Accomplice – March 23, 2011

This is not an easy story to read. Sensitive hearts, don’t continue.

Today at work, a woman brought her 8-month-old female kitten in to be spayed. I was the technician admitting her, and gave the cat a brief physical before taking her in. When I felt her belly, I became suspicious that she might be pregnant, and brought her in the back to consult the doctor.

Sure enough, I was right. The doctor felt her belly, and we ultrasounded her, and saw the tiny skeletons.

When we told the kitten’s owner, she became very upset. She couldn’t take care of a litter, and didn’t want to bring more cats into the world to potentially become homeless or lead hard lives. In a world where so many unwanted animals are euthanized every day, the doctor, the owner, and I all decided that it would be more humane to continue with the spay, and abort the kittens.

Despite the perfectly sound rationale, the woman was still distraught. She had tears in her eyes as she left the hospital, and she was really beating herself up for not getting her cat spayed sooner. She didn’t say as much, but I could tell she also felt like a murderer for electing to abort the kittens.

I tried to comfort her in whatever way I could. I hope my words helped. But at the same time, my heart was quietly breaking beneath the calm facade.

I feel like an accessory to a crime. Even now, hours later, I find myself wishing I hadn’t said anything when I felt the kittens in the queen’s belly. I know it would make no difference; the surgeon would discover the pregnancy, and the outcome would be the same. And I know the reasoning was perfectly logical in making that decision. Even if we kept the kittens and found homes for them, that would have meant other cats in the world wouldn’t have the opportunity of those homes.

But still, I like awake in bed, haunted by what I was a part of, and full of regret.

It’s a horribly, horribly difficult job we have in medicine. I hope tomorrow brings better.

People’s Climate March

Mr. President, today we saw an unprecedented outpouring of concern regarding the health of our planet. There can be no denial that climate change is real and occurring in our own lifetime. Equally there is no question that people all over the world are ready for change, and are eager to make it happen. What we need is a champion.

If it is true that The White House has pledged to “show the world that the U.S. is leading on climate change, and to call on other leaders to step up to the plate,” then you MUST make a stand on Tuesday. As it stands, we are NOT the leader in global efforts to fight climate change. We have heard many eloquent words about the topic, but we have not ACTED in a sufficient capacity. It is time to change that.

Mr. President, you can make this happen. You can help save this planet. You must be strong, and you must FIGHT. Don’t let the people down.

Inspired by yesterday’s dawn

What a beautiful morning! Love that golden light.

Coaxing life into tired bones,

Warmth into cold hands and toes.

Shadows and fears of the night before

Are dispelled, banished to cobwebbed corners.

Brilliant rays pierce me, through skin and bone,

Illuminating my very soul,

Which blooms into morning glory.

Arms and face stretch skyward, and I live!

Untitled – 2003

Pen and paper can be a writer’s worst enemy.
Thoughts,
Which appear so grandiose in the mind,
Have a tendency to shrink when written.
So splendid when up in the air,
So small when chained to a page.

Rusty Player

January, 2004:

When the hell did it get so hard to get out of bed and play the part?  What happened to the days of pretend when the world was a playground, and had no end?  Make believe used to be just a game, a passing of time with a different name.  But now, it seems, it’s the point of each day – gotta fool the world to believe what you say.  Well, I’m tired of being a part of this shit.  I’m tired of my insides feeling so split.  I hate this game, and I’m signing out before I fall further into self-doubt.  I won’t foster this nonsense, this subterfuge.  Won’t act like a fool, won’t play the stooge.  Want out too?  Come with me then.  We’ll find a way to start again.

Sneak: Man on the Bridge

I met a man with wine-stained lips and too many cats. I met him on a cobblestone bridge.

He stood at the barrier in a typical pose, his sharp elbows resting on the railing, stressing the sleeves of his absurdly tweed jacket. He stared out over the river into an empty distance with eyes full of thought, mouth moving slightly with silent words. He couldn’t figure out what to do with his fingers, and they alternated between clasping each other and fiddling idly in the air. His feet were planted in worn boots whose brown leather looked like it had left its cow during the Great Depression. Occasionally he’d tap one foot or the other in a pattern completely different than the waggling of his fingers. An awkward little hat sat on the summit of his thick hair, which was strangely a slightly different color than the peach fuzz on his face. He was so cliché, this odd man in this little town with its idyllic bridge. I sort of hated him a little. But I still walked up to him.

If he noticed my approach, he gave no indication, and continued his soliloquy. I stopped a few steps away from him and scrutinized him briefly before turning and mimicking his pose. Proximity allowed me a hearty whiff; those many cats clearly enjoyed the use of his clothing as both bed and bathroom.

Closer inspection also showed that despite his otherwise unkempt appearance, his body was well groomed. His cheeks and chin were stubbled, but with only a 5 o’clock shadow – he must have shaved earlier in the day. His hair was on the longer side, but was clean and combed. His fingernails were clean. If this man did manual labor, it did not show. In fact, I had no idea what this man did. I would have called him homeless, but the evidence was all contradictory.

I stared unabashedly at this point, but I guess he did not care. He couldn’t have been oblivious to my presence. Or could he? His muted monologue held his own attention rapt, eyes still observing that which wasn’t there. He seemed an absent-minded professor, lecturing an audience only he could see over the edge of the bridge. I couldn’t resist any longer, and leaned closer to try to hear.

Sneak: Desert Storm

I stood at a corner of a crossroads.  Dust swirled over the road, prodded along by an unpleasant breeze.  The sky was surprisingly still given the impish wind on the ground.  Heavy purple clouds pressed against each other over head, highlighted an unnatural orange by the hidden sun.  The air felt heavy and somehow energized, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if my breath had electrocuted me from within my lungs.  A storm was coming.  I half expected the Devil to appear in the road before me.

I stared into the middle distance over the desert, eyes unseeing, lost in thought.  The wind fingered my clothes, tugging me gently, but I didn’t notice.  It pushed at my back, insisting, yet I ignored it.  Sage and creosote quivered as the wind gusted as if frustrated.  But I spared no attention.  An empty gaze fell over the red sands, and my mind pictured only him.

He had fallen months before.  But somehow I felt him there.  After all this time, had he found me?

Blustering clumsily, the tumultuous little breeze kicked dust up my pant legs and into my eyes.  I could disregard it no longer.  I blinked furiously and rubbed the silt out from under my eyelids.  As I tried to regain focus with vision blurred by tears, a shadow passed before me.  My eyes widened, then promptly squeezed tightly closed against the light, as they were still full of grit and sensitive.  It was nothing, I thought to myself. I’m getting worked up… Be logical.

Untitled – June 24, 2011

The dark tonight is strange.  It is heavy… ominous, oppressive, overwhelming.  There is a depth to it, an intensity that elicits a visceral response.  I drove home tonight with my shoulders hunched, as if the weight of that black sky slid through the metal body of my car to press upon me.  I feel a feral fear, an apprehension with no logic, a tightness in my muscles… a need to run from this inky harbinger of unknown calamity.  The city must feel it, too.  Its light, from motley lamps, orange, amber, pink… it strains to take to the sky.  It is inhibited and small against the immensity of murk, and human eyes struggle to cope.  What is it that makes this night so exceptional, harrowing, yet weirdly invigorating?  Where has that incredible void come from, like some somber black hole, quietly sucking the light and civility from mankind?  These words almost come born of a subliminal need to maintain intellectuality, while deep within I hear the desire of instinct to take hold.  Will I maintain my humanity ’til morning?  Or will the dawn find me wild with the madness of this dark?

Butt-Buster Booger Hill

February 5, 2011:

This winter being such a snowy one, a tale of woe and tragedy from my childhood has been coming to mind quite frequently… My father is going to be endlessly surprised and tickled by the fact that I’ve chosen to share this, but I feel I must get this story out, so that future generations may benefit from my distress.

I have no idea how old I was when these terrible events transpired.  I must have been no more than eight.  I would hope so, anyway; you’ll understand as you read on.

We had just gotten a good little snowstorm, and my family was heading out for a day of sledding.  With blue plastic toboggans and Thermos of hot chocolate in tow, we headed out to the Assunpink Wildlife Management Area, where dwells a fantastic hill.  My little sister and I vibrated with ill-contained glee and excitement.

Now, before I continue, I need to impress upon you, my precious readers, just what this hill entails.  It is steep.  I mean epic steep.  In snow, most cars cannot climb the road up it.  It is also heavily wooded in parts.  A stream lies at the bottom of it.  And as I discovered, above all, it is a fickle mistress.

When we arrived, my parents marched us up the hill in a safe spot, right near the road.  The trees were a little thinner there, and there were a couple of clear paths to sled down.  No need to steer, really – just kick off and slide down.  These paths were fantastic for little Melissa and littler Jenny… especially the one that let out onto the snow-covered road, and offered a particularly lengthy ride.  Truly bliss for two little be-mittened girls.

But not enough for the mad mountain man… my father.

This barbarian, with his animalistic desire for adrenaline, wanted… nay!  Needed! to find a grander adventure than these bunny slopes.  Fervor lighting his eyes and spittle flecking his beard, he found an optimal spot.  Trees barred the way, treacherous obstacles to maneuver about.  Beyond that, the route was shrouded in mystery.  Uncertainty was the only certainty on this deranged descent.  He had to do it.

But he would not be going alone.

Swept up in his frenzy, innocent, unsuspecting, and trusting, I found myself in front of my dad on the sled, pointed down a new direction.  “It’s going to be fun!” my father promised.  “You’re going to love it!”  I wonder to this day if he truly believed that, and that the tragedy was all just an accident…  But I tend to think it was the sickness in his brain that spoke those words.

The ride started out just fine.  Weaving through the trees, my own infant addiction to adrenaline was being fed; I was thrilled.  We picked up speed…

…and then… the worst.

I don’t know if it was root or rock, but whatever we hit sent us airborne.  My father, heavier than I, was deposited squarely (and I almost hope painfully) on his posterior in the snow.  This left me, careening even faster now that I was alone, hurtling through the trees toward my certain demise.  It was then I saw the stream approaching at break-neck speed…  But before that lay the branch.  Such an enormous branch I had never seen before; what behemoth of a tree could have sprouted that monstrosity?

But I didn’t have time to think of these things at that moment.  Before I could react, the sled hit the branch, instantly dropping from the speed of sound to a dead stop.  However, I was not so fortunate.  The branch had two effects on me.  Firstly, the sudden decrease in speed caused the contents of my rather stuffy sinuses to empty all down my face.  And secondly, I was launched ass-first into that barely-frozen stream.

By some miracle, I remained relatively dry, aside from the torrents of snot the had been knocked out of me.  The soreness, both of body and ego, was where the real damage had been done.  As I laid there, shocked and crying, I looked up to see…

…my devoted father…

…laughing his ass off.

The moral of this story, children? Dads are dicks!

Old words with Beckham

January, 2008:

Walking next to him amongst the trees, I feel as if I am walking beside a god. His red body vibrant against the grays of the winter landscape, he is bigger, grander than his baby form could be. His serenity belies his scant nine months; his eyes hold the wisdom of generations. I am truly blessed to harbor such company.

Together, we partake of the wilderness, relishing this reprieve from the real world. We are part of this natural existence, this god and I, and all else ceases to exist. The shuffle of the fallen leaves, the crackling branches, the wind in the boughs of the trees… The birds flitting overhead and deer bounding aside to let us pass… This is our existence now.

An interminable span of time passes… an eon. And then, as the human world is all but erased from our minds, the trees thin and present us a stark reminder…

A sandy desert cuts through the woods. Hills that by no rights should exist rise up around tracks laid by no animal foot. My god stops dead, as if shaken from a reverie. Ears pricked, eyes wide, nostrils flared… The human world overwhelms his senses once more. He is still grand, but we are both shaken, both unnerved.

We step out into this desert, unsettled but ever curious. I notice power lines to our right, he sees houses far off to the left. At once my thoughts turn to the ever-pressing advance of ‘civilization.’ I sigh, place a hand on my god’s shoulder, and we continue to explore further.

What we find could not have been expected by the infant at my side, but even I am shocked.

And somewhat amused.

Two behemoths lie behind a hill, in a valley of their own construction. At first I take them as further proof that human habitation demands this space, but then I see… Rust. Broken metal. Scraps and mechanical parts littering the area. Spray paint. These monsters are dead, their bodies defiled by the local youth. Two metal monsters in a grave they dug themselves. The poetic justice makes me smile.

My god and I do not stay long in this place. We are satisfied now, curiosity sated. His great form leads me back to our reverie, our dreamed escape to a world more our own.