Monday, August 26, 2013
Tinfoil Hats and Black Helicopters
Thought I was going to lose it this morning before I left the house, Dennis was leaving before me and he said good-bye to the girls and Iris did this little guilt trip thing she does. She does her multi-syllabic whine: "mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm!" And then she gives you this heartbroken look and lifts one paw up...she knows how to work us.
Dennis spent a few extra minutes saying good-bye and then it was my time to leave. By then Iris figured out that her trick didn't work, so she tried the next trick- sitting below the kitchen cabinets where her treats are- and staring up at them so I'd feel compelled to give the girls a treat before I left.
I took my tinfoil hat with me, keeping it invisible but firmly planted on my head to keep the evil from creeping in and sucking my thoughts out. I think it worked, and I lucked out, we were overstaffed for the afternoon and I got to go home early, at 2 pm. Awesome. I came home to the girls who were thrilled to see me.
Being back, I kept my head on straight, despite all the bitching around me and all the little annoyances and stupidities that pick, pick, pick at you all day long, all of the ridiculousness, irony, and unresolvable frustrations that eat away at your resolve, I managed to ward them off with the invisible tinfoil. But they were there, and I have to keep my guard up until I get through the next two days. I work Tuesday, then Wednesday we have a staff meeting at 7 am. The joy of it...
Three of our patients died while I was gone, none of the deaths were a big surprise, but the timing is never what you think. I always say good-bye when they leave their appointments because you never know. A reminder of how important the patients are, regardless of the endless crap that gets slung around that has nothing to do with taking care of them.
While we were gone the CEO and President of our newly merged organization either relieved themselves, or were relieved of their duties, in one way or another, who knows, who cares, and I say good riddance. They have no clue what their underlings do. Completely and totally out of touch with their factory workers. Buh-bye. Have a nice retirement. Enjoy your spoils, because we underlings are all suffering as a result of your corporate success.
Actually I knew all about it, despite the fact that I turned off my work e-mail while we were away. I got texts, personal e-mails, and of course saw on Facebook the "big news". BFD.
How insignificant it makes the chatter and hubbub of the day, of the past weekend's corporate events that everyone who is not in a direct patient care position worries about, things that the muckety-mucks somehow think are earthshattering and they go clamoring for explanations and excuses, but I could not care less. I have little concern for the fate of a couple of multimillion dollar salaried executives. I think they'll survive.
What I care about are the people who are getting their first chemotherapy treatment today, and are worried about everything in their lives being turned upside down, including just being alive. Because there's no guarantee. How much is it going to hurt when I tap their port for the first time? How much nausea can they expect after their first chemo infusion? Will they be able to continue working? How successful is this type of chemotherapy treatment for people who have the same stage of cancer that they do? Is it all true, what the doctor told them? That kind of stuff.
Tomorrow is another day, and I'm bringing my tinfoil hat again. I might have to double up the layers of aluminum in case there's any metal fatigue.