My sister Linda and I took a trip to southern California together, from which I returned yesterday. We flew down to visit a very close family friend who was celebrating her 92nd birthday on Mother's Day, and to comb through the last of the boxes that were in the attic of my house in California, which my husband and I are trying to sell.
I didn't think much about how the trip might go before I left for the airport on the 8th of May, in particular how my sister and I might get along. Having just wrapped up my first year of nursing school on May 1st, I was still in post academic shock.
It seemed as though everywhere we went, somebody needed to talk and be heard. Between the two of us, we have considerable experience in matters of the heart and soul, and we listened to people. We nurtured, validated and encouraged as different individuals shared their life struggles with one or both of us. As we moved through our vacation, we were grateful for the opportunity to help others. Each day it seemed as though a series of assignments had been crafted for us by a Higher Power, and we could easily see which of us had been tapped to accomplish that day's service work. It was actually mind-blowing. By the time we were halfway through our trip we joked that we were "Traveling Healers".
We paid a lot forward, but also received great, weird, unexpected rewards. We found the grave sites of several relatives (yes, we spent a bit of time in cemeteries as Linda is into unraveling some of the mysteries of our family tree). We searched for some geocaches (my passion). We were spontaneous but not extravagant, and somehow we were balanced. We enthusiastically agreed to support each other in our areas of interest, found that we can share a hotel room comfortably (Linda likes the bed closest to the bathroom, and I like the bed closest to the air conditioner). We learned how to share the internet, hotel bathrooms, and the costs of travel.
I extended my stay for three days when a dear friend offered to take me to a Los Angeles Lakers game on Friday (Linda and I had planned to fly home on Wednesday). I took my sister to the airport at 0dark30 on Wednesday and spent several hours finding geocaches before trading our expensive rental car for a discounted one. Driving the discount car to Lake Arrowhead to spend two nights in my old neighborhood with a good friend who is always willing to share his home with me, I marveled at my good fortune: a great week with my sister, a Lakers game to look forward to, and unlimited sunshine for another couple of days.
My host wanted to talk. We spent several hours revisiting troubling old subjects that night, and a bit of time the following day. I rested and managed to get all that had been in the attic of the old house (all that I wanted to keep, anyway) into the two suitcases I had taken on the trip down. One of my friend's neighbors informed us that my rental car had a flat. I had driven over a screw. That car had 2 miles on it when I picked it up at the airport. No worries. I called AAA and a former Iraqi war veteran arrived in a truck to repair the tire. He shared with me one story of his stint in Special Forces and his words were so dramatic that at one point I wondered if he might be fabricating such a tale. Then he showed me the huge gunshot wound that had shattered his leg and miraculously healed. I believed him. I thanked him, as did my host, who is a veteran of the Viet Nam war.
Friday dawned clear and relatively cool. I made my way to lunch with two dear friends with whom I had previously worked, then drove to the airport to return the rental car with its repaired tire. The friend who had invited me to the Lakers game picked me up at the airport. She drove us to Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles in her husband's luxurious SUV, and we had a wonderful dinner before the game. My friend needed to talk. She is grappling with empty nest syndrome and another life issue. I listened and validated and supported her. We sat at the game and screamed and cheered and enjoyed ourselves immensely when the Lakers beat the Oklahoma City Thunder.
I'm not a good airline passenger. I don't like to fly at all and am sorry to say that flying is only one of my irrational fears. 24 hours before my flight was due to leave I checked in online and found, to my delight, that there was an aisle seat available in row 6, the first row behind first class. I like aisle seats because I feel less helpless sitting in one. I grabbed that seat for the first leg of my flight and hoped that I could exchange the window seat I had reserved for my second flight for a 1st class upgrade when I arrived at the airport. My friend dropped me at the airport on Saturday morning and when I checked in I was told that there was indeed one remaining seat in 1st class for the second leg of my trip. I upgraded for $50, happy at my good fortune.
When I boarded that first flight, there was a gentleman sitting in my seat. A woman and child were sitting in the two seats next to him. As I approached him, he asked if I had been assigned that seat, and if I would be willing to trade seats with him so that he could sit with his family on the flight. I asked him where his assigned seat was, and he pointed to 1st class. As I settled into my nice wide comfortable seat, I began to speak to my seatmate. He was a friendly man who revealed that he was an engineer who spent several years early in his career serving as a safety consultant for Trans World Airlines. As we took off he educated me on the specifics of airline safety. He told me all about how jet engines work and that flying really is the safest way to travel. For some reason, I believed him, and enjoyed the flight very much. I boarded the second plane for the second, longer leg of my journey and learned that my seatmate was a Physician's Assistant. He, too, was very friendly and we discussed my status in nursing school, supplements that will help my brother in law recover quickly from the total knee replacement he is having in three weeks, and the glories of Alaska for the three and one half hour flight to Anchorage. When we parted ways, he gave me his card and said that he hoped that we would one day work together.
The last leg of my journey home was of most concern to me. The flight from Anchorage to Kenai covers only 60 miles, but it is in a small, 9-seat plane and it seems that the route is always windy and therefore turbulent. I sat waiting for that flight and a woman dressed in a flight attendant's uniform sat next to me. She had worked the flight that was the second leg of my trip home, and we began talking about her career. She loves being a flight attendant and assured me that no matter how turbulent our short flight home might be, that we would be safe. When we climbed into the little plane, a man joined us as a passenger. The man had been a pilot for 30 years and had flown all over Alaska. He and the flight attendant struck up a conversation and I listened to them talk about the joy of flying as we bounced and bumped the 60 miles to my home airport. I felt completely safe in that plane.
I retrieved my luggage and left the airport terminal to see my husband waiting to take me home. In that moment I marveled at what a lucky woman I am to have a loving husband, a new career on the horizon, a healthy body, and interesting and loving sister, good friends both here and in California, and what can only be considered excellent karma. The Universe had me in the palm of its hand every moment of that trip, and it rewarded me handsomely on my journey home, just as it has ever single day of my life.
I wrote this post for me and not for anyone else. There will be days in my future when I cannot see past an exam or other challenge. I want to be able to read this post on those days and be reminded of the absolute truth that what goes around, comes around.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Putz
I was just putzing along today, riding my bike, conversing with the realtor who says he has an offer on our house in California, donating books to the library, and looking forward to a trip with my sister next week when horror struck: I forgot to acknowledge my cousin's husband's birthday on May 1st.
You might wonder..."your cousin's husband's birthday?". Certainly somewhat extended family, right?
No. Not somewhat extended. Not remotely extended. Alan (the cousin's husband, whom I fondly call CIL for "Cousin In Law") is a pearl. Understand that due to varying degrees of dysfunction in my family of origin (and my cousin's), my cousin and had met only once when we were tiny children before reconnecting when my husband and I moved to Alaska three years ago. I fell in love with her right away, and with him maybe 15 minutes later. They welcomed us to their home and their home state with open arms as well as providing my husband with a place to live while he was working in their town and we were still living in ours, 80 miles away. I don't know what we would have done without them. We've shared holidays, laughter, health scares, pet losses, campfires, worries and successes, and they are close, close family. He matters even more to me because I am not easy to take, and he has done such a good job of accepting me, and actually caring for me (one night I ran out of automotive oil in Anchorage - it was dark and cold and I couldn't reach my husband, so I called Alan for advice, which he was happy to give). Not to mention that he is one of the smartest and funniest people I've ever met, a pleasure to be around, and grills the very best rib eye steak on the planet.
So I forgot his birthday this year. I've had a card for him for months. I found it in October and it was perfect, so I hid it someplace safe. On Tuesday, his birthday, I was taking my final exam for my second semester of nursing school and was entirely focused on that and moving out of my digs in Anchorage to return home. I'd have remembered if he had his birthday listed on Facebook, but he doesn't, and he shouldn't have to. I should have remembered.
I will never forget his birthday again. Kinda like I won't ever forget the answers to the test questions I missed in nursing school. Mortification will do that for a person. I'm scheduling an appointment to get a tattoo that will read MAY 1ST and I plan to have it done in red across my forehead.
Putz!
You might wonder..."your cousin's husband's birthday?". Certainly somewhat extended family, right?
No. Not somewhat extended. Not remotely extended. Alan (the cousin's husband, whom I fondly call CIL for "Cousin In Law") is a pearl. Understand that due to varying degrees of dysfunction in my family of origin (and my cousin's), my cousin and had met only once when we were tiny children before reconnecting when my husband and I moved to Alaska three years ago. I fell in love with her right away, and with him maybe 15 minutes later. They welcomed us to their home and their home state with open arms as well as providing my husband with a place to live while he was working in their town and we were still living in ours, 80 miles away. I don't know what we would have done without them. We've shared holidays, laughter, health scares, pet losses, campfires, worries and successes, and they are close, close family. He matters even more to me because I am not easy to take, and he has done such a good job of accepting me, and actually caring for me (one night I ran out of automotive oil in Anchorage - it was dark and cold and I couldn't reach my husband, so I called Alan for advice, which he was happy to give). Not to mention that he is one of the smartest and funniest people I've ever met, a pleasure to be around, and grills the very best rib eye steak on the planet.
So I forgot his birthday this year. I've had a card for him for months. I found it in October and it was perfect, so I hid it someplace safe. On Tuesday, his birthday, I was taking my final exam for my second semester of nursing school and was entirely focused on that and moving out of my digs in Anchorage to return home. I'd have remembered if he had his birthday listed on Facebook, but he doesn't, and he shouldn't have to. I should have remembered.
I will never forget his birthday again. Kinda like I won't ever forget the answers to the test questions I missed in nursing school. Mortification will do that for a person. I'm scheduling an appointment to get a tattoo that will read MAY 1ST and I plan to have it done in red across my forehead.
Putz!
Monday, April 30, 2012
In this room
I'm packing in preparation for vacating my room at the B&B for the summer. The exam that will conclude my first year of nursing school takes place on Tuesday, and I leave for home on Wednesday. I'll return to this room at the end of August to begin my second and final year of nursing school (at least for now - I'll have my AAS degree when I leave this room at this time next year).
In this room I've eaten way too many bags of dark chocolate, popcorn and baked pita chips and not nearly enough broccoli. I've developed a deep appreciation for the Food Channel here, watched a number of Los Angeles Lakers games, and played silly Facebook games. I've witnessed record snowfall, spectacular northern lights, and moose from the window in this room.
Most importantly, I've learned in this room. Learned how to hear heart and breath sounds through a stethoscope, find the pulses in my feet, draw medication into a syringe, wrap a wounded limb, identify a number of diseases, write a proper nursing diagnosis, and craft a decent case study.
I've learned how to love my husband more deeply here. I've been away from home for most of the past year and he has not once complained. He goes to work every day in part to put me through school, takes care of our house and animals, and never, ever whines about having to shoulder keeping the home fires burning alone.
I've learned how desperately I need my sister in my life. She is the only person on the planet who knows me so well that she can find a way to talk me down from the proverbial ledge no matter how close I am to toppling. She is my touchstone.
I've learned that my cousin Georgia accepts me exactly as I am and loves me anyway. I can count on her, and she supports me unconditionally. Just before I started school she gave me a greeting card and in it wrote, "enjoy every minute". I look at that card every day and it reminds me that I wanted this, and that instead of bemoaning the workload I must celebrate it.
Last but not least, I've learned that nothing is more rewarding than pursuing one's passion.
Thank you, Mom. I miss you, but I know you're watching me from wherever you are and you're glad I'm spending the money you willed to me on this amazing, exciting, glorious life I'm living in this room.
In this room I've eaten way too many bags of dark chocolate, popcorn and baked pita chips and not nearly enough broccoli. I've developed a deep appreciation for the Food Channel here, watched a number of Los Angeles Lakers games, and played silly Facebook games. I've witnessed record snowfall, spectacular northern lights, and moose from the window in this room.
Most importantly, I've learned in this room. Learned how to hear heart and breath sounds through a stethoscope, find the pulses in my feet, draw medication into a syringe, wrap a wounded limb, identify a number of diseases, write a proper nursing diagnosis, and craft a decent case study.
I've learned how to love my husband more deeply here. I've been away from home for most of the past year and he has not once complained. He goes to work every day in part to put me through school, takes care of our house and animals, and never, ever whines about having to shoulder keeping the home fires burning alone.
I've learned how desperately I need my sister in my life. She is the only person on the planet who knows me so well that she can find a way to talk me down from the proverbial ledge no matter how close I am to toppling. She is my touchstone.
I've learned that my cousin Georgia accepts me exactly as I am and loves me anyway. I can count on her, and she supports me unconditionally. Just before I started school she gave me a greeting card and in it wrote, "enjoy every minute". I look at that card every day and it reminds me that I wanted this, and that instead of bemoaning the workload I must celebrate it.
Last but not least, I've learned that nothing is more rewarding than pursuing one's passion.
Thank you, Mom. I miss you, but I know you're watching me from wherever you are and you're glad I'm spending the money you willed to me on this amazing, exciting, glorious life I'm living in this room.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
For Michelle
You won't read this tonight, and certainly won't have time tomorrow. You and your daughter will be driving to the outpatient surgery center in Fort Worth early in the morning so that you can check in for your double mastectomy.
It was about five weeks ago that I saw your instant message to me on Facebook. It read, "I found a lump in my breast". We spoke on the phone that night and you told me about how you had been sitting on the couch watching television when you found the lump, which you said was about the size of a grape. You promised that you would make an appointment to see a doctor the following morning.
I remember hanging up and then hanging my head. It didn't sound good to me.
A week later we spoke again. You had been to a doctor and had a mammogram. The doctor told you that he wasn't going to mince words. He said that he'd been looking at mammograms for a long time and that yours looked like you had cancer. A biopsy confirmed that diagnosis. You said, "What the hell? I have breast cancer." I said, "Yes, you do."
More testing. You have the "bad kind" of breast cancer (as if there were a good one), the kind that grows fast and spreads fast. They saw no signs that the cancer had spread to your lymph nodes, so we crossed our fingers then (they're still crossed). You met with your surgeon. She said that a lumpectomy was too conservative and advised you to have a mastectomy - just the one breast. With your delightful sense of humor you were able to talk about how, after the surgery, you'd still have one of your "girls". Your boyfriend loves your breasts, you said, and we agreed that he would still have one to admire.
Two weeks ago you told me that you'd decided against breast reconstruction - you don't want additional pain and discomfort. I told you that I thought I would make the same choice. We are, after all, seasoned women on the wrong edge of middle age and if our men don't want us with flat chests they need to find other old women to sleep next to. A couple of nights later, you told me that your surgeon had called to say that she thought a double mastectomy would be your safest route. I asked you how you felt about that and you told me that you didn't want to spend your days and nights worrying about whether or not your particularly aggressive form of cancer was germinating in a second breast, and had decided to go with the doctor's recommendation. I believe I would make that same decision.
I can't be in the waiting area tomorrow with your daughter and boyfriend because I am in nursing school in Alaska and you're in Fort Worth, but my spirit will be in that operating room with you when they put you under, and with you in the recovery room when you wake up with your chest bandaged. The doctors will be testing your lymph nodes before the actual surgery, so with luck we'll finally uncross our fingers when they tell us that they found nothing worrisome in those nodes and that your double mastectomy removed every trace of malignancy. We'll hug (gently) and then I can tell you what I've wanted to say ever since you first told me that you had found that lump, but have been too afraid of bursting into tears to do so.
You're a beautiful, feminine, smart, wonderful woman. You wear sparkly shoes and have striking eyes and gorgeous hair. You're strong and willful and so very, very funny, and I've had some of the greatest laughs of my life with you. I've cried with you, lived with you and shared secrets with you. I count you as one of the great blessings in my life.
Tonight after I called to tell you that I love you and that I'll be thinking of you all day tomorrow I got down on my knees (which I do rarely) and I said, "God, I usually don't ask You for things for myself, but tonight I am begging You to let Michelle get through tomorrow with no lymph node involvement, no complications. Please. PLEASE."
It was about five weeks ago that I saw your instant message to me on Facebook. It read, "I found a lump in my breast". We spoke on the phone that night and you told me about how you had been sitting on the couch watching television when you found the lump, which you said was about the size of a grape. You promised that you would make an appointment to see a doctor the following morning.
I remember hanging up and then hanging my head. It didn't sound good to me.
A week later we spoke again. You had been to a doctor and had a mammogram. The doctor told you that he wasn't going to mince words. He said that he'd been looking at mammograms for a long time and that yours looked like you had cancer. A biopsy confirmed that diagnosis. You said, "What the hell? I have breast cancer." I said, "Yes, you do."
More testing. You have the "bad kind" of breast cancer (as if there were a good one), the kind that grows fast and spreads fast. They saw no signs that the cancer had spread to your lymph nodes, so we crossed our fingers then (they're still crossed). You met with your surgeon. She said that a lumpectomy was too conservative and advised you to have a mastectomy - just the one breast. With your delightful sense of humor you were able to talk about how, after the surgery, you'd still have one of your "girls". Your boyfriend loves your breasts, you said, and we agreed that he would still have one to admire.
Two weeks ago you told me that you'd decided against breast reconstruction - you don't want additional pain and discomfort. I told you that I thought I would make the same choice. We are, after all, seasoned women on the wrong edge of middle age and if our men don't want us with flat chests they need to find other old women to sleep next to. A couple of nights later, you told me that your surgeon had called to say that she thought a double mastectomy would be your safest route. I asked you how you felt about that and you told me that you didn't want to spend your days and nights worrying about whether or not your particularly aggressive form of cancer was germinating in a second breast, and had decided to go with the doctor's recommendation. I believe I would make that same decision.
I can't be in the waiting area tomorrow with your daughter and boyfriend because I am in nursing school in Alaska and you're in Fort Worth, but my spirit will be in that operating room with you when they put you under, and with you in the recovery room when you wake up with your chest bandaged. The doctors will be testing your lymph nodes before the actual surgery, so with luck we'll finally uncross our fingers when they tell us that they found nothing worrisome in those nodes and that your double mastectomy removed every trace of malignancy. We'll hug (gently) and then I can tell you what I've wanted to say ever since you first told me that you had found that lump, but have been too afraid of bursting into tears to do so.
You're a beautiful, feminine, smart, wonderful woman. You wear sparkly shoes and have striking eyes and gorgeous hair. You're strong and willful and so very, very funny, and I've had some of the greatest laughs of my life with you. I've cried with you, lived with you and shared secrets with you. I count you as one of the great blessings in my life.
Tonight after I called to tell you that I love you and that I'll be thinking of you all day tomorrow I got down on my knees (which I do rarely) and I said, "God, I usually don't ask You for things for myself, but tonight I am begging You to let Michelle get through tomorrow with no lymph node involvement, no complications. Please. PLEASE."
Friday, February 3, 2012
Paging Noah
Yesterday the seemingly eternal sub-zero cold snap broke here in Anchorage. As I drove home from class last night , I marveled at the temperature reading my Jeep showed on the dashboard: 38 degrees F.
I entered the B&B, walked down the stairs to my room on the ground floor and heard something unusual. It sounded like a waterfall. I thought, "Wow, the warmer temps melted all that snow on the roof...that's some big runoff." I changed into my jammies and went into the kitchen to grab something to eat. That water was loud. I mean really loud. I walked toward the corner of the living area, from whence the sound was coming, and suddenly I was standing in a puddle of very cold water. "This isn't good", I thought. The floors in that room are beautiful glossy hardwood. Exploring the deck just outside the living area wall I saw no water cascading from anywhere above. I came back inside and started pushing furniture toward the center of the room and away from the expanding puddle. Once I had saved several nice pieces, I raced upstairs and called the B&B owner's daughter who lives here in Anchorage (the owner is in Las Vegas - she isn't crazy enough to live here during the winter). The daughter, Martie, said that she and her husband would be over to assess the situation after they had dinner.
I was really worried about that hardwood floor. Collecting bath towels from each of the five suites upstairs I began sopping up water. I got close to the source and noted that it appeared to be coming up from the floor itself. Very shortly I was out of towels and thought to look in the sauna the owner uses as storage. There I struck pay dirt. She had visited J.C. Penney at some point and there were maybe 40 new towels in there. More sopping.
Martie showed up about an hour later with her husband Steve, who is (thank God) a plumber. I showed them the pond and piles of soaked towels in the living area. Steve went to work trying to figure out what in the world was going on while Martie and I continued sopping and mopping.
All kinds of interesting things happen when you live in Alaska. Last year my husband neglected to "winterize" our motor home and the water that was in the pipes when we parked it in the driveway froze. When spring came, they broke, and leaked. It was nasty. This year the owner of this B&B forgot to shut off the valve that controls an obscure pipe that runs from the bathroom of a second floor suite to the back of the house and ends in a spigot before she left for the winter. Sometime before I got home last night, the ice that had accumulated in that pipe thawed enough, and the pipe burst. The valve was open, the water was running - and it was running down the inside of the wall and across the ceiling of the suite on the other side of the living area from my suite.
Steve shut the valve and the water stopped running. Even so, there were gallons of it soaking the insulation in the ceiling of that other room. We watched in horror over the span of about three hours as large pregnant looking bubbles formed on the ceiling and walls in there. We poked at them with knives and water poured out of them, further soaking the carpet.
I've washed and dried all the towels (had to put them on a spin cycle first - they were very heavy). Six loads. There are three men from the disaster crew in the other bedroom now, at 1 am (24 hours after the flood). They have what one of them called a "shop vac on steroids", dropcloths, hatchets and other tools. They're tearing the ceiling out in there and trying to salvage the carpet. They seem like very good guys, so I may just go to sleep while they're still here (they'll probably still be here when I wake up, for that matter).
I've spoken with the owner several times today. Each time she has told me how very glad she is that I am here, and that she can only imagine what would have happened had the pipe broken, say, on a weekend while I was home in Kenai. The fellow in the other room with the hatchet told me that we'd have had two to three feet of water down here if that pipe had gushed for a couple of days.
When I lived in California, I ran from forest fires. Now I have survived a flood. From this point forward, I'll be scanning the horizon waiting for and watching for the locusts.
I entered the B&B, walked down the stairs to my room on the ground floor and heard something unusual. It sounded like a waterfall. I thought, "Wow, the warmer temps melted all that snow on the roof...that's some big runoff." I changed into my jammies and went into the kitchen to grab something to eat. That water was loud. I mean really loud. I walked toward the corner of the living area, from whence the sound was coming, and suddenly I was standing in a puddle of very cold water. "This isn't good", I thought. The floors in that room are beautiful glossy hardwood. Exploring the deck just outside the living area wall I saw no water cascading from anywhere above. I came back inside and started pushing furniture toward the center of the room and away from the expanding puddle. Once I had saved several nice pieces, I raced upstairs and called the B&B owner's daughter who lives here in Anchorage (the owner is in Las Vegas - she isn't crazy enough to live here during the winter). The daughter, Martie, said that she and her husband would be over to assess the situation after they had dinner.
I was really worried about that hardwood floor. Collecting bath towels from each of the five suites upstairs I began sopping up water. I got close to the source and noted that it appeared to be coming up from the floor itself. Very shortly I was out of towels and thought to look in the sauna the owner uses as storage. There I struck pay dirt. She had visited J.C. Penney at some point and there were maybe 40 new towels in there. More sopping.
Martie showed up about an hour later with her husband Steve, who is (thank God) a plumber. I showed them the pond and piles of soaked towels in the living area. Steve went to work trying to figure out what in the world was going on while Martie and I continued sopping and mopping.
All kinds of interesting things happen when you live in Alaska. Last year my husband neglected to "winterize" our motor home and the water that was in the pipes when we parked it in the driveway froze. When spring came, they broke, and leaked. It was nasty. This year the owner of this B&B forgot to shut off the valve that controls an obscure pipe that runs from the bathroom of a second floor suite to the back of the house and ends in a spigot before she left for the winter. Sometime before I got home last night, the ice that had accumulated in that pipe thawed enough, and the pipe burst. The valve was open, the water was running - and it was running down the inside of the wall and across the ceiling of the suite on the other side of the living area from my suite.
Steve shut the valve and the water stopped running. Even so, there were gallons of it soaking the insulation in the ceiling of that other room. We watched in horror over the span of about three hours as large pregnant looking bubbles formed on the ceiling and walls in there. We poked at them with knives and water poured out of them, further soaking the carpet.
I've washed and dried all the towels (had to put them on a spin cycle first - they were very heavy). Six loads. There are three men from the disaster crew in the other bedroom now, at 1 am (24 hours after the flood). They have what one of them called a "shop vac on steroids", dropcloths, hatchets and other tools. They're tearing the ceiling out in there and trying to salvage the carpet. They seem like very good guys, so I may just go to sleep while they're still here (they'll probably still be here when I wake up, for that matter).
I've spoken with the owner several times today. Each time she has told me how very glad she is that I am here, and that she can only imagine what would have happened had the pipe broken, say, on a weekend while I was home in Kenai. The fellow in the other room with the hatchet told me that we'd have had two to three feet of water down here if that pipe had gushed for a couple of days.
When I lived in California, I ran from forest fires. Now I have survived a flood. From this point forward, I'll be scanning the horizon waiting for and watching for the locusts.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Misfits
While I'm in school, I live in a B&B in Anchorage. It's a gigantic three-story house with a front yard that has been cemented over to create parking spaces, and it's in a very nice residential neighborhood within 3 miles of the college and hospital where I go for clinical rotations.
My room and its private bath are on the bottom floor. Also on the bottom floor is a large living room and full kitchen that I share with the occupant of the only other bedroom on this floor. His name is Mark. He moved to Alaska this past October, having spent the first 27 years of his life living in more temperate climes. Mark is smart, tall, handsome and pleasant when our paths cross, which isn't often. I wouldn't even know he lived down here save for the fact that he leaves dirty dishes and crumbs in the kitchen and uses my dishwashing soap and towels. Mark has been here all day (I know this because his car is parked in the driveway), as have I, and I haven't laid eyes on him. As far as I know he hasn't cooked anything (there is no new mess in the kitchen).
An orthopedic surgeon and his wife live on the second floor during the winter. They're very pleasant people. He replaces hips and knees at a nearby hospital and has climbed Everest She manages the house while the owners spend their winters in exotic places like Africa, France, and Israel. She is detail oriented and very interested in the lives and habits of the other occupants of the house. Yesterday she informed me that Mark has not washed his sheets or clothes since he arrived in October, and that his room is full of dirty clothes, trash bags full of trash, and computer gaming equipment. She says that she believes they'll have to burn his sheets when he moves out (apparently he is using "house sheets" - I brought mine from home because I'm sorely addicted to high thread counts). I was unaware that she patrolled our rooms while we're gone and wonder what she thinks when she peeks into my room, which is full of books, binders, bags of food items that I'm unwilling to share with Mark, and Angry Bird stuffed animals that my husband has begun buying for me. I think I'll leave a big pile of plastic dog poop on the floor just inside the door of my room the next time I go home to Kenai.
There are several other transient winter residents living here off and on, and the granddaughter of the owner makes regular appearances with her two small children. She does her laundry here and uses the internet while she ignores her children who want to follow tenants into their rooms.
We're an odd group. At least two of us are night owls; I can hear someone wandering around above me until at least 2 am before I fall asleep. We are mountain climbers, busybodies, computer gamers, bicycle riders, students, surgeons and hoarders. We are US, Canadian and UK citizens, junk food junkies, gourmet cooks, bridge players, movie buffs, single mothers, married couples, neat freaks and slobs. Somehow we blend in slightly off-key harmony.
My room and its private bath are on the bottom floor. Also on the bottom floor is a large living room and full kitchen that I share with the occupant of the only other bedroom on this floor. His name is Mark. He moved to Alaska this past October, having spent the first 27 years of his life living in more temperate climes. Mark is smart, tall, handsome and pleasant when our paths cross, which isn't often. I wouldn't even know he lived down here save for the fact that he leaves dirty dishes and crumbs in the kitchen and uses my dishwashing soap and towels. Mark has been here all day (I know this because his car is parked in the driveway), as have I, and I haven't laid eyes on him. As far as I know he hasn't cooked anything (there is no new mess in the kitchen).
An orthopedic surgeon and his wife live on the second floor during the winter. They're very pleasant people. He replaces hips and knees at a nearby hospital and has climbed Everest She manages the house while the owners spend their winters in exotic places like Africa, France, and Israel. She is detail oriented and very interested in the lives and habits of the other occupants of the house. Yesterday she informed me that Mark has not washed his sheets or clothes since he arrived in October, and that his room is full of dirty clothes, trash bags full of trash, and computer gaming equipment. She says that she believes they'll have to burn his sheets when he moves out (apparently he is using "house sheets" - I brought mine from home because I'm sorely addicted to high thread counts). I was unaware that she patrolled our rooms while we're gone and wonder what she thinks when she peeks into my room, which is full of books, binders, bags of food items that I'm unwilling to share with Mark, and Angry Bird stuffed animals that my husband has begun buying for me. I think I'll leave a big pile of plastic dog poop on the floor just inside the door of my room the next time I go home to Kenai.
There are several other transient winter residents living here off and on, and the granddaughter of the owner makes regular appearances with her two small children. She does her laundry here and uses the internet while she ignores her children who want to follow tenants into their rooms.
We're an odd group. At least two of us are night owls; I can hear someone wandering around above me until at least 2 am before I fall asleep. We are mountain climbers, busybodies, computer gamers, bicycle riders, students, surgeons and hoarders. We are US, Canadian and UK citizens, junk food junkies, gourmet cooks, bridge players, movie buffs, single mothers, married couples, neat freaks and slobs. Somehow we blend in slightly off-key harmony.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Tilt, earth, tilt!
One of the aspects of living in California that I despised most was the weather. It was always hot (to me); I am most comfortable when the temp is between 20 degrees and 60 degrees F. On the days that my steering wheel was too hot to touch I'd wonder if I was in hell.
Fast forward three years and northwest 2,500 miles. Alaska is a place of extremes, but where I live it hasn't been extremely warm. Not once. We're experiencing our third consecutive week of sub-zero temperatures now and even I, the Ice Queen, am growing weary of the cold.
I took my Jeep to the dealer here in Anchorage this morning, as I had a 10:15 am appointment to have the service department tell my why my ride is leaking small amounts of oil (again). When I arrived, the service department told me that whomever had scheduled me for today must have been hallucinating when he said there was availability. The harrowed man behind the desk explained to me that when the weather is this cold, everybody's car acts up. He said, "I have a stack of order forms for people requesting service as far back as December." He then asked me if it was gushing oil or just dripping. Gushing=emergency and maybe we can get you in by Tuesday. Dripping=Lady, bring your car in next Thursday and we'll try to get it done, but plan on spending all day in our waiting area. We have WiFi. I thought he was going to cry, so I refrained from complaining about having driven 8 miles to reach the dealer only to find that I had no appointment.
During my winter break from college, I rode my bicycle about five times. Each time I rode, I discovered another body part that absolutely had to be shielded from sub-zero wind chills. I am now fully equipped with ski pants with suspenders, a beanie that covers my ears, a face shield with a neck covering, ski goggles, special socks I ordered from Canada, air-activated toe warmers, and the requisite gloves and heavy jacket. My bike traveled back up to Anchorage with me several days ago, but it's languishing in the garage because it's too cold outside to ride until afternoon, and my classes start at 2pm and run until at least 5pm (it's dark at 5).
The moose residing near my home in Kenai have less to dine on during the winter because their veggies are buried under a couple of feet of snow. One night early in January I was in my bedroom watching television and heard a commotion on my front porch. I thought, "Who in the he** is at my door at this time of the night?" Upon investigation I found a moose standing on the porch trying to reach some bark on our tree.
It's cold.
Fast forward three years and northwest 2,500 miles. Alaska is a place of extremes, but where I live it hasn't been extremely warm. Not once. We're experiencing our third consecutive week of sub-zero temperatures now and even I, the Ice Queen, am growing weary of the cold.
I took my Jeep to the dealer here in Anchorage this morning, as I had a 10:15 am appointment to have the service department tell my why my ride is leaking small amounts of oil (again). When I arrived, the service department told me that whomever had scheduled me for today must have been hallucinating when he said there was availability. The harrowed man behind the desk explained to me that when the weather is this cold, everybody's car acts up. He said, "I have a stack of order forms for people requesting service as far back as December." He then asked me if it was gushing oil or just dripping. Gushing=emergency and maybe we can get you in by Tuesday. Dripping=Lady, bring your car in next Thursday and we'll try to get it done, but plan on spending all day in our waiting area. We have WiFi. I thought he was going to cry, so I refrained from complaining about having driven 8 miles to reach the dealer only to find that I had no appointment.
During my winter break from college, I rode my bicycle about five times. Each time I rode, I discovered another body part that absolutely had to be shielded from sub-zero wind chills. I am now fully equipped with ski pants with suspenders, a beanie that covers my ears, a face shield with a neck covering, ski goggles, special socks I ordered from Canada, air-activated toe warmers, and the requisite gloves and heavy jacket. My bike traveled back up to Anchorage with me several days ago, but it's languishing in the garage because it's too cold outside to ride until afternoon, and my classes start at 2pm and run until at least 5pm (it's dark at 5).
The moose residing near my home in Kenai have less to dine on during the winter because their veggies are buried under a couple of feet of snow. One night early in January I was in my bedroom watching television and heard a commotion on my front porch. I thought, "Who in the he** is at my door at this time of the night?" Upon investigation I found a moose standing on the porch trying to reach some bark on our tree.
It's cold.
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