friends and coworkers than to actually provide a viable solution to the problem. I could buy my own Tylenol PM if I really wanted to, as I'm a legal adult, and one doesn't, for that matter, need to be eighteen or over to purchase the stuff, but my mother prefers, because of my somewhat complicated medical history, that I not self-medicate even with over-the-counter remedies. Since my mother is generally an easy person with whom to coexist and one who makes few demands on me or infringements upon my personal liberties, I humor her in this regard. Furthermore, I've found Tylenol PM (or Motrin PM, for that matter, although NSAIDS wreak havoc on my already-too-efficient digestive system and thus are not a particularly viable option) works really well the first night I take it, but has increasingly diminished effectivity on subsequent nights.
It's not such a problem for me, anyway. If sleep eludes me, I get up and look over schoolwork, then perhaps blog for a bit, until I eventually become sleepy. Unless my dad gives me a benzo or a Lunesta when I have these wakeful times in the night, that's the way it's going to continue to be. He's just lucky I don't choose that time to play the piano. That's what my brother does if he can't sleep when he's home. It infuriates my dad, but my mom won't let him make Matthew stop playing, because she's so happy to have Matthew practice the piano at all that she'll tolerate it even at 3:00 a.m. Sometimes I think Matthew might actually be a little smarter than we've been giving him credit all along for being. He's like the kindergartner who figures out that if you behave like a complete asshole for the first three weeks of each school year, the dunderhead patrol squad will reward you with stickers, sugary treats, extra computer game time, etc., for the rest of the year just for behaving as a quasi-normal human being.
I'm growing sleepy, so the relative merits of Ambien versus Xanax are turning into a moot point.
Goodnight, all. I'll see you again at a more civil hour. Or then again, maybe I won't. I may next be communicating with you at another 4:00 a.m. as I take a break from my comic book artistry and composition. I'm not sure whether to go back to my old standby of Catholic Cat and Protestant Pup (they were cartoon characters whose lives I chronicled during the many hours of free time in kindergarten I had to kill each day while waiting around for my classmates to finish printing their h's and counting how many tiny kittens were in each box so that they could then count them cumulatively and come up with sums; there's got to be a better way to educate our youth, but if one is ever found, it probably won't be found by a Catholic educator) or to come up with something more sinister, such as Phaedra, the Patron (Matron?) Saint of Conflicted Sexuality.
I can't really give my reasons for this right now, but I am rededicating myself and my efforts to the resolution not to shop at Walmart. Before, I was merely humoring my father in what I considered just one of his many eccentricities, which was a not entirely explicable loathing of Sam Walton and everything associated with the man. Since then, I've learned that my father is just a wee bit less stupid than for which I have previously given him credit. Things have happened to cause me to join my father in his resolve to avoid Walmart at almost all costs.
By almost all costs, I mean that if I happen to have eaten at a Taco Bell -- and Taco Bell has an eerily quickening effect on my digestive system --- I will patronize the Walmart restroom if it's convenient to do so. I'll make liberal use of the corporation's undoubtedly top-grade toilet paper. I'll flush numerous times to ensure that no amount of my germ-infested waste is left for the next customer, or, then again, I may not flush at all; it just depends upon my mood. Next, I'll use enough of the corporation's high-quality soap (which is probably the same stuff the Walmart janitors use to scrub the restroom floors and toilets, IF, and it's a big if , they scrub the floors and toilets at all) to rid myself of MRSA or whatever other pathogen I may have picked up just from walking through a WalMart. I'll rinse the conceivably toxic cleaning products from my hands liberally, hoping all the while that the water flowing through the faucets hasn't been diverted from the toilet output to the sinks, and I'll make generous use of the paper towels or air-drying system, or both if both options are available. When I get home, I'll need to take a steaming hot shower to sterilize myself.
On my way out, I will not make a purchase even if I'm practically bleeding to death and have to crawl across the street to a Kmart or CVS or Rite Aid to purchase BandAids or similar products. None of my money is going to WalMart unless the ghost of Sam Walton shows up at my house -- with or without bones; do ghosts have bones? -- and steals it, which, from what I've read about the man's business practices when he was alive, I would not consider to be beyond possibility.
My time at the beach today is what many unenlightened souls think college life is like all the time for anyone who attends a campus anywhere near the beach. I'm sure my paternal grandparents and all my Utah aunts, uncles, and cousins think I'm basically a dishwater -blonde Annette Funicello prototype (may she rest in peace) without breasts. I don't really mind that university life isn't total fun and games all the time (just half a Guinness when no authorities were looking ;) in part because on multiple occasions my broken body has been reassembled by doctors who did something besides party during their undergrad years. One can say a doctor will learn what he or she needs to learn in medical school, bud the undergrad years provide a tremendous foundation, and even some of the med school classes are taken during undergrad years now. (My Physics of Fractures class is a bona fide med school course.)
We played beach volleyball. We played it with a beach ball, which is the only way I can play volleyball, because a standard volleyball is too heavy for my fingers and even my wrists, and it's too easy for me to jam them in a game wite. teachers didn't like it when my uncle wrote uses h a regulation volleyball. I've jammed both a finger and a wrist in high school P.E. volleyball. The physical education teacher wasn't happy when my Uncle Steve, my pediatrician, wrote excuses exempting me from any additional volleyball after the second minot injury occurred, but if fingers were wrists are injured, I lost money in those days because I was playing piano and organ for major $$. No one would ask the P.E. teacher to participate in an activity that seriously impacted her chances of being able to do her job successfully, not that she did it all that successfully, anyway. Now I'm not earning nearly so much money playing, and I don't have any Jane Lynch-style P.E. teachers breathing down my neck, but I need my wrists and fingers to practice piano and violin.
I learned today that volleyball can be fun when I'm not constantly worried about being hurt. We played in the sand on the beach, so even diving for the ball wasn't an unsafe thing.
We had races in the sand and did a little swimming, but the Pacific off the coast of almost anywhere in California is more than a little frigid. After we finished everything else, we rinsed the sand off ourselves and swam in one of the campus pools. It was one with diving boards, so I even got to experience that momentary feeling of zero gravity. It's quite indescribable -- like nothing else.
Fortunately for my future patients (or clients should I end up in law school), I have no more of such days planned until finals are kaput. Then, with just the violin/piano practice, the lab internship, and a few musical gigs that I pick up on occasion to pad my savings account, there will be time for lots of beach days.
I even remembered to regularly slather sunblock all over myself so that I was able to avoid ending the day looking like a boiled lobster.
I even had sufficient energy after my time at the beach to change my bedding and accoutrements. I prefer this comforter/sheet set to the previous one.
This is the current incarnation of my bed. I change the comforters and accessories avery couple of weeks.
I'm awake at this ridiculous hour because when I came home a little after 3:00 after my last class, I totally crashed. Several consecutive days of barely sleeping left me barely finctional. It was all I could do to make it upstairs to my room. I'm still even in the clothing I wore to school yesterday. I'm on top of my comfortoer with just a throw blanket for covers. It worked, though.
My parents are asleep in their own room. Dad is home, which made sleeping soundly a bit easier for me, although, to be perfectly honest, I'd sleep well with any strong body in the house. Some NFL offensive lineman, or Omar Epps, or even Venus Williams, would work just as well. I just don't want to have to fight off an intruder with my mom as my only backup. She's not much stronger than I am. I do have my dog here with me, which is also nice.
I'm going to shower and put on PJs and watch tV until I fall back asleep. If I don't go back to sleep, no big deal.
Finals are the week after next, which will be nice. I'll do a decent amount of studying to prep for them, but I'm already reasonalbly prepared. I have to go for a bit of overkilll when it comes to studying for exams.
I hope everyone has a nice weekend. I'm going to the beach with a few friends tomorrow, including the firend who has my name tattooed on his bicep. I don't read anymore into the tattoo than the obvious intent, which was to gethim out of going ona Mormon mission, which it did. someday it may mean more, but not yet.
I probably shouldn't be giving out so much information in a blog, but the relative anonymity combined with the basic goodness of the people who do know enough about me to find me make it OK to share. My dad has been out of town, and my brother is still away at college and will be for awhile because baseball season runs a bit late, so my mom and I have been bacheloretting (I reserve the right to invent words or new forms of them on the spot) it for a few days. This is not a problem for the most part, but it makes sleeping a little difficult for me. Specifically, sleeping at home at night without a male in the house, or (not to be sexist) at least without a female warrior such as my Aunt Andrea who could kick any armed intruder's butt, tends to bring on the nightmares for me. Monday night, or I think it was Monday, anyway (I'm growing sleep-deprived to the extent that discenring one day from the next is difficult) my Aunt Jillian called and had my psychiatrist, who's a close friend of the family and lives just a few blocks from us, come spend the remainder of the night. Last night I toughed it out. For tonight, Jillian sent her brother Tim to sleep over. Incidentally, Jillian is home from the hospital and is on the mend. I'm not sure what's happening tomorrow. Maybe I'll sleep perfectly well and it won't be an issue. Then again, maybe I won't. My dad will be home on Friday night. This is something with which I must learn to deal. My dad or the other kind males who've either slept over or come to my house in the middle of the night can't be traveling to wherever I end up for med school or, in a worst-case scenario, law school. I do OK in dorms, but it's not really normal to live in dormitories when you're in med or law school. Perhaps I'll find a trustworthy male roommate. It doesn't have to be just he and I, if the situation makes my parents feel awkward. We could get a three- or four-bedroom house, condo, or apartment, and have a combination of males and females. It's not like the days of Three's Company, when Jack Tripper rooming with two girls (in separate bedrooms, no less) had to pretend to be gay to avoid the living situation being considered scandalous. I suppose the situation would be the same as it is now when the make roommate happened to be gone for the night, which he probably would be a least on occasion, but that would be better than being scared or having nightmares every single night. I have a little while to work out that situation. Right now I just have t deal with what happens when my dad is out of town. I wish one of my male cousins (not one of the crazy fanatical LDS ones; I do have normal cousins as well) would attend my university and live with us (much cheaper than the dorms). He could come as go as he pleased as long as he agreed to come home at some point during the night on the nights my dad was out of town. It would be a good deal. For now, I'm just glad Tim is here tonight. He just got here, so I can sleep now.
My brother and I left at what is for me the crack of dawn (6:30 a.m.) to travel to Benicia, California. Benicia is in located Solano county, which is in the north portion of the eastern San Francisco Bay region, or the east portion of the north bay region. One of those two is right. I'm just not sure which one. I believe Benicia was our state's first capital, or at least it was a state capital somewhere along the way. It's just over a bridge from Contra Costa County in the bay area. It's the place where our parents lived when our older twin brothers were born and died. Matthew and I never lived in Benicia.
We went there to place flowers on the combined grave sites of our twin brothers who did not survive infancy. Nicholas lived for just a few minutes. Christopher made it for a few days before it became apparent that medical science was only postponing the inevitable, and my parents made the gut-wrenching decision to pull the plugs and stop medical intervention.
Matthew and I had purchased daisies, tulips, and a single white rose for each brother yesterday. My mom always puts a single white rose on each side of the grave in addition to whatever else she puts there. Our neighbors gave us dahlias and some pretty bluish purple flowers called anemones, along with hollyhocks, daffodils, and some pretty bluish-purple flowers called delphinium. We had a nice assortment.
We had brought basic gardening tools and cleaning products because we weren't sure what we'd find, but the place in general, and our brothers' section in particular, had been cared for very well. We did polish the gravestone and we distributed the flowers. We put a tiny American flag on each side of the combined headstone. Our mom's family is somewhat military-oriented, with her dad and brothers all having been Air Force Academy grads. We figure that among the four of us, had the other two lived, statistically speaking, one of us would have gone into the military. Since it obviously wasn't Matthew or me, it would have been one or the other of them. We haven't figured out which one it would have been, so we always give them both American flags.
We lingered a little longer at the grave site than we normally do. We talked about how things might have been - what it would have been like to have grown up with two older brothers -- what it might have been like to have grown up with an older brother or two who might have faced serious disabilities as a result of their extremely early births had they survived. We even talked about how our parents might have stopped at two had they been blessed with healthy babies on their first try. Life is a total roll of the dice in some regards, and one never knows how things will turn out no matter how painstakingly plans have been made.
This may be one of our last few trips here together with just the two of us. Matthew has ruled out any possibility of pro baseball, which is a good thing, as he might have spent a year in rookie league and another year in single A league at most, but ultimately it would have led him nowhere. Medical school is a safer place on the roulette wheel on which to place his wager. We don't know where medical school might take us in a year or so. We're assuming we'll both probably be admitted somewhere in the U.S. I'll go one year earlier than Matthew, most likely. In any event, we have only another year or so where we'll likely be living close enough to each other to make this trek together.
Then comes the issue of significant others. I'm in no huge hurry to marry either the guy who had my name tattooed on his arm or anyone else, but at some point within the next five years or so, I may feel differently. Matthew changes girlfriends the way normal people change their underwear, but one of these times, the next one will be THE one. We'll still be twins with our special bond and womb-mate status, but it will be different. Depending upon our locations and situations, we may visit our brothers as a threesome or foursome, or we may each make the trip separately with our eventual significant others, or maybe even alone.
It was bittersweet, knowing a long-standing tradition is nearing its end. Something we have been doing more or less on our own since we were old enough to persuade someone other than our parents to drive us will happen possibly as few as two more times.
Life moves forward for those of us who are lucky enough to be alive.
Jillian still has three days in the hospital, but she's receiving a treatment developed in France (I think they have a higher incidence of cystic fibrosis in the northern European region than in the US, hence a higher level of research) that appears to be doing good things for her. it's not fighting the pneumonia all that faster than are the other drugs she's being given, but it appears to slow or prevent the damage to the lungs and airways that typically occurs with each case of pneumonia that a cystic fibrosis patient gets. Cystic fibrosis is sort of a cumulative thing - a patient typically loses a little ground and a little bit of their lung space to the invading bacteria each time they contract pneumonia. i believe it's known as colonization. The bacteria (for most CF patients it's more often than not a particular bacteria that invades; for Jillian, it seems to be pseudomonas, although she's undoubtedly had other forms somewhere along the lone) tend to gradually take over the lungs. that's the reason CF patients eventually need lung transplants.
As bas as the idea of a transplant sounds, this wouldn't be such a terrible thing except that lung transplants are probably the transplants that are the least likely to "take, or to be successful. There's a high incidence of rejection. The drugs a patient has to take to or even rejection of the new organ -- and lung transplant recipients need more than do the recipients of most donor organs) also lowr a patients resistance to everything else, so it's quite the vicious cycle.
So if Jillian can hold off the major damage each time she contracts pneumonia, and she's probably going to get it once or twice a year at least no matter what she does to prevent it, she's greatly postponing the day that she one day needs a lung transplant. this means that she might live to be a grandmother. Additionally, this new treatment is safe during pregnancy, so she can have less aggressive antibiotics and ones that are safer to a fetus during pregnancy, which is a huge deal to her.
Tomorrow Jillian will try to walk a few steps totally unassisted.
Classes have been a bit boring, mostly because I've had trouble paying attention. I've managed to focus during "The Physics of Fractures." I found out that at my three top choices of med schools, that's a 1st -year med school class, and with an A, they'll all accept it from my university. So far I'm still easily in the A range, so unless a disaster occurs, I should be good.
where most of the people in my prospective band live, which may be indicative of just how sophisticated the band is; at least they're not frat rats
This really grungy guy in "The Physics of Fractures" with me wants me to join his band as a keyboard player and fiddler. I don't know if I'm up to hanging out with the band and with the crowd that follows his band, and I don't think it would be a particularly impressive addition to my med school resume 9to the point that I won't list it, obviously) but I told him that once finals are past, I'll consider it, since all I'm doing is a daytime internship and a private violin to prep for the senior recital next year. Some things you just need to experience for the experience of it. as long as I don't drink anything with PCP in it, and I'll be very careful to carry my own sealed drinks everywhere, I'll probably be OK. I personally think I'll look a little stupid on stage with them, as I don't exactly look like a rocker chick, but that's really their problem, isn't it. I'm NOT dying my hair purple to fit in.
I hope everyone is prospering and is planning a lovely Memorial Day weekend. I'm kicking in my share of the money for flowers for the various dead relatives, but visiting cemeteries gives me the creeps, so I'm not doing the grave-cleaning and flower distribution work myself. If i get the opportunity, I will travel north to visit my older baby twin brothers' graves, though. my brother and i try to do it on or near their birthday and on Memorial Day weekend even though Memorial Day is reall about the military.I make the exception to my usual wimpiness and squeamishness in my brothers' case. for a few reasons, one of which is out of respect for my parents and out of empathy for the loss they suffered. Another reason is that I don't for sure know that my parents would have had Matthew and me had Nicholas and Christopher survived. My parents have never said, and we've never asked. If my parents would have stopped at two children, in a way Nicholas and Christopher involuntarily made the ultimate sacrifice for Matthew and for me.
To those of you who are less easily bothered, I offer my admiration. It's an unpleasant task, but cemeteries would turn into areas of disrespect for the departed if someone didn't take care of the graves.
My immediate area, which is presently the hospital, is in the middle of an unforecast thunderstorm. I don;'t think the weather service has even figured out it is happening. We don't have tons of thunderstorms here, so it's a bit exciting. I'm operating on battery,so my computer's not going to be blasted. I have no idea if the hospital needs to shut down its server at some point, but that's not really my problem.
Anyway the video I posted, which is "Song for a Winter's Night" by Gordon Lightfoot, poet laureate of Canada, seems inappropriate for the weather we're currently experiencing here, except that i once attended a Lightfoot concert where he told the audience that the song -- with all its winter imagery -- was written in a Cleveland hotel during a thunderstorm. If I seem to be age-inappropriately obsessed with the works of Gordon Lightfoot, I'm not. My dad knew Lightfoot's longtime lead guitarist (who passed away about a year ago) so anytime there was a concert anywhere near us, we usually went. Rest in peace, Terry, and everyone else, give the song a listen if you have a chance. It's quite pretty. Sarah MacLachlan and several others also covered it, but it was and always will be Lightfoot's song.
My Dad's late friend Terry is playing lead guitar on this version.
It's good that I have all my class work finished, as I would have an extremely hard time concentrating on it now. I have a one more test this week and three next week. The late midterms are things I could manage if I were the one sick and not my aunt. I'll need my full cognitive function for finals, but those are almost three weeks away. My aunt will probably be running and playing tennis by then, or at least taking her dog for short walks.
I'm at the hospital visiting my aunt. "Visiting" is probably a misnomer. I'm watching her sleep and occasionally open her eyes and try to say something, which is not easy with all the tubes she has connected to her. This falls under the heading of "too much information," but one tube she does not have is a bladder catheter because they're breeding grounds for pseudomonas aeruginosa, and the last thing in the world she needs is one more way for that pathogen to invade her body. Once she regained consciousness, she demanded her regular undies back in place of the pull-ups she was wearing. (They were actual Pull-ups brand; the largest kiddie size fits her right now.) Bedpans were too gross for her as well. Even though she's not strong enough to to hold her own glass of orange juice, she demands to be helped to the bathroom because the remaining options gross her out too much. My dad says it's a sign that she's most likely going to live. Another sign that she'll ultimately defeat the evil pseudomonas aeruginosa, my dad said, is the expletives she utters despite her multiple tubes each time her pleural cavity is drained.
I'm too much of a coward to be out in the middle of a thunderstorm, creating a photograhic history of the event. This is a generic photo I found somewhere. It basically captures the essence of what's happening here without my traipsing out in the middle of lightning like the complete fool that I usually am, which is how I justify its inclusion.
When my aunt's pleural cavity was drained, she received only a very light local anaesthetic because she is comatose. Those who were present during the procedure say she was very uncomfortable. This is, we hope, a sign that her coma is lightening and that she is closer to regaining consciousness. we hope that's the case, anyway.
Thanks Becca. I think I'll be OK. I'm trying hard not to make this about me, because it's not, and part of being an adult is that every crisis that happens to someone close to me isn't inherently about me.
My aunt is breathing on her own. She's still comatose, but the relatives --doctors who are not her physicians -- think she is stirring and showing signs of coming out of the coma. Then again, they're all related to her and may be seeing what they want to see.
They've identified psuedomonas aeruginosa as the strain of bacteria causing Jilly's pneumonia. It's one of three or four common bacerial causes of pneumonia in cystic fibrosis patients. That allows the doctors to give a more specific antibiotic to target the bacteria. I'm sure her doctors already started her on it, although I don't know what the antibiotic is. She also has pleural effusion, which is, I believe, a build-up of fluid in the pleural cavity above and protecting the lungs. The prblem is that it can be too protective, which causes a whole new set of issues.It can be treated with antibiotics in less severe cases, but in Jillian's case, the fluid has to be drained by needle. She's out of it enough that pain is a minor issue, but the doctors are still administer a local anaesthetic just because comatose patients sometimes remember pain after coming out of a coma.
My dad said that if the antibiotics work and she has a good night tonight, she should wake up tomorrow and the worst may be over. The pleural effusion may return, which means it will have to be drained again. The doctors use better drugs for pain if she's not comatose, but it will still hurt. That's probably the least of her problems, though.
At least none of the followers of Aunt -----'s cult have discovered anything I wrote, so I haven't received death threats.
I'm not stupid enough to blame any of this on Aunt -----. I just find it a little sickening that she plays the martyr role with such virtuosity because she bore a child with a birth defect that was successfully repaired. There's only -- gasp -- a scar! that cannot be seen, only felt. I'm terribly sorry the tiny baby and her mother went through this, and I'm even happier that the little girl made it through with flying colors. And while I know it hurt me terribly when one of my adversaries' attorneys advised me that it was time for me to get over what was done to me and to get on with my life, and therefore agree to lift many of the terms of my attackers' probabtion, not that it was totally my call to make, anyway. Maybe what I'm saying about Aunt ----- is similar to what was said to me. Somehow that's not the vibe I get, though. It seems more like, while I'm not trying to minimize the seriousness of her baby's condition at birth, hers is behavior of a drama queen.
Anyhow, I'm not going to be a martyr over this particular situation. My aunt has prevailed in tougher situations than this one. Odds are looking more and more in her favor in this situation as well, although I worry about risdual and cumulative damage to her lungs.
I'm just thankful that I don't believe in a popularity gospel (which my religion somewhat supports, with its "Pray for the Aldo Massaro family" engraved brass placards screwed into the pews, with different names of course, depending upon who donated the money to pay for the pew in question; it practically reeks of papal indulgences, but that's another topic for another blog) whereby the likes of Aunt -----'s depression and everything else will be cured because she has so many minions pleading for her, while my poor unknown aunt has only a few friends, co-workers, and relatives offering any prayers on her behalf. It gives me peace to know not necessarily that prayer is a combination of fairy tale activity and voodoo science, but that any outcome, however arbitrary it may seem, is not decided by casting ballots in terms of prayers. I hope I'm right.
I've reached the conclusion that very few people care about anything or anyone outside their immediate circle of family and friends. Sure, once in awhile something like the Connecticut school shooting happens, and we can all appease our senses of self-righteouness by sitting in front of the TV for a few hours pretending that it's a small world, and what hurts the families in Connecticut hurts us as well, because we're all part of some circle of humanity. We may even go so far as to toss a few dollars in the general directionyof the traged. It's little more than empty words and token contributions to ease our own consciences, though.
I epitomize this mindset as well as does as the next person. I don't have any deep feelings about good and bad things that happen to anyone outside my own cluster of real-life and online friends and family. When something bad happens to a small child, I'm bothered by it, but I don't think I'd be human if I didn't. Any sensationalized situation in the news hits home when I can identify with the victim through some commonality in our respective lives.. On the other hand, all the events the media doesn't sensationalize -- the average person who can't pay his rent, the person who falls off his roof taking down Christmas lights and incurs hospital bills he has no way of paying and a job he can't do for three months, along with an employer who won't give him a desk job until his leg heals and possibly won't even hold his more physically-oriented job until he is able to manage it again, the person who needs a kidney and whose relatives who might be matches couldn't care any less and who is not very high on the the organ recipient list, the person who has both a kidney infection and a horribly infected ingrown toenail and doesn't have enough time off to do anything about it until mid-June, because she also has thyroid eye disease, irritable bowel symdrome, and chronic kidney stones, and those conditions take precedence on her missing work, so she hobbles to her pre-school teaching job each day and tries to smile at the children through her pain, all the while praying that none of the children steps on her toe. I'm not altogether uncaring concerning the plights of these people, but I don't lie awake at night worrying about them.
So why should I think anyone else should care that my twenty-five year-old not-exactly aunt but who functions as such is once more fighting for her life, for about the sixth time in four years? The answer is that I don't expect anyone else to give a rat's rectum about it. We're all in our own insulated worlds, and only my aunta friends and relatives acre, and , truthfully, i don't think some of them care all that much because they're tired of her illnesses. She has cystic fibrosis, so it's one caseof pneumpnia after another, some more serious than others, with an occasional colon or ileum perforation that almost casues her to bleed to death. Some of her own relatives even think they have better things to do than sit around hospitals waiting for my aunt to either get better or die. I will say, because I think my aunt would say it if she could right now, Don't it around the hospital on Jillian's behalf out of obligation, waiting for her to get better, or to finally get it over with and just die. If you have better things to do, go do them. The natire of her illness is that she is going to get sick, sometimes near-fatally, and this is going to continue until she finally succumbs. those of us who care about her hope it won't happen for a long, long time. The rest of you should probably get out of her life and go away.
Some people fall into the immediate circle of concern of many people. It's funny how some people, Internet beings especially, engender sympathy in the part of others. An example in point is "Aunt -----" of the "Mommy Wants ---==" blog. Aunt ----- complains of feeling sad and of having PTSD because her daughter was born with a serious bith defect, beat it, and is now thriving. Aunt ----- also has a mildly autistic son. i believe he's in the Aspergr category, lthough such diagnosis no longer exists in the most recent Never having given birth to a child, healthy or normal, I am not in a position of being as critical as I am going to be, but it won't stop me. The real PTSD comes after losing one baby after another, or even after actually losing one child. The real PTSD comes after having one too many cases of tsukamurella or candida or whatever ravage your body and almost kill you. The real PTSD comes after a big, strong, high school offensive linesman uses two girls to hold you down and beat you up, then tries to rape and/or orally orally sodomize you (which intent wasn't entirely clear, as his assistants undressed me from the waist down, but it appeared to me that he was going for my mouth) but is unable to maintain the state of rigidity required for either, so he kicks your ribs and private parts instead. The real PTSD is what lingers when you don't know if the next person who coughs on you is going to give you your verylast case of pneumonia.
I'm sorry Aunt -----'s child was born with a rare and often fatal birth defect, and I'm happy for her and for the child that the child beat the odds and appears to be thriving. I suppose the child is not out of the woods yet in terms of learning disabilities that may present themselves at a later date, but how many parents and children deal with the effects of learning disabilities every day without others placing metaphorical hands on their brows to detect the presence of illness -- physical or mental -- or coming to their blog daily to inquire as to their well-being. It's time for Aunt ----- to realize that her glass is more than half full, There may be more difficult times for her in the future, but she'll be better qquipped to face them if she buries her own PTSD diagnosis and rejoins the real world. I admit I'm saying this in part because I used to think she was one of the few who cared, but I've since decided that she cares too much for herself to care very much about anyone else. I also realize that if any Aunt -----'sminions find their way here, which is unlikely, I'll probably receive death threats. C'est la vie. No one's going to live forever, anyway, and I might even receive media sensationalism and post-mortem compassion -- not that I would be around to enjoy it.
I'm really just rambling and not saying anything that makes sense, so I probably should shut up before I say more things that incite death threats.
Why pray for a person who is sick even if they're dying? What's the point? God knows the person is sick. God doesn't need anyone to tell Him that the person is sick. If God wants to make the person well, He can do it, And if other people's prayers would actually convince God to make someone well, how fair and just is God? A person who has lots of friends or Facebook friends gets to live, but the person who is quiet and does his or her job well and goes about his or her life doing charitable works quietly gets no prayers from other people, so that person gets to die, and maybe very painfully, because not very many people were praying for that person.
If that it how God operates, I want no part of Him. God, you know Jillian is sick. If you have the power to heal her, you can do it if you want to. It shouldn't have anything to do with how many people are praying for her,
It would be one thing if she were conscious and had the ability to ask for help herself. Maybe that would be reasonable. The stuff about how many other people pray for you seems arbitrary, sortof a popularity-based theology. If that's really the way you operate, I suppose Jillian will die.
If you are real and not like the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, God, you can help Jillian even if 10,000 Facebook friends don't pray for her.
My aunt is extremely ill. She's the one who's 25 and not really my aunt, but I consider her as such. She needs positive thoughtsl good wishes, prayers, whatevr works, Thanks if you can help.
Aunt Cristelle and Uncle Mendel are sticking with Antarctica as a first name, but there's apparently a waiting period in some places on names for babies. Antarctica 's middle name will no longer be meringue. It wil be Magdalena. It think all three names are ridiculous, but I beleive, however stupid it sounds, Magdalena is at least a real name.
My mom, while recognizing her limited role as an in-law to give advice, tried to subtly suggest to Cristelle, that if a child wants to be different otr attract attention,he or she will find a way to do so. A parent doesn't have to predispose the child to automatic freak status by giving the kid a name no one has ever heard of before. I'm sure my mother worded it muchmore diplomatically than I did. While you might not want your kid to be one of three in a class with the same first name, neither do you want to be the kid to who, everyone says, "WHAT?!?!?" when answering upon bing asked his or her name. The trick is probably in finding a happy medium. Either end along the spectrum of happy medium is probably fine. anywhere from relatively obscure to relatively common is good. It just needs to be an actually human's name and not the name of a reindeer or a continent.
My parents preferred common names. Once they had decided on our names "Matthew and Aubrey, but that's another story from the past) the went to a department store that sold little objects (iny license plates, stickers, key chains, etc.) with children's names on them and checked to ensure that both our names could be found. When my mom unexpectedly changed my name to Alexis, my dad went to the same store and checked to ensure that "Alexis" could be found on all the objects before he allowed the name to be put on my birth certificate.
Donna, regarding, "People Who Throw Glass Houses Shouldn't Get Stoned," it was a pretty good song. In fact it was their only good song. They'd start and end each gig with it, and it would be requested once or twice during the middle as well. It was good, but not great. It was at leasst in the key of A, which was the key that the bass player played everything in whether the rest of them were playing and singing in that key or not.The problem was that their other songs sucked worse than a Rainbow Vac.
