I've been watching news on Israel [via Internet--when you work evenings, who has time for TV?] because we're headed there for Baha'i Pilgrimage to Haifa the end of January. At least, God willing. I've watched as the leaders in Israel reacted to rockets from the Gaza Strip and Hamas, and vowed to respond. Now I'm grieved to see the bloodshed in Gaza today: 200 killed, 400 wounded.
Israel seems one of the few spots on earth where there is really no such thing as a civilian. People fleeing from centuries of worldwide persecution, carving a country out of an area that already was populated, [should sound familiar to Americans], threatened on all sides, yet strangely, coincidentally, forming a kind of shelter for the Baha'i World Center in the midst of Arab countries hostile to Jews and Baha'is alike.
The Founder of the Baha'i Faith, Baha'u'llah, did not pack His bags and move to Palestine on purpose. Imprisoned and exiled from Iran for forty years or more by Nasirih-Din Shah and the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, from Tehran to Baghdad to Constantinople to Adrianople and at last to Akka [Acre] near Haifa, to the famous fortress that Napoleon attacked. Eventually the Baha'is were given more and more freedom, culminating in the liberation of religious and political prisoners in the Young Turk Revolution. Baha'u'llah set up His tent at one time on Mount Carmel and designated the spot destined to receive the holy remains of the Bab, martyred in Tabriz, Iran in 1850: the spot which now shines with the golden dome of the Shrine of the Bab. Mount Carmel now is the site for the Baha'i World Center, home of the seat of the Universal House of Justice, and considered by Baha'is the holiest spot on the Earth.
"Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord" . . . ~ Isaiah.
This is where we are going Feb 2 to the 10th. God willing.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Cabin Fever, or, Enough Snowink Already
Oh,
Our zest for snow is fading,
Through slush we're tired of wading,
Slipping on ice is such a pain,
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.
The people inside are grumpy,
They're feeling sad and frumpy,
We need to run on the Veldt,
Let it meldt, let it meldt, let it meldt.
What's your verse?
Our zest for snow is fading,
Through slush we're tired of wading,
Slipping on ice is such a pain,
Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.
The people inside are grumpy,
They're feeling sad and frumpy,
We need to run on the Veldt,
Let it meldt, let it meldt, let it meldt.
What's your verse?
Friday, December 26, 2008
Weaner Pigs
Well, what is it--wiener pigs or weaner pigs? Make up your mind.
My favorite sign driving up and down Highway 161 between Puyallup and Eatonville is a small white sign with the outlines of two pigs nose to nose that points the way down a side road: Weaner Pigs.
The highlight of driving in the country for me is seeing wildlife; short of that, seeing livestock. Short of that, the mention of animals of any kind. I'm easy to please. There are the pair of llamas on Vickery by Highway 512; the small herd of goats by 161 just the south side of the Graham Hill; on the left, the Fat Hen Farm, and then Weaner Pigs. Then the Horse Hillside just by the turnoff to a camp, and just before the hill up towards Clear Lake, something I used to call Llama Land, a farm which no longer features llamas, cows, donkeys, alpacas or anything anymore, sadly.
Once I had the notion to name my blog Weaner Pigs I couldn't shake it. But I created a problem because I'd forgotten that it's weaner, not wiener. Found that when I changed the name, I could not figure out how to change the link without changing the address, oh, dear.
Someday I'll learn certain things, such as how to post photos. Hot dog!
My favorite sign driving up and down Highway 161 between Puyallup and Eatonville is a small white sign with the outlines of two pigs nose to nose that points the way down a side road: Weaner Pigs.
The highlight of driving in the country for me is seeing wildlife; short of that, seeing livestock. Short of that, the mention of animals of any kind. I'm easy to please. There are the pair of llamas on Vickery by Highway 512; the small herd of goats by 161 just the south side of the Graham Hill; on the left, the Fat Hen Farm, and then Weaner Pigs. Then the Horse Hillside just by the turnoff to a camp, and just before the hill up towards Clear Lake, something I used to call Llama Land, a farm which no longer features llamas, cows, donkeys, alpacas or anything anymore, sadly.
Once I had the notion to name my blog Weaner Pigs I couldn't shake it. But I created a problem because I'd forgotten that it's weaner, not wiener. Found that when I changed the name, I could not figure out how to change the link without changing the address, oh, dear.
Someday I'll learn certain things, such as how to post photos. Hot dog!
Turn Your Radio On
An old song recorded by John Hartford:
Turn your radio on and listen to the music in the air
Turn your radio on, heaven's glory share
Turn your lights down low and listen to the Master's radio
Get in touch with God, turn your radio on.
Come and listen in to the radio station
Where the mighty hosts of heaven sing;
Turn your radio on, turn your radio on;
Something something something,
Listen to the glad hosanna's ring,
Turn your radio on, turn your radio on.
[at this point I forget, I would have to look it up.]
I followed up a few years ago with a spoof:
Won't you go online . . . also don't remember the rest of that one!
Anyway, here we are gathered as a family around the computer, the electric heater purring in the background, as rain melts the snow away . . . communing online.
Speaking of snow: the one way we mortals can walk on water. Enjoy it while you can.
Turn your radio on and listen to the music in the air
Turn your radio on, heaven's glory share
Turn your lights down low and listen to the Master's radio
Get in touch with God, turn your radio on.
Come and listen in to the radio station
Where the mighty hosts of heaven sing;
Turn your radio on, turn your radio on;
Something something something,
Listen to the glad hosanna's ring,
Turn your radio on, turn your radio on.
[at this point I forget, I would have to look it up.]
I followed up a few years ago with a spoof:
Won't you go online . . . also don't remember the rest of that one!
Anyway, here we are gathered as a family around the computer, the electric heater purring in the background, as rain melts the snow away . . . communing online.
Speaking of snow: the one way we mortals can walk on water. Enjoy it while you can.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Cheese it, the cops!
One resident at Homeland is becoming increasingly confused. Probably not delerium, which is a change in mental condition due to physical causes such as an illness, e.g. bladder infection. Probably just slipping a few cogs. Tonight she was asking to call the police about an imaginary problem, and I kept putting her off. Suddenly in walks the daughter of another resident in her police uniform, who was immediately assailed with the resident's problems. She must have figured I had finally called the cops.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Reset
The Northwest, Tacoma, has been submerged in snow. Last weekend I drove to and from work both days, admittedly only two miles, without any problem, only for my CRV to get stuck in the driveway on my return Sunday night. It's not four-wheel drive. I tried shoveling, kitty litter in front of the wheels, and just got annoyed.
Checked emails and read my sister's about hosting friends of theirs who had been burnt out of their house, living in a hotel for several days, and just needed to wash clothes, cook, experience being in a house again. Well, that solved my annoyance. It was just like a reset button for my mood. A timely reminder that many people have things much worse.
I've been out of town. My husband drove from Eatonville to pick me up from work and took me out here for my one day off to chill out, finish my first [for me] Patrick O'Brian novel, and hope my car has been thawed out of its stuck state in the last day.
Postscript: my schizophrenic existence involves living in Tacoma and Eatonville by turns. One has my house and my work; the other has my husband. I don't like commuting regularly as my work evening shift keeps me up late and I've gotten tired of road rage [other people's.] Testosterone-infused pickup trucks with brights five feet behind my bumper are not my idea of a good time.
Checked emails and read my sister's about hosting friends of theirs who had been burnt out of their house, living in a hotel for several days, and just needed to wash clothes, cook, experience being in a house again. Well, that solved my annoyance. It was just like a reset button for my mood. A timely reminder that many people have things much worse.
I've been out of town. My husband drove from Eatonville to pick me up from work and took me out here for my one day off to chill out, finish my first [for me] Patrick O'Brian novel, and hope my car has been thawed out of its stuck state in the last day.
Postscript: my schizophrenic existence involves living in Tacoma and Eatonville by turns. One has my house and my work; the other has my husband. I don't like commuting regularly as my work evening shift keeps me up late and I've gotten tired of road rage [other people's.] Testosterone-infused pickup trucks with brights five feet behind my bumper are not my idea of a good time.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
How the Holocaust Changed My Life
I was about 12 one summer, sitting under the lilac tree in the yard, reading Anne Frank when I finished it, wept, and reflected why were people so mean to each other. A thought entered my mind, one of the few quotes from the Bible I had heard: "the meek shall inherit the earth."
I thought about this. A fierce passion grew in me. I decided that when I found out who the meek were, I would join them. At that time, I was thinking in terms of "meek", meaning, people who are not mean to each other, people who do not seek to dominate or control each other, and people who mean to work together in peace to make the world better, not worse.
Now I see "meek" also as a humble understanding of one's relationship to God.
What I did as a teenager was read everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust, although I don't think the books I read called it that. I moved on gradually to other causes, for example, my astonishment when I discovered that Japanese Americans were placed in confinement during World War II. And gradually I forgot about my vow to find and follow the "meek."
Until one day I found myself coming into a house full of happy, interesting people who called themselves "Baha'is" and saying, "I want to join."
Life has never been the same.
I thought about this. A fierce passion grew in me. I decided that when I found out who the meek were, I would join them. At that time, I was thinking in terms of "meek", meaning, people who are not mean to each other, people who do not seek to dominate or control each other, and people who mean to work together in peace to make the world better, not worse.
Now I see "meek" also as a humble understanding of one's relationship to God.
What I did as a teenager was read everything I could get my hands on about the Holocaust, although I don't think the books I read called it that. I moved on gradually to other causes, for example, my astonishment when I discovered that Japanese Americans were placed in confinement during World War II. And gradually I forgot about my vow to find and follow the "meek."
Until one day I found myself coming into a house full of happy, interesting people who called themselves "Baha'is" and saying, "I want to join."
Life has never been the same.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Drive By Caroling
Residents at Homeland Extended Health Care were terrified when a group of carolers entered the institution full of revelry and opened up with song, leveling all with laughter within a few moments. "They were truly amazing," states the Green Wing Charge Nurse, Arlene S., who declined to give her full name, for fear of reprisals. "There were seven or eight individuals, young adults, and each one of them was singing in a different key and in a different time! What a performance! We were bowled over." She went on to say that she picked up the phone to warn the Pink Wing Charge Nurse, John, but it was already too late, as they were on their way down the hall before she could intervene.
"It was an amazing feat. I don't think anyone could repeat it," she gasped, exhausted by the ordeal. "Fortunately, it was all over in a few minutes." She put in that nursing homes are particularly vulnerable to this type of violent encroachment during the holiday season. Other aggressive acts this time of year are the attempts to poison the staff with sugary comestibles, especially chocolates, and being forced to watch the mechanical antics of toys dancing and singing festive tunes. The Charge Nurse added, "we will be relieved when this season is over and we can go back to our humdrum [if not humbug] routines."
"It was an amazing feat. I don't think anyone could repeat it," she gasped, exhausted by the ordeal. "Fortunately, it was all over in a few minutes." She put in that nursing homes are particularly vulnerable to this type of violent encroachment during the holiday season. Other aggressive acts this time of year are the attempts to poison the staff with sugary comestibles, especially chocolates, and being forced to watch the mechanical antics of toys dancing and singing festive tunes. The Charge Nurse added, "we will be relieved when this season is over and we can go back to our humdrum [if not humbug] routines."
The Time of the Custodians
Not the Era of the Janitors. The time that the Baha'i World Faith was led by a group of dedicated servants called "Hands of the Cause of God."
One of the central principles in the Baha'i Faith is the Covenant: the agreement of God with Humans, renewed through every Manifestation of God, i.e. the Founders of the world's great religions in every age, who prophesied that another great teacher would follow in the next age. The most recent Manifestation is Baha'u'llah. He left a will and testament naming His oldest son, 'Abdu'l-Baha, as the Head of the Faith, the Center of His Covenant, after His passing. Baha'u'llah died in 1892. 'Abdu'l-Baha lived until 1921, designating His grandson, Shoghi Effendi, as the Guardian of the Faith, after His passing. Baha'u'llah and Shoghi Effendi both appointed men and women to serve as Hands of the Cause of God, an institution created for the protection and propagation of the Faith.
During the lifetime of Shoghi Effendi, the Administrative Order of the Faith was built up and developed, expanded world wide on the local and national level, and made up of elected institutions. In 1957 I was born in February; the beloved Guardian, Shoghi Effendi, passed away suddenly in November. For several months I walked--or crawled--on the earth at the same time as this great leader of the Baha'i World. When Shoghi Effendi died, the leadership of the Faith was left in the hands of these Hands of the Cause. They guided, inspired, protected and nurtured the affairs and members of the Faith with infinite pains until the Universal House of Justice could be elected in 1963 according to the plan established by Shoghi Effendi.
These conferences being held all over the world remind me of the conferences held midway through the plan inaugurated by Shoghi Effendi and taken to a triumphant conclusion with the election of the Universal House of Justice. Three new Houses of Worship were built during that time, in Kampala, Uganda, Frankfurt, Germany, and in Sydney, Australia. And those were the sites [if I remember correctly] where these great conferences were held. The spirit! I wish I could have been there. And then in 1963, concurrent with the election of the Universal House of Justice at last, for the very first time, was held the Most Great Jubilee, a world-wide conference of celebration held in London, England.
When I think about the trials of the Hands of the Cause as they shepharded the Faith through this enormous period of growth, fraught with dangers, and the triumph of the election of the Universal House of Justice, it makes me want to cry for their sacrifices, and cry for the joy of the birth of that great institution.
One of the central principles in the Baha'i Faith is the Covenant: the agreement of God with Humans, renewed through every Manifestation of God, i.e. the Founders of the world's great religions in every age, who prophesied that another great teacher would follow in the next age. The most recent Manifestation is Baha'u'llah. He left a will and testament naming His oldest son, 'Abdu'l-Baha, as the Head of the Faith, the Center of His Covenant, after His passing. Baha'u'llah died in 1892. 'Abdu'l-Baha lived until 1921, designating His grandson, Shoghi Effendi, as the Guardian of the Faith, after His passing. Baha'u'llah and Shoghi Effendi both appointed men and women to serve as Hands of the Cause of God, an institution created for the protection and propagation of the Faith.
During the lifetime of Shoghi Effendi, the Administrative Order of the Faith was built up and developed, expanded world wide on the local and national level, and made up of elected institutions. In 1957 I was born in February; the beloved Guardian, Shoghi Effendi, passed away suddenly in November. For several months I walked--or crawled--on the earth at the same time as this great leader of the Baha'i World. When Shoghi Effendi died, the leadership of the Faith was left in the hands of these Hands of the Cause. They guided, inspired, protected and nurtured the affairs and members of the Faith with infinite pains until the Universal House of Justice could be elected in 1963 according to the plan established by Shoghi Effendi.
These conferences being held all over the world remind me of the conferences held midway through the plan inaugurated by Shoghi Effendi and taken to a triumphant conclusion with the election of the Universal House of Justice. Three new Houses of Worship were built during that time, in Kampala, Uganda, Frankfurt, Germany, and in Sydney, Australia. And those were the sites [if I remember correctly] where these great conferences were held. The spirit! I wish I could have been there. And then in 1963, concurrent with the election of the Universal House of Justice at last, for the very first time, was held the Most Great Jubilee, a world-wide conference of celebration held in London, England.
When I think about the trials of the Hands of the Cause as they shepharded the Faith through this enormous period of growth, fraught with dangers, and the triumph of the election of the Universal House of Justice, it makes me want to cry for their sacrifices, and cry for the joy of the birth of that great institution.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Why CNA's Should Rule the World
I spent three days [nonconsecutive--I called in one day "sick", i.e. close to a nervous breakdown] in the summer of 1976 in Seattle trying to be a nursing assistant. I don't think there was any certification then. The training was this: go buy a white uniform and white shoes and show up at 6 AM. So I take the early bus out to this outfit [it was on north 125th somewhere] so nervous and so unused to the early hour I'm about to throw up, and they send us out on the floor to shove oatmeal into one end and clean up the other, for these poor old souls complaining, "I don't want to get up!" Me neither, sister. I spent the whole time in a state of confusion.
The hallways were filled with old people in hospital gowns and poor grooming tied into wheelchairs by Posey vest restraints, hollering. Someone asked to be helped to the bathroom and I had no idea how to transfer her. I helped the nurses position someone as they treated a bedsore you could have fit a pear into, a sight my young eyes were not ready for. When I wasn't sure what to do next I sat down, and got yelled at for sitting. My uniform pants rubbed tender areas and my shoes were not broken in. For lunch I sat out on the loading dock, as I couldn't breathe in the break room.
I think what really filled me with a sense of futility was yanking everyone out of bed in the morning, taking them to breakfast, then laying them down; then up again for lunch, then down again . . . It seemed uselessly regimented, and a meaningless existence.
Now here I am in health care again. A lot of things have changed, and for those that haven't, I understand the rationale. But I will always have enormous respect for nursing assistants. We can't do the job without them. We just can't.
The hallways were filled with old people in hospital gowns and poor grooming tied into wheelchairs by Posey vest restraints, hollering. Someone asked to be helped to the bathroom and I had no idea how to transfer her. I helped the nurses position someone as they treated a bedsore you could have fit a pear into, a sight my young eyes were not ready for. When I wasn't sure what to do next I sat down, and got yelled at for sitting. My uniform pants rubbed tender areas and my shoes were not broken in. For lunch I sat out on the loading dock, as I couldn't breathe in the break room.
I think what really filled me with a sense of futility was yanking everyone out of bed in the morning, taking them to breakfast, then laying them down; then up again for lunch, then down again . . . It seemed uselessly regimented, and a meaningless existence.
Now here I am in health care again. A lot of things have changed, and for those that haven't, I understand the rationale. But I will always have enormous respect for nursing assistants. We can't do the job without them. We just can't.
"Homeland" Extended Health Care
Crazy, busy week. Transcribing orders for new admits, I get to write about two words before the phone rings or a family member appears at the desk or someone phones to say, "'Frieda Last' isn't answering her phone. Can you check if she's all right, and if she can reach the phone?" [For this I went to Nursing School.] Or I need to jump up to do a treatment, i.e. dressing change.
Friday was nuts. Nurses have a superstition about the full moon, and since it's usually crazy to some degree, it would be hard to disprove. Friday was definitely lunacy. I walk in and find the day charge nurse getting ready to send someone out, and help with that; then there's a new admit that came it at two so I end up doing it; and someone comes back from a visit with the infectious disease group with orders seemingly impossible to carry out on a Friday night.
She needs to get started on an IV antibiotic, therefore has an order to put in a PICC line [a central IV-type line which feeds directly into the Superior Vena Cava and needs a specialist to place] and a CAT scan; neither of which can happen at "Homeland." Immediately I decide she needs to go out to the hospital ER, so I start calling ambulance companies. The first one has an ETA of 3-4 hours due to traffic and weather; the second one an hour or two. So I call the son to let him know. Then I think to call the hospital and they're like, "Are you crazy? They don't start a PICC line this time of night, and the ER isn't the best place to have a CAT scan done."
So about that time the Infectious Disease folks contact me and I find out I can have the antibiotic given with an IM injection until a PICC can be placed, and the CAT scan can wait till Monday. I call the son to let him know the change of plans. So now I'm canceling transport about the time the ambulance gets there, and changing the orders. This entire issue has taken me at least two to three hours to deal with. In the meantime the Infectious Disease doctor drew a syringe full of fluid from her wound which he sent back to Homeland with the patient for us to deal with, as if we have a lab on the premises.
I have to send the specimen back out to PacLab. I phone the lab. She answers the phone as she always does: "LabVicky." I explain the situation, that the specimen was collected at the MD office but he sent it to us. She hears the name of the MD's office. "Good grief! That's only 800 yards from us! What a cornball." This is the longest conversation I've had with LabVicky.
I finish the admission paperwork about 9:30 and get to start charting about 10:30 PM. At midnight the DNS phones me back: I had called her cell earlier when I was out of ideas how to get this person's antibiotic into her in a timely manner, but her cell had been off. About 3 AM I'm cuddling up in Eatonville with my dear for the first time in four days, due to not wanting to spend 45 minutes driving home at two in the morning on busy nights . . .
Friday was nuts. Nurses have a superstition about the full moon, and since it's usually crazy to some degree, it would be hard to disprove. Friday was definitely lunacy. I walk in and find the day charge nurse getting ready to send someone out, and help with that; then there's a new admit that came it at two so I end up doing it; and someone comes back from a visit with the infectious disease group with orders seemingly impossible to carry out on a Friday night.
She needs to get started on an IV antibiotic, therefore has an order to put in a PICC line [a central IV-type line which feeds directly into the Superior Vena Cava and needs a specialist to place] and a CAT scan; neither of which can happen at "Homeland." Immediately I decide she needs to go out to the hospital ER, so I start calling ambulance companies. The first one has an ETA of 3-4 hours due to traffic and weather; the second one an hour or two. So I call the son to let him know. Then I think to call the hospital and they're like, "Are you crazy? They don't start a PICC line this time of night, and the ER isn't the best place to have a CAT scan done."
So about that time the Infectious Disease folks contact me and I find out I can have the antibiotic given with an IM injection until a PICC can be placed, and the CAT scan can wait till Monday. I call the son to let him know the change of plans. So now I'm canceling transport about the time the ambulance gets there, and changing the orders. This entire issue has taken me at least two to three hours to deal with. In the meantime the Infectious Disease doctor drew a syringe full of fluid from her wound which he sent back to Homeland with the patient for us to deal with, as if we have a lab on the premises.
I have to send the specimen back out to PacLab. I phone the lab. She answers the phone as she always does: "LabVicky." I explain the situation, that the specimen was collected at the MD office but he sent it to us. She hears the name of the MD's office. "Good grief! That's only 800 yards from us! What a cornball." This is the longest conversation I've had with LabVicky.
I finish the admission paperwork about 9:30 and get to start charting about 10:30 PM. At midnight the DNS phones me back: I had called her cell earlier when I was out of ideas how to get this person's antibiotic into her in a timely manner, but her cell had been off. About 3 AM I'm cuddling up in Eatonville with my dear for the first time in four days, due to not wanting to spend 45 minutes driving home at two in the morning on busy nights . . .
Friday, December 12, 2008
Oh One Forty-four AM
I feel significantly sorry for myself when I don't get off of work until 1 AM vs. 11 PM. Three very busy days in a row, with admissions [I admit nothing!] and hopping up every five minutes to answer the phone or do a treatment or deal with a concern, plus multiple doctor's orders, leave me charting into the wee hours. I got to bed about 3 this morning, I mean, yesterday morning. So I come home and check my blog and yay! Readers. George made my day: "I love your blog, Arlene." Yay. And a comment via email by Bonita that made me laugh.
I've had a concern that I, being new to the technology, don't know how to check if anyone reads my blog; plus it isn't illustrated. So it relies on text to involve people, and I didn't know if anyone was interested. At first I scolded myself for the egotism of wanting readers. On reflection, on the way home, I realized, no. I just want the feeling of connecting to people.
Ah.
I've had a concern that I, being new to the technology, don't know how to check if anyone reads my blog; plus it isn't illustrated. So it relies on text to involve people, and I didn't know if anyone was interested. At first I scolded myself for the egotism of wanting readers. On reflection, on the way home, I realized, no. I just want the feeling of connecting to people.
Ah.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
No Barking
Yesterday at the SNF where I work we had what turned into an hour-long meeting with the licensed nurses on the Medicare side of the building. We have a Green side and a Pink side, so I could just call it the Green side. Anyway, we got into a review of the new policy for managing people's hearing aides so they don't get lost, which involves locking the HA's in the med room and signing them in and out, and only licensed nurses putting them in or taking them out of ears. Then the CNA's were getting reprimanded by the med nurses because often a resident will take out their hearing aides and hand them to the CNA, who hands them to the med nurses. So the really literal minded med nurses were yelling at the CNA's for doing the right thing, saying only LN's could handle the HA's.
At this juncture I spoke up and said, "I don't think it's ever appropriate under any circumstances for anybody to be barked at. I hear a lot of complaints from my CNA's about nurses barking at them, and it doesn't make me feel very good that they are treated this way."
So after this interminable meeting, one of the CNA's came up to me in the hallway, and said, "Thank you! We know what you did. I'm glad someone stood up for us. I didn't think that would ever happen." Apparently the CNA supervisor, who was present at the meeting, talked to the aides to see which nurses were acting this way, and one or two of the nurses were pulled aside and spoken to. I'll probably be Public Enemy Number One with those nurses, but that doesn't really concern me. It's about time I put my foot down.
At this juncture I spoke up and said, "I don't think it's ever appropriate under any circumstances for anybody to be barked at. I hear a lot of complaints from my CNA's about nurses barking at them, and it doesn't make me feel very good that they are treated this way."
So after this interminable meeting, one of the CNA's came up to me in the hallway, and said, "Thank you! We know what you did. I'm glad someone stood up for us. I didn't think that would ever happen." Apparently the CNA supervisor, who was present at the meeting, talked to the aides to see which nurses were acting this way, and one or two of the nurses were pulled aside and spoken to. I'll probably be Public Enemy Number One with those nurses, but that doesn't really concern me. It's about time I put my foot down.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Toilets With Green Handles
In the Oregon Convention Center the toilets have green handles. There is a sign behind the toilet with detailed instructions: move the lever up for "liquid wastes" and down for "solid wastes." We exited the bathroom at the end of the evening last night in a swirl of hilarity, worrying that if we make the wrong choice in flushing we'll here a harsh, blaring, beeping alarm [you know the one: you've heard it in movies about nuclear reactors going awry. EHHH, EHHH, EHHH.] The floor will begin to spin beneath our feet, pulling us down into a subterranean region, some dark and echoing depths.
The men's bathroom, I heard, is quite peaceful, with depictions of waterfalls behind the urinals. Just in case you have trouble getting started.
My husband and I drift through the crowd in the lobby after a series of quite wonderful, incredible performances. Songs, dances, poetry, a father and son on santur and drum, especially sweet, embracing after the performance. My sox have been knocked off. Persian couples who seem vaguely familiar come up and we converse. Everyone knows my husband, and I know no one. There is something about my brain [many things, in fact, it has transpired over the years] that makes it difficult to remember faces and names. It puts me at an awkward disadvantage, as with my red hair [plus paired with a gregarious and illustrious husband] I seem to be more memorable. Visually, anyway. So a few people were saying How are you doing? and I'm thinking Who are you? [In Arlenese, that means, "In what way did I make a fool of myself, and what stupid thing did I say, the last time we met?] I tell the husbands, "Tell him to tune his Santur, I've been waiting two years . . . " I'm never afraid of a little hyperbole. [Former husband hated that. One more nail in the coffin of our relationship.]
After twelve or more hours of human contact in public I emerge swimming in self-loathing. Every time. Multiple short interactions. Land mines of opportunities for saying something stupid. Wit involves risk-taking, and at the end of the day I am awash in self doubt. My skin feels as if it is prickling with the energy of scrutiny. It is time to go home. Advance, retreat. It is time to retreat. Sleep, recharge with prayers.
The glorious sunshine is gone this morning, replaced with a reflective, thoughtful rain.
The men's bathroom, I heard, is quite peaceful, with depictions of waterfalls behind the urinals. Just in case you have trouble getting started.
My husband and I drift through the crowd in the lobby after a series of quite wonderful, incredible performances. Songs, dances, poetry, a father and son on santur and drum, especially sweet, embracing after the performance. My sox have been knocked off. Persian couples who seem vaguely familiar come up and we converse. Everyone knows my husband, and I know no one. There is something about my brain [many things, in fact, it has transpired over the years] that makes it difficult to remember faces and names. It puts me at an awkward disadvantage, as with my red hair [plus paired with a gregarious and illustrious husband] I seem to be more memorable. Visually, anyway. So a few people were saying How are you doing? and I'm thinking Who are you? [In Arlenese, that means, "In what way did I make a fool of myself, and what stupid thing did I say, the last time we met?] I tell the husbands, "Tell him to tune his Santur, I've been waiting two years . . . " I'm never afraid of a little hyperbole. [Former husband hated that. One more nail in the coffin of our relationship.]
After twelve or more hours of human contact in public I emerge swimming in self-loathing. Every time. Multiple short interactions. Land mines of opportunities for saying something stupid. Wit involves risk-taking, and at the end of the day I am awash in self doubt. My skin feels as if it is prickling with the energy of scrutiny. It is time to go home. Advance, retreat. It is time to retreat. Sleep, recharge with prayers.
The glorious sunshine is gone this morning, replaced with a reflective, thoughtful rain.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Boy Am I In Trouble
Today in the Baha'i Conference I was listening to one of the inspiring talks, probably one from the person representing the Universal House of Justice, and some thoughts sprang into my mind; as usual, unstoppable. I realized there are some actions I need to take in my spiritual journey into teaching [not preaching] the Faith; actions so far out of my comfort zone I may as well set myself afire. Since we are supposed to be on fire with the love of God, that's not so far out after all.
The first one is unusual, but bearable. I have an egregious habit of backbiting which I have had trouble restraining. Backbiting is absolutely forbidden in the Baha'i Faith, possibly the worst sin of all. So a new employee was listening to one of these discussions at work and with one slice of the verbal sword, cut us all off at the knees. She said: "What do people say about ME when I'm not here?" So I've realized that God has probably put us together to help me stop backbiting. My action that occurred to me is to give her a dozen roses, probably with a note thanking her for assisting me.
The next action which occurred to me is much scarier. One employee I have gotten close to as a friend, although she now rarely works where I do but spends most of her hours at a facility closer to her home, named Colleen: she stated her husband wants to move back to Montana, due to the disintegration of society all around the world. The trigger for him was the attacks in Mumbai.
What I need to do is connect with Colleen, who does know I'm a Baha'i but not much about it, in an appropriate way to let her know that she is seeing half of the picture. "Soon you will see the old world order rolled up and a new one rolled out in its stead." ~ Baha'u'llah. The world is coming apart like an unbalance Wankel engine, tearing itself apart as it spins out of control. The world is also being created anew, the new world civilization brought by Baha'u'llah being built by the Baha'is with His blueprints, brick by brick. I need to let Colleen know this but I'm afraid of being clumsy and turning her off. The idea occurred to me to offer to host a devotional meeting in her home with prayers and writings from various faiths addressing the problems that concern her family. Contacting her about this is scary.
Most frightening of all is the notion I got this afternoon when I heard the story of a Baha'i working in a hospital in a very high-stress environment. She obtained permission to hold an ecumenical devotional meeting in the hospital. It was amazingly well-received. So instantly this was obviously applicable to the SNF where I work. I feel I must request permission to host devotional meetings for the staff. I realized this might go over better with the invitation for people to bring prayers and writings from their religious traditions.
I may as well set myself on fire.
Boy am I in trouble.
The first one is unusual, but bearable. I have an egregious habit of backbiting which I have had trouble restraining. Backbiting is absolutely forbidden in the Baha'i Faith, possibly the worst sin of all. So a new employee was listening to one of these discussions at work and with one slice of the verbal sword, cut us all off at the knees. She said: "What do people say about ME when I'm not here?" So I've realized that God has probably put us together to help me stop backbiting. My action that occurred to me is to give her a dozen roses, probably with a note thanking her for assisting me.
The next action which occurred to me is much scarier. One employee I have gotten close to as a friend, although she now rarely works where I do but spends most of her hours at a facility closer to her home, named Colleen: she stated her husband wants to move back to Montana, due to the disintegration of society all around the world. The trigger for him was the attacks in Mumbai.
What I need to do is connect with Colleen, who does know I'm a Baha'i but not much about it, in an appropriate way to let her know that she is seeing half of the picture. "Soon you will see the old world order rolled up and a new one rolled out in its stead." ~ Baha'u'llah. The world is coming apart like an unbalance Wankel engine, tearing itself apart as it spins out of control. The world is also being created anew, the new world civilization brought by Baha'u'llah being built by the Baha'is with His blueprints, brick by brick. I need to let Colleen know this but I'm afraid of being clumsy and turning her off. The idea occurred to me to offer to host a devotional meeting in her home with prayers and writings from various faiths addressing the problems that concern her family. Contacting her about this is scary.
Most frightening of all is the notion I got this afternoon when I heard the story of a Baha'i working in a hospital in a very high-stress environment. She obtained permission to hold an ecumenical devotional meeting in the hospital. It was amazingly well-received. So instantly this was obviously applicable to the SNF where I work. I feel I must request permission to host devotional meetings for the staff. I realized this might go over better with the invitation for people to bring prayers and writings from their religious traditions.
I may as well set myself on fire.
Boy am I in trouble.
The Spiritual Journey
There is a new college dedicated to climbers who write poetry. It's called Hike U.
Baha'i Conferences All Over the World
Baha'is are meeting all over the world in conferences sponsored by the top administrative body of the Baha'i Faith, the Universal House of Justice. One is here in Portland only about 3 hours [the way we drove] from where we live. After reading accounts of so many people all over the world sacrificing and traveling so far to be at the conferences, I feel privileged and a little guilty for this to be so easy. I don't know what to expect, but when Baha'is gather from various parts it tends to be like a huge family reunion.
We are staying at the Doubletree at Lloyd Center [momentary thought: I wonder if my friend Loyd is here? Probably working.] Didn't get here until about 11 PM. The registration starts at 7:30. Although we are pre-registered, I'd like to get there on time. So why am I up at 12:44 at night?
Blogging!
Hello, my name is Arlene and I'm a blogger. "Hello, Arlene!"
We are staying at the Doubletree at Lloyd Center [momentary thought: I wonder if my friend Loyd is here? Probably working.] Didn't get here until about 11 PM. The registration starts at 7:30. Although we are pre-registered, I'd like to get there on time. So why am I up at 12:44 at night?
Blogging!
Hello, my name is Arlene and I'm a blogger. "Hello, Arlene!"
Friday, December 5, 2008
The Magic Piano
When I was a child, we had a wonderful children's radio program called "Record Man and Story Lady." When you're five, you don't even analyze the meaning of the syllables. It's just, recordmanandstorylady. It came on every day at five o'clock. I remember wonderful radio episodes of The Lone Ranger and Zorro: a melange of crisp, urgent dialogue, the sounds of hooves galloping, angry shouts, and pistol shots. I could never follow the stories for an instant. I loved it.
They read a story one time about a child who discovered a magic piano. As a piano student, he was mediocre. But when he played on this magic piano, he became a musical genius. He's playing Beethoven, Bach, he attracts adoring audiences and becomes a child prodigy. This goes okay until he begins to take credit for his success and act as if he really has talent. Naturally this all goes awry when the magic disappears and he is bereft of his success. I'm assuming, as the story line has blurred in my memory over the years, that this was related to his lack of humility.
My giving the presentation at work, in the SNF, about the fatal case I was involved with, with Dr. Waltman, reminds me exactly of the Magic Piano. I took credit for giving a talk smoothly, flawlessly, so eloquently that people clearly were moved. If it were just me speaking, without divine assistance, sure, I knew the story very well. But I should have said um, duh, erk, stumbled around. I recognize very well the spell that came over me, the spell of eloquence, and it was clearly divine assistance.
I've prayed since, prayed for forgiveness in taking credit for a performance that was supplemented by that mysterious power usually granted to other people. People who are maybe more worthy. But I was reveling in what it feels like to be seen as intelligent, capable, my inner qualities shining at last.
Just as long as I remember where that Help came from.
They read a story one time about a child who discovered a magic piano. As a piano student, he was mediocre. But when he played on this magic piano, he became a musical genius. He's playing Beethoven, Bach, he attracts adoring audiences and becomes a child prodigy. This goes okay until he begins to take credit for his success and act as if he really has talent. Naturally this all goes awry when the magic disappears and he is bereft of his success. I'm assuming, as the story line has blurred in my memory over the years, that this was related to his lack of humility.
My giving the presentation at work, in the SNF, about the fatal case I was involved with, with Dr. Waltman, reminds me exactly of the Magic Piano. I took credit for giving a talk smoothly, flawlessly, so eloquently that people clearly were moved. If it were just me speaking, without divine assistance, sure, I knew the story very well. But I should have said um, duh, erk, stumbled around. I recognize very well the spell that came over me, the spell of eloquence, and it was clearly divine assistance.
I've prayed since, prayed for forgiveness in taking credit for a performance that was supplemented by that mysterious power usually granted to other people. People who are maybe more worthy. But I was reveling in what it feels like to be seen as intelligent, capable, my inner qualities shining at last.
Just as long as I remember where that Help came from.
"Aha!"
After I realized what was needed as a charge nurse was just to be honest and do the best I can, things got much better with Dr. Waltman. My stock went way up. I stopped acting like a weasel.
I was asked to make a presentation on a resident we had where tragic mistakes had been made by every health care provider for six weeks before the person came to us. Because we had worked together on the case, I was asked to give a presentation on this resident in a meeting for the nursing staff. I had the details of the case more or less memorized, and something odd happened I had not experienced before. I did as Baha'i's often do when teaching the Faith, and turned my heart to God, opened my mouth and talked. It was as if I was listening to someone else speak, someone eloquent, genius. A lot of people, including the Director of Nursing and Dr. Waltman, seemed impressed by my presentation.
To my shame, I took credit for it. It's really another case of The Magic Piano.
I was asked to make a presentation on a resident we had where tragic mistakes had been made by every health care provider for six weeks before the person came to us. Because we had worked together on the case, I was asked to give a presentation on this resident in a meeting for the nursing staff. I had the details of the case more or less memorized, and something odd happened I had not experienced before. I did as Baha'i's often do when teaching the Faith, and turned my heart to God, opened my mouth and talked. It was as if I was listening to someone else speak, someone eloquent, genius. A lot of people, including the Director of Nursing and Dr. Waltman, seemed impressed by my presentation.
To my shame, I took credit for it. It's really another case of The Magic Piano.
Doctor Waltman
I work in the evenings as a charge nurse in a skilled nursing facility. Nursing is something which, if you have no confidence, is a nightmare. There is a culture, an ethic in nursing that nothing can be too exacting. By definition a nurse can never know enough, be smart enough, fast enough, or be sufficiently diligent.
When I started working in this particular SNF I would make occasional errors. Forget to follow up on some piece, for example, noting the need to check someone's INR on the particular date ordered, or ordering a lab, or noting a twice daily order as once daily. So I heard about it a lot. They seem like simple, easy items to write about, but the reason people forget things or get them wrong, is from being swamped. Too busy to figure it out.
My other weakness is physical assessment. I once had to listen to Dr. Waltman lecture me for forty-five minutes about how, if someone doesn't look right, we should follow our gut instinct and call the doctor; if he or she doesn't respond, be persistent. This was in reference to a resident that didn't look great to me, but I certainly hadn't put in the category of "send her in!"
What I was unable to explain to the MD and to the muckamucks was that when you're operating in the realm of fear, common sense, intelligence, gut instincts and honesty go out the window. I developed a near mortal terror of Dr. Waltman. He is one of these old time homey docs that drags the charge nurse around with him to see his residents, listen to a twenty minute health history interview [what color was the house in Massachusetts where you grew up?] and supervise his breast examinations.
So I was not really being myself, Arlene: I was being the Character "Arlene the Charge Nurse" and trying to play a part, trying all the time to guess what the right answer was instead of just giving my answer. Dr. Waltman would ask, "how is his skin", and I would say, "It's okay--as far as I know." Hot button. He hated that, "as far as I know." "It's such and such," or "I don't know, I haven't seen it," were ok, but no "as far as I know." The more I gave the wrong answers the worse it got. One time he asked me, "how long have you been a nurse?" I go, "am I a nurse?" He goes, "How long have they been paying you to be a nurse?"
One day I came in at change of shift in the afternoon, and there was a new admission that came in on days that looked like hell. Clearly he was circling the drain. The Unit Manager had spent two hours poring over the chart, and I hadn't seen it. So I didn't feel qualified to answer Dr. Waltman when he called up, I answered, and he asks, "Do you have any concerns about Mr. Dunfore?" I immediately handed the phone to the Unit Manager who would, naturally, have the Right Answers.
Whoo, fatal mistake. He told the Unit Manager to tell me that I had one hour to assess Mr. Dunfore and call him back with my assessment. Well, I wasn't going to let this doctor dictate how I was going to spend my time, and he wasn't my boss [now he's the facility medical director, but then just another associate.] So I ignored his demands. Things didn't go so hot with that, and I just kept wondering how I was going to escape from this tyrant. Naturally, I prayed about it a lot.
One day I woke up one morning with this incredible "Aha!" I had been trying to jump through some type of invisible hoop, win the doctor's approval, and getting more and more weaselly all the time. I had an epiphany: the doctor was trying to figure out if he could trust me. It was all about trust. He just wanted me to be honest. If I had been honest, when he asked me if I had any concerns about Mr. Dunfore, I would have said, "Yes! Why did you send me someone who is clearly dying?"
Immediately I began to be both more confident and more honest. I didn't let my dealings with Dr. Waltman be about me, only about the residents. I started to offer my opinions. Many times, I found out my point of view concurred with the doctor's point of view. We established a relationship of trust. I trusted the doctor more and he trusted me more. My stock stablized and started to climb.
When I started working in this particular SNF I would make occasional errors. Forget to follow up on some piece, for example, noting the need to check someone's INR on the particular date ordered, or ordering a lab, or noting a twice daily order as once daily. So I heard about it a lot. They seem like simple, easy items to write about, but the reason people forget things or get them wrong, is from being swamped. Too busy to figure it out.
My other weakness is physical assessment. I once had to listen to Dr. Waltman lecture me for forty-five minutes about how, if someone doesn't look right, we should follow our gut instinct and call the doctor; if he or she doesn't respond, be persistent. This was in reference to a resident that didn't look great to me, but I certainly hadn't put in the category of "send her in!"
What I was unable to explain to the MD and to the muckamucks was that when you're operating in the realm of fear, common sense, intelligence, gut instincts and honesty go out the window. I developed a near mortal terror of Dr. Waltman. He is one of these old time homey docs that drags the charge nurse around with him to see his residents, listen to a twenty minute health history interview [what color was the house in Massachusetts where you grew up?] and supervise his breast examinations.
So I was not really being myself, Arlene: I was being the Character "Arlene the Charge Nurse" and trying to play a part, trying all the time to guess what the right answer was instead of just giving my answer. Dr. Waltman would ask, "how is his skin", and I would say, "It's okay--as far as I know." Hot button. He hated that, "as far as I know." "It's such and such," or "I don't know, I haven't seen it," were ok, but no "as far as I know." The more I gave the wrong answers the worse it got. One time he asked me, "how long have you been a nurse?" I go, "am I a nurse?" He goes, "How long have they been paying you to be a nurse?"
One day I came in at change of shift in the afternoon, and there was a new admission that came in on days that looked like hell. Clearly he was circling the drain. The Unit Manager had spent two hours poring over the chart, and I hadn't seen it. So I didn't feel qualified to answer Dr. Waltman when he called up, I answered, and he asks, "Do you have any concerns about Mr. Dunfore?" I immediately handed the phone to the Unit Manager who would, naturally, have the Right Answers.
Whoo, fatal mistake. He told the Unit Manager to tell me that I had one hour to assess Mr. Dunfore and call him back with my assessment. Well, I wasn't going to let this doctor dictate how I was going to spend my time, and he wasn't my boss [now he's the facility medical director, but then just another associate.] So I ignored his demands. Things didn't go so hot with that, and I just kept wondering how I was going to escape from this tyrant. Naturally, I prayed about it a lot.
One day I woke up one morning with this incredible "Aha!" I had been trying to jump through some type of invisible hoop, win the doctor's approval, and getting more and more weaselly all the time. I had an epiphany: the doctor was trying to figure out if he could trust me. It was all about trust. He just wanted me to be honest. If I had been honest, when he asked me if I had any concerns about Mr. Dunfore, I would have said, "Yes! Why did you send me someone who is clearly dying?"
Immediately I began to be both more confident and more honest. I didn't let my dealings with Dr. Waltman be about me, only about the residents. I started to offer my opinions. Many times, I found out my point of view concurred with the doctor's point of view. We established a relationship of trust. I trusted the doctor more and he trusted me more. My stock stablized and started to climb.
Monday, December 1, 2008
How Not to Make a Decision
There is an art which needs to be learned by both my husband and myself: the Baha'i art of consultation. From the clash of differing opinions comes the spark of truth. For this to work requires detachment. When I was a new Baha'i I was confused by the word "detachment", thinking it means to stop caring about things. I think the point is to be able to let go of ones opinions, to let go of emotional attachment to the outcome. In group consultation, participants take turns stating their point of view and then letting go of it. I visualize this as a circle of people with a big basket in the center, where each person's thoughts and statements are lovingly placed and then let go of. Holding onto a "position" is not a part of consultation.
Once the person puts in their thoughts, the idea belongs to the group, not the individual. This takes a lot of trust. Eventually something new, a new truth or concept or idea takes shape; maybe it rises like a snake from the basket of a snake charmer. Usually participants who are truly detached will recognize this new truth; there is a general feeling of "Aha!" A good technique for taking turns in speaking is the talking stick, which helps people such as myself who are inveterate interrupters.
One of us is a Scorpio, an aficionado of Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People." Something I have never read, and haven't intended to. Perhaps I should. It would be a road map into the other contestant's thought processes, so maybe it would be easier to stop getting railroaded. Or maybe it would just make me mad. I'd like to see the man behind the curtain. I don't think my husband gets detachment.
I know I don't. I grew up in a household with clear rules from the adults: I win, you lose. I have never learned the art of negotiation. I have never learned to stand up for my thoughts and ideals. When I was seventeen and a newly minted Baha'i, I mentioned the Faith to a couple of Christian co-workers. Ooh, lamb to the slaughter. They knew all kinds of reasons I was going to hell, and all kinds of literal-minded interpretations of prophecy that I was unprepared to respond to. In the language of chat rooms, I was flamed. I never taught the Faith again, at least on purpose.
In a discussion which becomes an argument, I just dig in and get frustrated and angry. I've found, by listening to myself with disbelief, that when the chips are down I resort to ad hominum* attacks. I also get frustrated because it doesn't seem fair that wearing people down by persistence is a way to win. It does not demonstrate the truth of your position. You win by psychologically grating on the other person's nerves, like a glacier, until they finally give in so you will shut up. In my previous marriage I also played unfair by just sneakily making a decision without consulting the other person. I don't like the feeling of having to ask permission.
In nursing I'm like, take the pill or don't, I don't care.
The issue? Where to stay in Haifa from a preselected list of hotels and guest houses. The issue is to stay somewhere comfortable and convenient, without paying too much. [We can't agree on how much is too much.] I'm rooting for greater comfort and convenience, he's rooting for paying less. He won the discussion of whether, when and how long to visit Tel Aviv/the Rest Of Israel, on the basis of "once you're there, you ought to see Israel." Why does the same argument not work regarding, "once you're there, you should be able to look out the window and see the view of the shrines, the terraces on Mount Carmel, and the Mediterranean Sea, and not have to rustle up and cook breakfast"? To me it feels, once again, like I Win You Lose.
Stalemate. My last card is that it was my pilgrimage to start with and I included him as my spouse. More power struggle, more combat . . . obviously, it's worth it to me to spend $20 more per night for some amenities. The obvious question: who's paying for it? Too complicated to explain in the context of the blog.
Another solution is to set a time limit: if the Guest House does not contact me by email [they did not want to talk long on the phone; limited English skills, boy, these Israeli's] by a certain time, I will make reservations on the phone. I emailed them Saturday evening and no response by Monday morning. It's a nonprofit organization. Need I say more?
*When I get ahold of a dictionary I will learn to spell "hominem." Or maybe the computer has never heard of it.
Once the person puts in their thoughts, the idea belongs to the group, not the individual. This takes a lot of trust. Eventually something new, a new truth or concept or idea takes shape; maybe it rises like a snake from the basket of a snake charmer. Usually participants who are truly detached will recognize this new truth; there is a general feeling of "Aha!" A good technique for taking turns in speaking is the talking stick, which helps people such as myself who are inveterate interrupters.
One of us is a Scorpio, an aficionado of Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People." Something I have never read, and haven't intended to. Perhaps I should. It would be a road map into the other contestant's thought processes, so maybe it would be easier to stop getting railroaded. Or maybe it would just make me mad. I'd like to see the man behind the curtain. I don't think my husband gets detachment.
I know I don't. I grew up in a household with clear rules from the adults: I win, you lose. I have never learned the art of negotiation. I have never learned to stand up for my thoughts and ideals. When I was seventeen and a newly minted Baha'i, I mentioned the Faith to a couple of Christian co-workers. Ooh, lamb to the slaughter. They knew all kinds of reasons I was going to hell, and all kinds of literal-minded interpretations of prophecy that I was unprepared to respond to. In the language of chat rooms, I was flamed. I never taught the Faith again, at least on purpose.
In a discussion which becomes an argument, I just dig in and get frustrated and angry. I've found, by listening to myself with disbelief, that when the chips are down I resort to ad hominum* attacks. I also get frustrated because it doesn't seem fair that wearing people down by persistence is a way to win. It does not demonstrate the truth of your position. You win by psychologically grating on the other person's nerves, like a glacier, until they finally give in so you will shut up. In my previous marriage I also played unfair by just sneakily making a decision without consulting the other person. I don't like the feeling of having to ask permission.
In nursing I'm like, take the pill or don't, I don't care.
The issue? Where to stay in Haifa from a preselected list of hotels and guest houses. The issue is to stay somewhere comfortable and convenient, without paying too much. [We can't agree on how much is too much.] I'm rooting for greater comfort and convenience, he's rooting for paying less. He won the discussion of whether, when and how long to visit Tel Aviv/the Rest Of Israel, on the basis of "once you're there, you ought to see Israel." Why does the same argument not work regarding, "once you're there, you should be able to look out the window and see the view of the shrines, the terraces on Mount Carmel, and the Mediterranean Sea, and not have to rustle up and cook breakfast"? To me it feels, once again, like I Win You Lose.
Stalemate. My last card is that it was my pilgrimage to start with and I included him as my spouse. More power struggle, more combat . . . obviously, it's worth it to me to spend $20 more per night for some amenities. The obvious question: who's paying for it? Too complicated to explain in the context of the blog.
Another solution is to set a time limit: if the Guest House does not contact me by email [they did not want to talk long on the phone; limited English skills, boy, these Israeli's] by a certain time, I will make reservations on the phone. I emailed them Saturday evening and no response by Monday morning. It's a nonprofit organization. Need I say more?
*When I get ahold of a dictionary I will learn to spell "hominem." Or maybe the computer has never heard of it.
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