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Catherine Fischer

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Trip to the Oregon Coast [Nov. 9th, 2008|12:58 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | contemplative]

Spent the weekend at the coast; Brent worked a relief shift at a one-vet practice in Tillamook, and we opted to make a romantic getaway out of it. We’d been needing the opportunity to reconnect, to focus on one another, away from the demands of the mundane, and since the practice graciously provided a motel room…

Tillamook is a quintessential small Oregon town, with its history, only slightly scuffed, worn proudly on its sleeve. In a lush green valley where five rivers empty into a wide estuary, it is full of good people who like the way they live and don’t hesitate to tell you about it. At an antique store/coffeeshop, whiling away the hours during Brent’s shift, the kindly woman working there showed me postcards of the town in the 50s and 60s; the landmarks of the former one-street town are still proudly and prominently in place, despite the highway diverting much of the traffic from Main street.

We left Portland in the pre-dawn rainy dark of an amber-leafed November morning, and made our way over somnolent streets to the highway; I slept the fist hour of the journey. Once I woke, I took a turn driving, so Brent could have that last half-hours to doze before working (works better than coffee, he tells me). I spent the drive in silence, winding through the coastal range in a deep-shadowed, cloud-tattered forest that pressed itself into my consciousness on all sides and limited the dawn light to dim green gloaming.

Breaking out of the trees, the verdant dairyland of Tillamook was a relief to the eyes, bustling with morning business and a sense of having arrived. Brent coffeed up and showed me around the tiny practice, introduced me to the friendly and professional staff, the adorable brain-damaged clinic kitty. After which, suffering from an overindulgence at the Patron tequila dinner the night before, I went back out to the car and slept until noon. My eyes opened, refreshed and not aching, a few seconds before Brent arrived at the car; he took me to lunch at the Blue Heron French Cheese Company, where he’d lunched before and liked it.

Having grown up in California, I am intimately acquainted with the highway roadside attraction. It’s huge business, down south. Casa de Fruita, a glorified fruit stand that has added on a miniature golf course, giant shop of tchotchkes, pony rides, petting zoo, and various and sundry other amusement-park-like attractions in a process of seemingly random accretion, stands as a shining monument to how far the gods of greed and commerce can take you -- it is not the only one of its kind, either, not by a long shot. (There’s a split pea soup restaurant that advertises 500 miles in all directions… seriously, split pea soup? They have the crazy collection of roadside attractions, as well. And I won’t even go into Wall, South Dakota… *shudder*. A Twilight Zone experience I’d like to forget, and drove away from as fast as I possibly could. Broke the speed limit by a hefty margin; would have broken the sound barrier, if I’d had the capability.)

So the Blue Heron French Cheese Company was nothing new, save perhaps in its execution. The entry drive boasted an interesting and eclectic collection of vintage vehicles; the cheese shop was in a cute little red-barn farmhouse, filled with handmade candies (and the irresistible fragrance of buttery pralines), espresso drinks, local vineyard wine-tasting, cheese-tasting, locally made sauces and dips and condiments (also available for tasting), jams and jellies, holiday decor, imported foodstuffs and novelty items I haven’t seen since childhood, unique and amusing gifts that made me think of people I’d like to buy them for (but resisted), souvenirs, clothing, an entire sock-monkey menagerie, and a delightful deli, with tables and chairs all crammed into a pleasingly labyrinthine and surprisingly cozy layout, lit by windows filled with a view of rainy farmyard and pasture. The service was typically Oregon: friendly, efficient, pleasant. The lovely woman at the counter expounded on the specials of the day, recommending items with convincing sincerity; she served us by wandering the nooks and crannies until she found us. We were allowed to find our own drinks, and just let the cashier know after the fact… a trusting business model, which speaks well of the town. (Nothing like being trusted to make most folks put on their best effort at being trustworthy.) The panini I got (caprese) was delicious, with fresh, high-quality ingredients (including fresh-made bread). The latte was a bit lackluster, but then again, I’m a Portland coffee snob; it was tolerable, and I needed the caffeine. The good food and ambience made for pleasant conversation over lunch, after which we wandered out to pet the goats and sheep in the muddy pen out front (we refrained from buying food to feed them, as they all looked overweight). One particular nanny goat, her horns beautifully intact, took a shine to us; we felt a bit badly for her, as it was a cold rainy day, and she had a cough and a crusty eye. We scratched behind her long soft ears for a while, and the emu wandered up to growl at Brent (they sound just like the dinosaurs they’re descended from -- at least, how I always imagined dinosaurs would sound, like dragons rumbling deep in their chests). Brent went back to work, and I ensconced myself in the musty, roasted-coffee-and-dusty-antique-scented embrace of an easy chair beside the woodstove of the Five Rivers Coffee Roasting Company, and settled in for an afternoon of camomile tea and storytelling.

Checking into the motel that evening, I was pleasantly surprised to find the room was really quite spacious, with a mini-fridge, a built-in hair-dryer, a wet-bar counter (!), and plenty of counter-space to put our stuff. Big king-size bed that was refreshingly comfortable (I’m used to insomnia on strange beds, because of my back). Non-smoking room that didn’t reek of old tobacco smoke covered up with disgustingly cloying air fresheners. Indoor pool and jacuzzi were open 24 hours -- a first, for me. Small but nicely-equipped workout room… and not only a dry sauna, but a steam-room! O delicious luxury! Free wifi, too, plus an attached gas station, mini-mart and restaurant/lounge… a lot, for a middle-of-the-road chain (Shilo Inn). Well worth the $106/night. The steam room was just what I needed, followed by a long soak in the hot tub, followed by a bit of horseplay in the pool, followed by running back to our room like a couple of giggling teenagers. Nothing like lifting the must-dos from one’s plate to free up the want-to-dos…

Dinner was at the Rodeo Steakhouse, recommended to me by my coffeeshop friend. They seat you there with a bucket of roasted peanuts; the shells are tossed to the floor, and crackle satisfyingly underfoot when you make your approach to the table. Vintage buttoned naugahyde chairs and “old west” decor, with some pithy quotes on the wall on burned-wood plaques, and a saddle to have your picture taken on. Alarmingly enormous mixed drinks, buncha beers on tap (a few more in the bottle), all the ribs and steak and campfire-barbecue-style sides you could ask for (including garlic mashed potatoes and baked sweet potato), fresh-baked cobblers. A few different meat-centric salads, to appease the diet-conscious or the not-so-hungry. We had the “hot legs” (actually the humerus of the bird), dripping with piquant and spicy sauce, served with chunky blue cheese dip, to start with, and split the special -- meltingly tender half-rack of ribs, succulent but heavily sauced grilled chicken breast over rice pilaf, garlic mashers. That plus beer plus “small” margarita (served in a glass boot) only $30 -- quite worthwhile. We left satisfied, and Brent laughed that we went to a steakhouse and got away without trying the steak. To be rectified, perhaps, when he works here the first week of December.

The next day we decided to take our time and go wherever the mood led us, instead of keeping to any sort of itinerary. (I had bookmarked a few things to do in the vicinity, in case we ran out of ideas; we didn’t end up needing any of them -- save them for another day.) However, the “as you will” schedule came with a caveat: I was NOT going to miss the Tillamook Cheese Factory! When I was a tiny little kid, my parents took me on a cheese factory tour in Northern California, where we lived; I still remember the giant wheels of aging cheese in the musty cold cellar with an inordinate fondness (plus, I think that’s where my Dad got me hooked on creamy ripe cheeses -- I’m guessing it might have been a Brie he introduced me to). So I’ve had my eye on the famous Tillamook Cheese Factory pretty much since we crossed the Oregon border… we ate breakfast in the food-court-style foyer, surrounded by fudge-shoppe and ice cream scoop shop, souvenir shop and (of course) cheese shop. It was passable, if not nearly as good (or as personable) an experience as we had had at the Blue Heron French Cheese Company. But the self-guided tour of the factory was worth the trip: plenty of interesting factoids, a museum of old photos and cheese-making equipment, dusty trophies, a polished video presentation, life-size model cows and terrific viewing windows of the cheese-making action! (Cue ‘Powerhouse’ by Raymond Scott.) The automated assembly-line was a thing of wonder… they even had a couple of touch-screen kiosks! My favorite part was the guy on the assembly line, preparing 40-pound blocks of cheese for vacuum-sealing prior to aging -- he knew he had an audience, and grandstanded, just a little.

Leaving town for the coast, Brent suggested that we take a scenic drive around the “Three Capes Scenic Loop”, which I happily agreed to -- he’d been curious about it since his prior trip to Tillamook, and I’m all about enjoying the scenery in Oregon. I love my state. It never fails to inspire and delight me. And true to form, the whole drive was beautiful -- astonishingly beautiful, everywhere I looked. In fact, it was excruciatingly lovely with monotonous regularity, my heart clenching in my chest in an agony of emotion, with each new vista gained, at each bend in the road. From rugged and rain-shrouded cliff-edges with wind-sculpted trees and picturesque lighthouses; to mirrorlike wet sandy beaches with gulls huddled against the wind; to grey-green waves piling mountainously on the horizon, cresting in halos of wind-blown spray, crashing thunderously into cataracts of foam along the caverns and tidepools of the shore’s craggy feet; to misty islands with alluring natural arches, circled by seabirds and surrounded by a sea gone suddenly lambent silver in the spearing brilliance of an occasional sunbeam… I could have wept for what my camera could not capture. And, swept up in the electrifying spectacle of it all, dressed for indoor adventures, I got thoroughly soaked and spent the afternoon fogging up the windows of the car, slowly drying out as we made our way up the coast. Coasting through cliff-perched seaside hamlets and enticingly bright tourist towns, we made our way as far as Cannon Beach, which friends have been recommending to me for over a year. I felt foolish for not coming sooner, pretty much as soon as I laid eyes on the place: tidy, tiny, enchantingly friendly and brightly-lit, with sea-weathered shingle architecture, hidden hollows and grottos tucked away in the hills, alder grove-cloistered beach houses and appealing shops, bustling with locals come for the art and wine event that weekend and tourists making their way out of the rain. The beach itself is home to Haystack Rock, one of the world’s largest free-standing monoliths, green with moss and algae and haloed by nesting seabirds, crying in the wind. Tourist town or not, the place had magnificent appeal, with the windows shining brightly in warm invitation: “come inside, out of the cold and grey…” I found three scrumptiously fuzzy sweaters on sale in a little shop filled with treasures, and we ate dinner at a European-style charcuterie bistro, with delectable fare including finely prepared fresh local seafood. Stuffed and sated, we sadly made the decision to drive the hour-and-a-half back home, foregoing the pleasure of wandering the art and wine fair in favor of giving Brent a full night’s sleep on a work night. I was sad to leave the intimate space we’d shared all weekend, and the cats didn’t even miss us, as they were spoiled by their “Auntie Jodi”…
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I'm Published! [Sep. 12th, 2008|06:05 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | happy]
[music |Teardrop on the Fire]

One of my photos from Vancouver (my trip there in early Spring of 2006) has been published! Yay! I'm famous!

I've been posting some of my new photos on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=552562249

I love photography! :-)

http://www.schmap.com/guidewidgets/p=61547851N00/c=SH28032213
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How Many of Me [Jun. 30th, 2008|12:31 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | cheerful]
[music |F.M., Steely Dan]

From a friend:


HowManyOfMe.com
LogoThere are
119
people with my name in the U.S.A.
How many have your name?

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Surfacing [Jun. 29th, 2008|03:44 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | awake]
[music |Message in a Bottle, The Police]

The amber cracks,
The air shivering into prismatic shards of light and sound.
The isopod uncoils, tests the ground gingerly;
The dreamer surfacing, reaching for life and breath
The pain of the dream receding like a shadow across the brow
The world suddenly populous
and plentiful
and impossibly bright.

The air outside is heavy, today. I've been avoiding the heat all day, shutting out the sweaty mugginess of it all, envisioning the friction of air and the grand climactic spectacle of a real thundershower, washing away the high pressure zone that's been baking us for days. The weather report suggests no such thing, but they've been wrong before; I still have hope.

Have just finished reading "X Saves the World" by Jeff Cordinier, and made the startling discovery that so much of the personal journey I've been on seems to be shared by my cohort -- or at least the intelligentsia among us. The realization washed over me as I was listening to "Message in a Bottle" by the Police... made me feel a lot less lonely. Made me feel like the answer is not in sending my own plea for help so much as it might be in answering others.

The world is out there. Time to go forth!
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Wisdom [Jun. 15th, 2008|10:16 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | chagrined]
[music |On the Turning Away, Pink Floyd]

Wise words from a friend not on LiveJournal:

"I did not know you quit your job.....are you in a new one? I sounds like a good move....we don't have to practice to be unhappy! After a school year of working with a most difficult student, I jumped (at the 11th hour) at a chance to take on a different one-on-one for next fall. It seemed like the thing to do. Sounds like you've had your share....and more....of scary and disturbing experiences along life's highway. It's O.K. to question where you're headed but, since your goal is to be happy, don't worry too much that you won't make it. You will, cuz you desire to! Enough of my grandma philosophy..."

Thank you, my dear friends, for your support, your persistence, and most of all, for your PERSPECTIVE. The latter is a little hard to achieve when one is wrapped in a personal cocoon.

Did you hear a popping sound? I think that was my head...
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The things they don't tell you in vet school [Jun. 14th, 2008|10:07 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[music |Eleanor Rigby]

So...

Today a woman arrives with a cat that "hasn't been breathing in a while". She arrives late -- 45 minutes late, after the phone call telling our receptionist that the cat isn't breathing -- and it comes out that she has been in an auto accident on the way to our clinic (in a car borrowed from a friend). The technician who goes to assess the case/bring the patient back to the treatment area comes out of the room white and incoherent with horror. I go in to talk to the owner...

Who has her mouth around the cat's face. The cat is dead. Deaddeaddead. Deadsky. Eyes are sunken and dessicated. Abdomen is distended and liquefying. Rigor mortis has come and gone. The cat is putrefying -- actively decomposing.

I gently tell the woman that nothing I can do -- nothing -- will bring her cat back to life. I tell her that her cat has been dead for too long; she tells me that it died last Thursday (today is Saturday). She asks me if I will try to resuscitate it, and that she is "praying for a miracle". She has that unfocused, dissociated look of someone undergoing a schizophrenic episode.

I tell her that, since nothing I can do will help the cat in any way, it would be unethical to take her money. Then I ask her if there is anyone I can call, or if I can help her understand what has happened to her cat. She looks at me sideways, and asks if I can direct her to Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Hospital (I tell her that they will say the same thing that I just told her; she tells me that several vets before me have told her the same thing). Then she sidles out the door. Nitwit me -- didn't get the license plate. Did file a police report, and called Dove Lewis and all of the other emergency clinics in the area. My friend Rob wanders in (his fiancee is my friend and colleague, Marsha) and tells me that she visited his clinic 2 hours ago.

I come home and tell Brent about the episode, and get the only gross-out I've ever managed to extract from the man. Totally heebie-jeebies. It was excellent.

Welcome to my world.
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I'm Back! [Jun. 10th, 2008|10:05 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | uncomfortable]

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping… into the future…

It has been a hell of a year. More of an internship than my internship, really. I allowed my desire and need to professionally grow to meet the demands placed on me at that ultra-busy practice to subsume my desire and need to grow personally… in fact, I backslid, letting go of elements of my life I swore I would be working to reclaim (like better communication with the people in my life, and rediscovery of hobbies and personal passions). Instead, I worked myself into a pit of depression, leaning heavily on my friends at work to keep me sane, trying to support Brent in his 80-90 hour work weeks (only partially successful), and losing more and more of myself as it just hemorrhaged away.

Damn, I hate my obsessive tendencies.

I haven’t written anything since last December, when a computer interface problem (and subsequent user error) caused a loss of a year and a half’s original writing. Gone. Poof. Like children wiped out in some sort of digital plague, with only gravestones in my mind (“I loved the one using clematis as a metaphor for summer inertia”) to mark their passing. Then again, I’ve produced very little of value in the last 2 years… I seem instead to have devolved mentally and emotionally from the brittle, bright core of self surrounded in swirling chaos to shapeless protoplasm masquerading around as me, dissipated and vague, without any trace of self-awareness, motivation, inspiration, or creativity. In short, I Got Lost, blaming exhaustion for my lack of a life/personality.

I haven’t found my way back to the path yet, but I’m starting to hear halloos. Starting to feel more coherent, and conversant. And starting to feel pretty annoyed with myself for my dissipation, my waste of precious time.

I’ve started taking steps in the right direction by quitting my job. No, the timing is not ideal. Brent’s also looking for new work, as his internship ends in three weeks. With no nibbles, and with my same old bad financial habits, it looks to be a squeaky summer, until we can get down to work. But just knowing that there’s an end in sight frees me of a terrible burden of guilt and shame and fear and emotional exhaustion and cowering self-loathing. Here’s the ridiculous thing: I’ve done all this to myself. For no reason. I did this during my internship, and during my senior year -- it’s been a disastrous pattern that there is no basis for; it’s just inherent in my mental makeup. And it kills me. Lack of confidence, based on lack of experience, coupled with a not-so-nurturing boss whom I cannot effectively communicate with, leads me to shrink within myself, seeking fewer opportunities to learn, avoiding the boss, approaching each workday with terrible anxiety, and feeling bad about myself and my skills. (The boss in question seems to feel that browbeating me for long sessions and reducing me to tears will improve my performance and shape me to his mold, and dumping me without help into situations that are way over my ability level will improve my capabilities. This is not the mentorship I signed on for. Generally, I need someone to present a learning opportunity as a “hey, did you know…” or “hey, let me show you something cool…”, or even “hey, I was going to do this procedure, and I wondered if you wanted to scrub in and learn it”, rather than a “let me see you in my office” followed by making me feel I entirely mishandled a case.) And I have worked my heart out this year, taking every suggestion, working on my own time to improve my knowledge base, attending as much CE as I can, asking for different opinions and canvassing my colleagues for different ways of performing a procedure (medicine is frequently more art than science, as there are usually multiple right answers to a single question). While my colleagues tell me that I’m a good vet, and have grown consistently faster and more proficient, that is just not the feedback I get from the higher-ups, who have blasted me down to ground level, over and over -- even in situations where I was hurting from a failure and needed to be built back up. Too sensitive and thin-skinned for this place. I no longer wonder at its extremely high rate of turnover. I do wonder in awe and amazement at the tenacity of my colleagues, most of whom tell me they cried every night for the first year at that practice. And for the last year, I have wondered if I just needed to ride it out, or if I was just clinging to the devil I knew, rather than launching (as I hate to do) out into the unknown without a safety net. Gods. I agonize over decisions too much. As Robert Fulghum once said, “the examined life is no picnic”.

That isn’t all that is dysfunctional about that place. There are well-established and well-empowered social cliques that seem to feel they have the right to villify any individual they please, for any reason. There is no communication directly between individuals -- it all goes through the head office. So miscommunications turn into giant games of “Telephone” involving half the staff, who then establish sides and take up arms against the party they feel has offended. That shit has cost the practice some very good vets over the years. It should not be tolerated in the workplace, but that’s how the place runs, and has forever, seemingly. Ideally, my new employer will employ a support staff that is actually supportive. I hate feeling hung out to dry over a mistake a receptionist made, that I am forced to take responsibility for the consequences of.

On the downside, there are some people I will dearly miss working with on a daily basis, most of them my colleagues -- the other associates. (A few technicians, and a few receptionists, too.) If I were working for almost any one of my colleagues, I would continue to stick it out through thick and thin. But the things that do not work will never change there -- my associates assure me that many have tried to implement changes, and have failed (and usually moved on). All of my enthusiasm met with the giant inertial blob of The Machine and fizzled it out. Now, I’m looking forward to simply being part of a team that wants me there, doing the best work I can and taking every opportunity to expand my skill set. I’m looking forward to not feeling sucked dry by the end of the week, so that my every weekend is spent in flat-out exhausted recovery mode. And I’m looking forward to loving my vocation again. After all, I sacrificed a lot to get here -- in pursuit of a career that I could grow with, that was personally rewarding. I have found myself wondering a lot, over the last year, when the sacrifices would pay off.

Bad habits I have realized I need to work on (and need a suitably supportive environment to work on in): I turf or avoid cases that I feel are beyond my capabilities, rather than tackling them in order to learn. Basically, I hate failure. However, the pace of practice at my soon-to-be-ex-employer is partially to blame; no one really has the time to guide me through uncharted territory, and I cannot afford to slow down and take my time navigating on my own. (Not to say that many of my wonderful colleagues haven’t stayed late to offer assistance! They have!) This is most pronounced when it comes to physical skills -- I have such limited physical experience, and some of my hands-on skills just aren’t what I would like them to be. So much of my education was spent reading and watching… I need help training my hands, now. Watching or looking at pictures just doesn’t teach the fingertips. This whole problem is compounded, of course, by my innate lack of self-confidence: I am uncertain of a skill, so I am trepidatious approaching the procedure, which kind of sets me up for failure. Perhaps I am too quick to give up, and hand it over to more experienced hands. That only leaves me feeling less confident. *Sigh.* I need to take courses in improving my confidence, and in taking failures as the natural process of learning. I hope my new employer can help me feel that way about it, rather than making me feel that more was expected of me, that I’m nothing but a big letdown. Gods, I hate feeling that I failed to meet expectations. Hate feeling that I disappointed someone invested in me.

Also, I should learn to be more proactive about asking for what I need -- I am notoriously bad at delegating or asking for assistance, since I feel that I incur resentment in doing so. But that’s what the support staff is there for! And yet, there is only one technician (my favorite one) who answers my “sorry to ask this of you, but…” with “that’s what I’m here for -- to work!” God, I love days when I get to work with her! She improves my efficiency by an enormous percentage -- the days she’s my assigned technician are the only days I leave on time. The other vets don’t have a problem grabbing people and giving them tasks -- just me. Confidence. Ugh.

Speaking of confidence, I’ve discovered a terrific new phobia to torture myself with: the fear that I am actually mentally unstable, and due to heritable chemical imbalance, headed for the sort of psychotic break my father experienced (and so graciously shared with me) a couple of years ago. Whee! Instead of feeling that I derive more meaning out of life through soul-searching and pursuing philosophical understandings of The Human Experience (which is how my father has spent his life, as well), I wonder if the natural, HEALTHY way to exist is to merely float along the surface, accepting all as it is and taking what comes, as my husband prefers to do. Gaaah! This is not an argument with myself that I can win: I double-interpret everything I do or have ever done with this new, more sinister view. I have always experienced wider swings of the emotional pendulum than most other humans of my acquaintance; does that denote chemical imbalance, or a personality predisposed to borderline personality disorder? Will it eventually crystalize into inflexible patterns of paranoia and anger and self-victimization, as it has for my father? Perhaps “normal” as viewed by the people in my life that could not identify with my mental landscape or state of being is really just that… perhaps, after a lifetime of arguing that there is no “normal”, that there are just people with differing views of and approaches to the cosmos… perhaps I’m wrong? And so lately, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to remember what I was like when I was happy, which I freely admit I have not been, in a long time. It worries me. I used to consider myself a mostly happy person. Other people used to consider me a mostly happy person. So who the hell am I now? I know when I departed from being that mostly happy person; how do I get back?

This last line of questioning got started during an event that occurred in the middle of my mini-vacation with Brent, at the end of May. The Portland Rose Festival rolled around, even if the summer weather still hasn’t, and we went to play at the waterfront carnival, since we had 5 days off together (we spent them exploring locally). As we walked in, I thought I recognized marimba music (Shona music from Zimbabwe, which I adore), and I dragged Brent to the main stage to check it out. The marquee showed the band playing was Boka Marimba -- one of my favorite bands! And suddenly, all of the terrible evenings their joyful, danceful, exultant music got me through came crashing in on me -- the nights I would play it loud to dissipate the dreams of my mother dying, the nights I could no longer focus on studying but couldn’t sleep because the crushing weight of grief over the failure of my first marriage would land on me the instant I closed the books, when I played the music and danced to exhaustion… their music took me from the happy person I was, looking forward into a future I was eagerly working to achieve, through terrible metamorphosis, into the person lost and fractured I have become, looking backward to discover some lingering thread of self to work with to reweave myself into a whole… one I could wish to be. I broke down and started crying -- helplessly, in great racking sobs that embarrassed me, that I could not control. And I realized that I had not dealt with the grief and the pain of the past 6 years, as I thought I had -- I had only buried it under new joys (such as meeting and falling in love with Brent, which now takes on the character of a sort of frenetic, rebounding self-preservation in my memory), new experiences (some of which were also painful, which I was keenly sensitized to), and time. I have failed to make sense of this all on my own, as I thought I was doing. I have failed to heal, which I always thought was as easy as breathing, always saw as my personal birthright. I have tried to move on with no foundation beneath me. And realizing this at last, I think it’s probably time I sought help to get through -- and past -- it all. Next step: figure out where. And stop trying to go it alone. It’s stupid that I withdraw into myself when I most need to reach out. That I have the least to say when the most profound changes are underway.

Poor Brent. I don’t think he really knows what to make of this, but he’s gamely trying to figure it out, and to be there for me. He deserves better; he deserves the happy person, the me of better days. I’d like to achieve that for my own sake, of course, but also to have that to gift him with. I’d like to have that to offer the world.
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Washing Machines and Other Mundane Things [Oct. 7th, 2007|10:19 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[music |Mrs. Bartolozzi, Kate Bush]

It was a quiet day at work today. I was recovering from a 5-day case of bronchitis (5 days bedridden), and so was grateful for the lack of crises. About half of my Sundays are like this. The other half are filled with emergency hit-by-cars or bit-by-big-dogs or "emergency" vomiting-for-4-days. Usually 4 show up during the last slot of the evening, when I don't have the time or staff to do anything about it.

I had a moment of disorientation driving to work: a footrace was happening across my beloved St. John's Bridge, with checkpoint volunteers shouting encouragement to the runners tramping past. Sunday. Sunday. I always work on Sundays; others pursue other aspects of their lives. It made me feel like a stranger, peering in through the window on an alien reality -- one that I used to be part of.

Driving home through the drizzling darkness over the mountain on Germantown Road, I could feel the bronchitis squeezing my airways again, with that sick, syrupy feeling like breathing molasses... found myself in a pensive mood, analyzing just how much I'm in a year of DOING, rather than a year of THINKING. Why do these things never happen simultaneously? I'm either experiencing life as hard as I can, or I'm withdrawn, mulling it all over and digesting it through the process of writing, making sense of it all. Listening to Kate Bush's "Mrs. Bartolozzi", I marveled at how she can take a topic so mundane as doing laundry, and create a frame in which sensuality/sexuality and the everyday love in an old marriage are examined through the eyes of someone stepping just outside her pedestrian chores, and looking back from a slightly different viewpoint. Mindless tasks are never truly mindless; the memories and analytical processes wander, freed from the leash of focus. I spend so many of my days concentrating for all I'm worth, and spend the remainder disappearing -- escaping into books, into chores, chasing my tail in circles like the Ourobouros, not looking outward and exploring the world around me. Perhaps I'm on input overload, with the sheer cliff of learning curve sloping ahead of me like Sisyphus' punishment. Perhaps my orbit is just getting tighter, spinning faster and faster and denser and denser until not even light can escape. And I wonder when (or if) I'll start unfolding again, stretching my toes toward new roads, since the way past feels so terribly closed?

The fortune cookie I got with my hastily grabbed won ton soup, on my way home in the rain, said "A fond memory will soon lead to a renewed friendship." I'd love to renew my friendship with my husband, whom I never see anymore, because of his work schedule. I'd love to renew my friendship with my father, whom I haven't heard from since his psychotic break in Minneapolis. I'd love to renew my friendships with so very many people -- distance hangs like a knife over my days, severing the threads of kith and kin, my ties to others, my anchors to this life, this time, this place. Those of you who still bother looking to see if I've written -- I'm here! I think of you often, from the well of my seclusion, and hope there is room in the future to travel a new road with you all...
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End of Summer, and catching up [Sep. 3rd, 2007|01:05 pm]
[Current Location |Arcadia]
[mood | content]

Dear Everyone:

Forgive me for being such a poor correspondent – life has been so full of doing these last many months that I’ve hardly had time to sit down and think, let alone write about it. Then again, my life always seems to rise and fall, like the ebb and flood of breath, in cyclic waves of frantic activity and quiet winters of the soul into which introspection and the need to write naturally creep. I suppose if you still remember me after all this time, you’re probably used to it by now. Thank you for bearing with me. I’ve thought of you all rather a lot more than my paltry communication would suggest, with memories of you crammed into the interstices of my life like some mad crow’s horde, catching the sunlight and making me wonder.

Last summer, I was trying awkwardly to settle into a brand new internship – more realistically, trying to cram myself into a space not yet defined, wedged between a fiercely independent and self-sufficient group of tight-knit senior veterinary students (the “guinea pigs” that would be the first class to complete all clinical rotations in the new OSU small animal hospital), and their sometimes overprotective professors – more like parent birds, watching their chicks fledge and leave the nest. It was often uncomfortable, and frequently confusing; with no real defined position for me to fill, and with different clinicians having varying degrees of expectation and ability to communicate, I lived with a kind of vague sense of anxiety and guilt that I should be doing more, with no real idea of what I should be doing. I read a lot, trying to brush up my knowledge base, and asked a lot of questions, trying to learn from experience, tried to be proactive, to the best of my ability (and, more germane, courage), and tried to assist the students and pass on information that I thought was useful (which wasn’t always appreciated or welcome, although it was part of my job description, such that it was). The constant anxiety wore me out, wrecked my health, wrecked my sleep. Thoroughly burnt-out by last Spring, I gave up my often ill-timed and socially inept attempts to be as helpful and useful as possible, and focused on just getting through it, getting as much out of it as I could. I know I tried too hard. Alas, when I do, it often results in awkwardness. With the exception of a few gracious clinicians, the majority of the feedback I got was negative. I really had no idea what I could do to improve, and was uncomfortable with so much, feeling that I would get into trouble for overreaching (and trying to push my boundaries often resulted in competing directly with students for experience opportunities – students invariably won). In retrospect, although I did learn from the experience, it was probably not the ideal internship for me. Those of you familiar with medical terminology can add a new syndrome to your vocabularies: internship-related Cushingoid.

Compounded on this, the Move from Hell (from Minneapolis to Corvallis) left me in a stuporous lassitude, my spirit cooling in concrete shoes of inertia, with no drive or energy to complete the projects (creative/fun or otherwise) that were once part of daily life and certainly part of plans made prior to the move. I never even finished unpacking, let alone painting or any of the other home improvement projects I had wanted to complete to make our little bungalow feel like a cozy home fit for entertaining in. Instead, it became the cave (complete with moldy old cave-bottom carpet and neglected garden wilderness) that I crawled into at the end of the day to hide from the world and the overwhelming list of things I felt I should be doing. Like a deer in the headlights, the sense of urgently unfinished business froze me to the spot, and I accomplished nothing. Initially, I had thought it no more than exhaustion, physical and emotional, from the move, coupled with the stagnation that often sets in in summer for me (Spring and Fall, my favorite seasons, are seasons of motion and change, followed by the inexorable march of monotony, lush or barren, that summer or winter bring in their carpet bags). But the clematis stopped blooming on the vine, the raspberries brought their final crop forth and dropped their leaves, Autumn lit fires of vermillion and ginger and smoldering aubergine all across the land, and still I lived in a capsule of stasis, spiritual hibernation, within my busy but trivial life. Gradually, I came to understand that Corvallis, like Santa Cruz, is an energy pool – a place to hide, to heal, to ripen on the vine, but never to move forward, never to achieve great transformation.

That all changed at the beginning of July, with the move to Portland. Ah, Portland. First seen on externship in 2005 when Dr. McLean from the Wildlife Safari took us on the road to explore the Zoo and other highlights of Oregon, my first glimpse had resulted in a shocking sense of recognition and familiarity, which I had been excited to investigate. Finally, last Autumn, flying back from a wonderful wedding in Michigan, I took the time to explore Portland with Brent, and had a peculiar experience: one long, running déjà vu, like a movie played in front of me and behind my eyes simultaneously. Like the converse of the ending in The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath, cities in dreams I had had since childhood – dozens of them – revealed themselves not to be compilations of cities I had known and lived in, as I had always thought, but a single, real place: here. I recognized houses, neighborhoods, parks, even the angle of the light. Places I had always loved suddenly seemed be reminders of neighborhoods in Portland. It was a bewildering, overwhelming experience; it left me speechless and near tears. Now, it leaves me with a sense of belonging and purpose, as though I am finally on the right track, and finally home.

And so the dust is finally settling in my life. Brent is happily (and busily) ensconced in the internship of his choice – an emergency/critical care internship at Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Hospital. Dove Lewis is a well-recognized and well-thought-of non-profit institution, and so far, Brent is receiving plenty of encouragement, support, and experience. He was good to begin with, but has been steadily improving. I’m terrifically proud of him, even though I hardly ever get to see him (I can tolerate anything for a year). He’s interested in pursuing residency (three more years of training) and board certification as an emergency/critical care specialist; I’m willing to support him in that. However, we’re tired of moving, and love it here. I think we’ll likely wait for the residency program at Dove, rather than pursue residency anywhere else.

I’m working at a busy, 10-doctor general practice that sees cats, dogs, birds, reptiles, and pocket pets – and am learning fast, on the fly. I’m not anywhere near as efficient as I’d like to be, but I’m working hard not to compromise the thoroughness that gives me the greatest satisfaction. So far, by taking extra time and explaining things to owners, I’ve been able to sell them on a better quality of medicine for their pets, and my average doctor-client transactions are near the top of the practice. I love my colleagues, who are supportive, experienced, and great human beings, and I’ve already collected some wonderful clients. My daily commute takes me across the soaring span of the St. John’s bridge, into the woods and dappled green shade of Forest Park, over the mountain to the farms and fields of Hillsboro, edged in bobbing yarrow and goldenrod in the tawny grass of late summer, and down through the heart of the town to Aloha. It takes about 25 minutes, almost all of which are enjoyable. The trip home frequently includes a view from the bridge of moonrise over Mt. Hood, with Mt. Saint Helens and Mt. Rainier basking in the surreal golden pink haze of alpenglow, reflected in the mighty Willamette river below me. It often brings tears to my eyes.

Home is Arcadia, a 3-story row house with a tiny fenced yard on level 1, and decks on levels 2 and 3. Basil and thyme, catnip and tarragon, lavender and lemon balm and tomatoes bloom in profusion among summer annuals and perennials on my main deck, framing the forested hills across the mirror-smooth surface of the river. The bridge rises to the right of the view, over the nodding golden bamboo in my neighbor’s yard. Dante and Lucien lounge in the sun on the deck all day, beneath the squabbling songbirds at the feeder, and the zip and flash of the hummingbirds. On weekday mornings, the pounding from the steel mill at the water’s edge and the tooting of the tugboats competes with the drawn-out wail of the trains passing through the rail yard; St. John’s is still Portland’s last great undiscovered neighborhood, largely because of the industrial interests still here. But it has the feeling of a secret, shared among friends – a golden sanctuary from the commercial claims and uncaring, unthinking urbanization of the wide-open city. I know my neighbors; we share a wink and a nod in the halcyon summer garden of the John Street Café over scrambled eggs with brie and fresh chives or Marionberry and hazelnut pancakes. And on the weekend, the meadow below our bedroom deck is filled with the arias of the songbirds, and the mournful passing cries of skeins of geese, heading south. Fall is already tinting the hills with dustings of amber and russet, and the light falls clearer and thinner on my old cats’ hides, and the wet winter nights will no doubt find them curled up beside me in front of the fire. But first, my favorite season: Autumn. And nights at the symphony, the opera, the theater. Blues festivals by the water’s edge. Twilight bike rides through the park. Farmers’ markets and crafts fairs and long afternoons in Powell’s City of Books. Trips to the seaside. Concerts. And, of course, the company of friends. Come, and be welcome. The spare bedroom is just about ready, its bathroom clean, its closet with plenty of room. There is still enough basil in the garden for insalata caprese, or fresh pesto. The games stand on the shelf, ready and waiting. Buster and Griffin are ready to swarm the laps of anyone sitting down to a movie in the basement entertainment room. And I’m recovering from the exhaustion that has so long claimed me, ready to renew acquaintance with a far-flung family of patient friends.

Love to you all,
Catherine
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Hurray!!! [Mar. 5th, 2007|07:15 am]
[Current Location |Home]
[mood | ecstatic]

Brent got his first choice in the match -- an emergency and critical care internship at Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Hospital in Portland!!! No more long cross-country moves, and now the dreams I've been having about Portland have a chance to come true...
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Words to strike fear... [Aug. 28th, 2006|10:05 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood | crazy]

OK, I know I have a ton of stuff to catch up on; I know I still have to finish typing up the honeymoon and the move from hell and the descriptions of my wonderful new house (and the unfortunate way it turns into an oven during heat waves)… but today was senior spay day, and I’m on surgery, so I was in charge. Had an utterly unforgettable moment, helping a student finish a difficult closure on a kitty with massive mammary hyperplasia.

The student behind me, the one who had no idea how to complete a physical exam of a cat, and who was afraid of handling the cat (immediately asked for help without even trying) had started the last spay. Our awesome, easy-going anesthesiologist came in to check on his student and the cat, and I hear him say “Dude, that’s not the way you look for a uterus – first, put everything back inside…”

Oh, shit. I scrubbed out and went to help her in a big hurry.

I can’t recall ever starting so many sentences with the word “Stop. Just stop…”

This, coming off a weekend I spent entirely in ICU with my diabetic patient and a bulldog who kept obstructing his airway (and had to be suctioned over and over), sleeping in the residents on call apartment, getting woken up every couple of hours...
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Pics from Vancouver! [Mar. 21st, 2006|07:46 pm]
[mood | Better!]
[music |AllStar, Smashmouth]

Hey! Here're the sites I created from some of the pics I've taken in gorgeous Vancouver, BC!

http://homepage.mac.com/copper9lives/Travels/Menu80.html

And here are the newest updates to my new journal:

http://web.mac.com/copper9lives/iWeb/Catherine%20Fischer/Journal/Journal.html

Enjoy!
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Internship [Mar. 6th, 2006|06:05 pm]
[mood | elated]
[music |Marimba music]

This is a link to my new journal!
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Snowdrop [Feb. 28th, 2006|03:03 pm]
[mood | Anticipatory]
[music |Don't Know Why, Norah Jones]

Winter in Minnesota offers very little hell and a whole lot of purgatory.

The snow melted off a long time ago, yet the temperature has chosen, over the past many weeks, to yo-yo between 20 and 40 degrees. Brown, barren, a land in limbo. As am I, in many ways. I long for the green haze and the release of spring – the glorious, soaring spring skies, the vibrancy of the breeze, the sense of motion restored to the world! The windows closed and condensing against the cold, I’m reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer, watching the winter sunlight slide across the sleeping cats and dreaming of pushing through the soil and blooming, like a snowdrop.

It has been a few weeks, now, since I received my diploma in the mail (as gaudy and garishly made-up looking as my classmates complained it was, in online bitch-sessions with many voices saying the same thing); I received notice at almost the same time that I passed my national board exams. The cathartic release of having the work done, the deed accomplished was a weight lifted I didn’t know I was carrying, until suddenly I had that helium-balloon, weak-kneed lightness and near-hysterical relief, ripping open the envelope and scanning its contents, uncomprehending for long minutes before its meaning sank in. I have spent nearly the last 4 years, sacrificing everything I once held dear, to the fire of pursuing this goal. Attained, I am somewhat lost at sea.

I went and celebrated with Brent, and silently closed another chapter in my life; I have yet to open the next one.

Since then, I have been Avoiding Things. I have done this, very effectively forestalling my well-developed sense of guilt and obligation, by filling my life with the busywork I so long neglected for More Important Things (study superceded all, followed by those necessities such as bills and taxes), catching up on the endless to-do lists I created and stashed in large, ignored piles on my desk. Checking things off has felt wonderful; I have even allowed myself the pleasure of a few personal projects, such as redoing much of my website, including adding a lot of photo albums from my clinical year of vet school.

What I have not been doing is what I swore to myself I would use this time for. Reclaiming the lost heritage of a life well-rounded and richly endowed, surrendered to the cleansing fires and Puritan zeal of study. Emerging like a moth from vet school, still damp and crumpled, I find I no longer know how to fill my time with the joy of creative endeavors. I find my conversation as desolate and poor as the moth’s existence, with eating and growth and slow days in the sunlight finished and only a single purpose left to fill the remaining hours of life. Yes, I do still love medicine, after all. But suddenly I find myself desperate to remember my love of other things, too: to be more than the vessel for those 4 years. I never wanted, after all, for career to define me.

I have meant to write more. I have meant to get out more, and try my hand at old hobbies, but this feels as stilted and artificial as resuming my maiden name, when my husband cast me off, not wanting any part of me or the sacrifices I was willing to make for the future, and thus becoming a sacrifice himself. I wasn’t that person anymore; I knew I would need a new name. And so I vacillated, determined to create a new name, a new persona, until a name was offered to me as a gift. And so I vacillate now, waiting for new life to fill up the emptiness left behind.

I have fallen into bad habits. Old habits. Avoiding duties that remind me of unpleasant things. Avoiding obligations that I am very late with. Running away and hiding in busywork, accomplishing nothing I can point a finger to, and failing to accomplish the spiritual and philosophical transformation that I must, must effect before I throw myself back into the pursuit of medicine, lest the opportunity be lost – lest some critical other part of me be lost, lest I lose my soul in the process.

It is easy to be lazy. It is easy to do the housework, not thinking while doing it, avoid attending the online rounds I had intended to take part in, avoid stretching creative muscles long atrophied, even though I have promised others the fruit of my labors and failed to deliver, and despise myself for it. It is easy to bask in the comfort of Brent’s company, the silences and smiles, the occasional entertainments, the homebody existence that attends the exhausted student life. But I should be doing more than feeding him. I am in the position of having time to pursue the creativity I know I am capable of, and bringing it to him, forcing him out of the comfort zone. He told me he loved that about me, once, with stars in his eyes, his arms around me in the moonlight. That I could drag him out of the existence he was already too familiar with. And yet, our comfort zones are so very similar… it is too easy to fall back into them, unthinking, not speaking.

That was not the marriage I wanted the first time, either – the superficial, planktonic existence that was comfortable to Kevin, because I did not know how much he feared change, feared what lay beneath the surface (of himself, me, the world). It galled me to discover how little I had known or understood him, before the grief and change arrived, and it was time for my next odyssey of growth and transformation. And by the time I understood, I could not forgive him, and could not live with who he really was, and he would chew off a foot to escape from having to live the examined life, afraid of knowing himself.

The trap I swore I would not return to. This. And so I am reading again, for the other voices that I need to start the conversation inside me back up. New Year’s resolutions arrived late… I will force myself to tackle at least 2 unpleasant things tomorrow, and will plan something out of the comfort zone. To save myself.
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Update on the Weather [Nov. 15th, 2005|07:25 pm]
[mood | accomplished]
[music |Limb by Limb, Phish]

Snow, snow, snow, say the weather forecasts. But this morning when I awoke, the streets were still rainy and grey; the trees were still pointing barren fingers accusingly at the sky, awaiting their winter benediction. All day long, everyone speaks of snow. Autumn has outstayed its welcome, with its many shades of sorrowful grey, lugubrious cityscapes artificially brightened with winter decorations and twinkling lights that flash in the pallid sunlight, dancing in fantastic animation when the wind blows at night.

Today was a good day. I am on the backslide of large animal medicine, with NO CASES in hospital. It has been eerily quiet in the downstairs dungeon (the large animal hospital), and we, the students, have been using the time to prepare for our national board exams. Mine is December 7, just two days after all of my internship applications are due -- so I've been running all over the hospital, acquiring bits of information and letters of recommendation from various clinicians I respect. This is harder than it sounds. No one has a reasonable or predictable schedule. But today I corralled the last of the lot, have my programs prioritized, faxed my transcript request to Ross headquarters, mailed my check to Ross (they STILL haven't gotten the damn school online, despite two international locations, students scattered all over the continent, and being purchased by DeVry, leader in technology) and even completed my curriculum vitae last night -- this is probably the best job I've done with the thing. I do hope it gains me the grace of those in charge of the internship programs.

In order, I am applying to: University of Minnesota, Oregon State University, Bay Area Veterinary Specialists (for private practice, they have ALL of the diagnostic toys), and VCA Emergency Animal Hospital and Referral Center (in San Diego). I am most interested in my top two choices; in fact, I had a hard time deciding between the two of them as to ranking. But while Minnesota's crushing caseload is guaranteed to leave me exhausted, it is also guaranteed to send me out the door VERY well trained.

A CASE came in today. A case. We have had, in the entire week and a half so far of large animal medicine, probably 4 cases. There are 4 students on this rotation. So our clinician, Dr. Bentley, asks the obvious question: "who wants it?" The three large animal students remain silent, and take a large step backward. "Don't everyone speak up at once," says Dr. Bentley. "It's mine," I say, exasperated with the lazy-ass large animal students. I'm only there because Ross requires that I track mixed animal. Because of my back, I wouldn't set foot in the large animal hospital if I could help it. My goals for the rotation: get some good review information for boards, and avoid getting hurt. However, the case ends up being extremely interesting. The owner is intelligent, informative, and likable; the horse is extraordinarily charming and good-natured. And I needed a case to present for Grand Rounds in January, with Brent and Kristina, a Minnesota classmate -- and Kristina has nothing, and Brent won't even have any large animal rotations before we present. Big checkbox in Catherine's Magnificent, Astonishing, Ever-Living To-Do List CHECKED. And the last item I needed signed off on my large animal practicum (a Minnesota requirement) was a trans-tracheal wash, which I assisted with today. CHECK. My To-Do List is so overwhelmingly long and out of control that I have nightmares about it. Getting my internship stuff together and these two large animal bits of business accomplished is more of a relief than words can do justice to. I even received praise for my history-taking and differential diagnosis list from a senior clinician that I have a high degree of respect for! I am unaccustomed to this accolade, and it still glows like an ember. Praise is stintingly given, here.

Driving home, the rain lands granular and half-frozen on my windshield, dripping melted sno-cone and just about as inviting. Wet streets and wall-to-wall traffic, red tail-lights... and suddenly, there it is: the first flakes like gnats swirling in eddies around my side mirrors, blooming in great sweeping arcs like fireworks expanding into the night sky against my windshield. Snow. The first snow of winter. The wet streets and traffic no longer matter.
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WEDDING INVITATION [Oct. 23rd, 2005|01:46 pm]
[mood | happy]
[music |Ode to Joy]

Here's the invitation! Hope to see you all there! (If not, hope to see you all soon!)

http://homepage.mac.com/copper9lives/Love/Personal56.html

Love,
Brent & Catherine
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ATTENTION ALL READERS [Oct. 17th, 2005|03:36 pm]
[mood | blank]
[music |Silence]

Due to the fact that I had to deal with a crank on LJ, I'm now locking all of my entries so that only friends (logged-in LiveJournal members) can read the personal stuff. If you've been checking for updates and haven't seen any, it's because of that asshat, whoever he/she/it was. Log in, and you'll be able to read the stuff. Sorry for the inconvenience. Love, Catherine
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The Change [Aug. 22nd, 2005|09:30 pm]
[mood | contemplative]
[music |Silence]

Harbinger Days

Crystal-cut and clarion, solipsistic Sunday
Bright breeze bringing a bugle call;
Far back in the brain, the pineal stirring of genetic memory.
The clockwork of the year clanks past an unheralded turning point
(Its antediluvian cycle part of a tacit understanding)
Bringing the heat-dazed dozer wide awake, and wondering at what started him.
My eyes travel the slant of the light
With sly familiarity, feigning innocence
When I twitch to thumb the change.

The heart has its seasons;
I know these lanes of light and shade, have walked the long years down, hand in hand
Listening to the chatterbox leaves that gossip behind their rattling fans
Restless in their seats during the intermission
Of the Sun’s migration
The clouds well-choreographed, dancing distraction until the next movement,
Silently miming the Summer’s dying soliloquy:
On days like these, with the soul’s ceiling arching away out of sight
No one listens.

8/22/05
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Overpopulation [Aug. 18th, 2005|08:12 pm]
[mood | angry]

Well, I just received the first truly vicious response ever on this journal (see comments, entry before last). I wonder at the petty nastiness of the person who sent it, and wonder who beat him or her and locked him/her in a closet as a child. I wonder if being spiteful somehow makes him/her feel larger, in his/her small little world. I very much hope that he or she doesn't intend to be a vet, as vets require compassion and empathy. (He or she would do better as a doctor in human medicine, where bedside manner seems to be a skill long lost.) He/she probably beats his/her pets, too, and will someday end up in a lawsuit, like the one on the film we watched in our Practice Management & Jurisprudence course.

I have always gone out of my way to avoid making enemies, and have always tried to be kind and sympathetic to everyone. On a one-on-one basis, I genuinely like most people -- everyone has his/her redeeming features. Perhaps it was someone who envied what I was able to accomplish, or what he/she perceived I had, not knowing or caring what I had to sacrifice for it.

Mean little people. I wish there were retroactive birth control to remove them from our overcrowded planet. Everyone is better off without them, and the world is a happier place.

Whoever you are, I hope you understand, once you make your first big mistake, at the bitter edge of exhaustion, or in a haze of pain, as in my case. And I hope that when you seek comfort from your friends, you are laughed at, or stared at with horror.
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Clearing the Air [Aug. 18th, 2005|07:14 pm]
[Tags|]
[mood | Better]
[music |Random radio songs]

Today Dr. Ellings -- whom I have already come to love, for her commitment to our learning -- was out; the community practice team hung out with emergency... that is to say, we waited almost all day for an emergency to come in, talking and eating, then got involved with an interesting case (and a really cool emergency doc) right before it was time for us to leave. And I realized today that, having spent last weekend philosophizing, thinking over what's wrong with me and TALKING about it has helped, immensely. I also realized that the chronic pain of my back injury (and recent exacerbation) has improved to the point of functionality again, and my attitude has improved commensurately.

As rain brings the fish to the surface, so pain brings the silent anguish in my emotional waters to the surface.

And as rain clears the air, so suddenly, in the absence of pain, I can think more clearly again, can function more efficiently.

Talking with other students feels better, too -- I don't feel like I'm the only lame, inefficient student with poor technical skills and a crummy memory around, missing important details and taking way longer than I ought. Roush used to say that "good comes first, fast comes later", but that's not what's emphasized in our clinical year. We are constantly pushed to pick up the pace. And that's when I miss things.

I'm grateful that this rotation is laid-back, and I have vacation next. I need some time to focus on other things. And I miss Brent so badly my teeth ache. He'll be here in a week and a half. I have so much to do before then, and all I want to do is sleep...

Have started dreaming again, this rotation. Haven't remembered a dream in I don't know how long. So suddenly, I'm having all of these VIVID, wild dreams that I remember with perfect clarity. I'm also visiting a lot of habitual dreamscapes -- places that may or may not exist in the real world, but they certainly exist in my dreams, and I love visiting them.

I'm still disappointed in some of my grades -- feel that I worked harder than those grades showed, and wish I could go back to those rotations and ASK what I could have done better, that was within my capabilities of doing. My clinical grades are very different than my academic ones... as I knew they would be. But the poor grades feel like a stab in the back, after I tried my hardest... something the clinician could have seen and helped me correct, while I was under his or her auspices, rather than hurt me with it later, when I can't see it coming.

I hate how arbitrary the grading process is. It is so very, very destructive to my pallid, delicate, newborn, altricial professional confidence -- the part of veterinary medicine I have the toughest time with. How am I supposed to learn the confidence I need to practice, if I am never allowed any wins?
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