Holding Memories

Packing, clearing, reaching for top shelves. What's that? My medical bag.

I've been very good about not stopping to reminisce but this discovery forced me to take a few minutes to recall how excited I was (almost 16 years ago) to receive the black leather bag that held all things which made me somehow official. Officially a student, that is.

The bag is now disintegrating and I need to throw it away. I guess if you don't use it you really do lose it. The handles are sticky and one side is covered with some kind of goo that I don't want to attempt to identify. I've watched enough episodes of "Hoarders" to believe that the memories are in my brain, not in that bag. The bag is out. First, I wanted to make sure I kept any contents that might have value.

A disposable scalpel. Tossed. I don't anticipate doing any quick surgeries outside of an operating room. Assorted tapes and bandages - just as sticky as the handles. Gone. Diaphragms to long lost stethoscopes. Pitched. They don't fit the one I have now. Drug company pens. So thrown out.

My otoscope. I remember when I first got it and I wanted to look in everyone's ears. I practiced insufflation and probably caused some terrible pain. For this I apologize to any of my patients/victims who might be reading today.

A tuning fork. I think my kids played with it more than I ever used it.

I smile a little remembering how intimidated I was by those two pieces of equipment. Never in my wildest PA Student dreams would I have imagined that an auriculectomy would become an "easy" surgery to assist. I'm not even sure if I had wild PA Student dreams. I was too afraid to dream wildly. Sometimes I was too tired to dream.

Looking at the bag I get a giggle out of the umbilical clamp I used for an identification tag. It's a mark of my ego. It wasn't enough to have a bag. I had to go one step further. I had to show that I was in proximity to birthing babies. The first day I actually helped deliver one, I believe I was as white as that clamp. I'm not sure where my ego went, but anything to do with obstetrics scared the crap out of me from that point onward.

I received an email from a new graduate today. She asked me for some advice and I answered her immediately. It wasn't clinical advice she sought but practical people stuff. In my last paragraph I thanked her for asking me and as I hit "Send" I was grateful that someone considered me wise enough to seek my council. I think it's fitting that today is the day to discard this symbol of my infant PA self. Back then I thought it meant I had arrived. Little did I know.




©Michelle Scofield, June 27, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Only Numbers

What if I only meaningfully interact with 6% of the people with whom I come in contact? Over the 3rd or 4th (who was counting?) drink last night, my best friend and I stepped briefly into that dark melancholy corner of the bar and quietly mourned our similar situations. We're middle aged and seriously single - heavy on the serious.

We were in a very big, very crowded, very packed establishment. You know the kind. It was frat-boy heaven. The walls were covered with the trophies of mass consumption of hoppy brew, each displaying the name of someone who had managed to taste (purchase) each of the offerings of the place. I think there are about 200 beers available. Big screens played soccer and baseball. Beer was being swilled and spilled. It all seemed silly and juvenile and my friend and I spent a few minutes wondering what the hell we were doing there before we remembered what we were doing there. We were on a birthday pub crawl and we'd come from a fun Irish pub and were on our way to another place we hadn't tried before. As quickly as we'd plunged into that pity fest of estimating that "94% of these people are people we have absolutely nothing in common with", we walked out the door and rejoined the people we'd arrived with - the ones we DO have something in common with.

No doubt alcohol fueled philosophy is a dangerous thing. I'd rather look back on our little psychic foray and pull what I can from it, now that my head has cleared.

Aside from the deep and plentiful laughs, here's what I gained from last night:

1. I still don't like to drink beer unless I'm cooking. I can make it last a couple hours and I don't care if it's warm.

2. Light has a magnetic pull on me. (My college physics teacher would blanch at this sentence.) I am compelled to take a picture when I notice the way light falls on a face, an object, through the air. I become uninvolved in conversation. I border on rude. I apologize to my fellow humans. I'm having an affair with my camera.

3. I've earned the right to say my age and to act it. The thought of going to a rave after a Saturday night of drinking makes me tired. I hold no judgement on those who go. I only know that I can't, won't, didn't. I'm happy with being told I don't look this age. So far, no one's making a big deal about what age I act.

4. I want to buy a tie for someone. I want to see him go to work and know that he's wearing the tie I bought him. (One of the places we went was also a tailor shop.) Seeing all those beautiful ties and knowing that my closet is about half-empty triggered that desire in me to share my life and my space with someone who will let me do nice things for him. Little things, like buying ties. This is kind of funny to me because, really, how many men wear neckties anymore? Statistically, I don't think I should make this a dealbreaker. Even if the 6% we discussed last night is only ballpark, this necktie thing might really narrow my field.





©Michelle Scofield, June 26, 2011 All Rights Reserved

What Are Memories Worth?

I've been packing for my upcoming move and I've thrown out a lot of things. Over the years I've moved many times and I've gone through the sorting process each time, so this is a pretty easy move. Still, I'm surprised at what I thought I needed to hang on to. Maybe it was that I was too physically tired to sort through a box or maybe I was too mentally fatigued to shift an item from the storage shelves in my brain. Do you have these?

I Had This

This Might Come Back

This Is Over

Having a garbage chute in my building helps. I can walk a bag of trash down the hall and send it 4 floors away to a steaming pile of hot Houston summer never-look-back. When it's gone, it's gone.

The pleasant and happy happening is that the photographs of my Mom and Dad haven't been painful to come upon. I've had a lot of smiles to find pictures of them as the (at times) youthful, silly, optimistic, attractive, career-minded, flamboyant, outgoing, charismatic, loving, generous, shy, and beautiful people they were. It's a good thing to be able to put all of these pictures together and have a goal of distributing albums to the family.

It's a goal - it could happen. I once heard that goals are healthy, kind of like oat bran.

I also found a lot of ticket stubs and playbills. I always figured they would stir memories of the night, the music, the experience. I've had "Kathmandu" by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band running through my head since coming upon that shoebox. Look at the picture and notice that I didn't find my ticket from that night. No Aerosmith or Todd Rundgren. Nothing from ZZ Top or Peter Frampton. Those are the concerts I remember the best.

If I close my eyes I am standing in front of the stage at Frampton and I am in the presence of a genius but I don't have the capacity to describe it because I'm a very young girl and all I know is his music is blowing me away.

I can remember how still a very full concert hall became when Todd Rundgren climbed to the top of a giant speaker and sang "Hello It's Me". That was after Head East opened for him. We had been whipped into a teenage frenzy with "Never Been Any Reason" and then Rundgren looked us all in the eyes and sang to us, individually, and we were still and we listened.

So I don't have those paper memories but it's interesting to look at the ones I do. Check out the prices on those tickets from back then. Styx and America each set me back six-fifty. Black Oak Arkansas cost me five bucks. Lynyrd Skynyrd, seven dollars. Compare that to what we're paying for concerts today. That Van Halen ticket cost thirty times the price I paid to see Kansas. Sure, Van Halen was great. Sure it was with David Lee Roth and not Sammy Hagar. Guess which I'd rather do again?





©Michelle Scofield, June 18, 2011 All Rights Reserved

For Company at 3am

On Solitude - Alexander Pope

"Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye."




Last night was a night most restless. Heh, I read a few poems from the 18th century and I switch up my diction. I needed someone to talk to. I was anxious and worried about a patient. I attempted to sleep and I woke myself almost hourly, thinking, "Don't forget." Today I was beat and my caffeine consumption tells the story of someone who struggled to get through the day. I made it but just barely. As it turns out, my worry was unnecessary. The potential problem I was pondering wasn't a problem at all. Sometimes it happens that way.

Anyway, at 3am I was wondering if I had someone with me, would I just be keeping that person awake? Or would it have helped to bounce my concern off of them (not the minutiae - but my CONCERN) before going to bed? If I'd have had the opportunity to decompress, might I have slept better? Who knows?

I tell myself I like my solitude. I tell myself I adore setting my own schedule and course in life. That's what I tell myself.

Then again, I put a lot of energy into sharing this life with others. I even write about being alone. This irony isn't lost on me.




©Michelle Scofield, June 15, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Search Six Eight Eleven

I need a topic today. Without a clue or inspiration, I'm looking at the "At-A-Glance" calendar on my desk. What is today? June 8, 2011. So I'm going to Google "June" and see where the eighth entry takes me. Hang on. I'll be right back.

I end up at MySpace? Really? Can you hear this long exhale I'm making. It goes like this. "Gaaahhhhhh." I'm 51 freaking years old. I don't want to be at MySpace reading about the band June which has apparently broken up. I listened to some of the music. For a little minute - a very little minute. Let's see what's going on at the blog. Hmmm...July 18, 2010 Tim wrote that he "finished producing and mixing a song for Linkin Park's new record coming out in September".

Let's head on over to Linkin Park. Look at all those interesting places on Linkin Park's tour schedule for June, 2011. What's in the 11th spot? RockWerchter2011 in Belgium. Looking at the lineup I'm feeling everyone of my 51 years old.

Wait!

I've already seen one of these bands. Once you've seen Social Distortion, do you really need to see anyone else? Looking through the tour dates I see that they will be in Austin in September. Road trip, anyone? Travel keeps us young.


©Michelle Scofield, June 8, 2011 All Rights Reserved

What Price Comfort or Beauty?

Free is good, right? Have I got a deal for someone. I don't know for whom. I have this perfectly almost great couch with somewhat squished cushions. Now I didn't say comfy, cozy, squishy, lush cushions. Something happened between now and 2006. The foam in the cushions stopped doing the job it was meant to do. I've hardly used this couch. The springs seem to be OK. I think it was not super-great foam to begin with and then it became flimsy. I don't like flimsy foam. I'm want to dump the flimsy-foam couch





and get a sleek leather couch like this.



You say, "Sell the flimsy-foam couch." When? I work Monday through Friday and I'm not able to run home during the day. I also don't want to deal with the Craig's List Strangler. I have a strong hunch he works evenings and weekends at his part time strangling job.

You say I should donate it? Easier said than done. I've looked for charities that will pick it up and (you guessed it) the charity truck drivers only work Monday through Friday. I have no idea what they are doing evenings and weekends. I won't hazard a guess.

I'm hoping a friend will want it. I think it would make a swell addition to a game room where kids can jump on it and squish those cushions even further. Or maybe someone who is very industrious can recover it, even recover just the cushions. Anyone? ANYONE???

You bring the truck and the lifting power and I'll provide the free couch and a big ol' smile while you take it on out of here. There's an elevator. That's a bonus, yes?

While I'm talking price, just take a gander at this beauty. I love it but c'mon. $31,000 for a watch?

I love watches. I have a teensy, tiny addiction. I found replicas of the Hublot selling from $85 to $595. I think I'll hold out for the real deal. One day. A girl can have goals.




©Michelle Scofield, June 7, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Stretch and Cut

First day back at work. I know I was missed. Everyone told me so. That's a great feeling and it made the commute on the slightly rain-slicked highway a little easier.

I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was knocking my notes out, keeping up with the day and standing pretty tall. After being off for a week, I felt like things were going better than I'd expected them to be. No major malfunctions. You know what happens next. Something always happens next.

I entered a room. Chitchat ensued and morphed into political discussion.

Uh oh. I hate that.

The room tilted to the right and I felt my stomach flip as it tried to reconcile the gravity of the conversation. I looked at the chart. I looked out the window. I attempted to look as apolitical as possible.

I heard the words.

"She's a real Obama fan, a regular supporter."

Why does it have to be this way? I felt my credibility fly out the very window through which I'd been gazing. It flew out on the wings of a creature that hovers above me and occasionally divebombs, taking me by surprise.

I smiled. Sometimes it's better to say nothing. One doesn't have to deny or confirm. In fact I think I said more with my silence than I could have said with words.

Since it's now 6:26pm and I'm off the clock, for the record: Yes, I am.


©Michelle Scofield, June 6, 2011 All Rights Reserved

Time to Say When

You know when enough is enough, right?

Six days in Las Vegas made for a very long week. Sitting in straightbacked chairs for hour upon hour and listening to talks on acute renal failure, sexually transmitted disease, surgical wound management, malpractice issues, and ovarian masses can be exhausting. Each evening the temptation was to hit the personal pan pizza stand and melt into the king sized bed with television remote in hand. I can only take so much of the Discovery Channel. I made a pact with myself to enjoy a nice dinner out each evening - even if it meant I'd be eating alone.

When I first started traveling to Las Vegas (*cough* 30 years ago *cough*), the all-you-can-eat buffet was King. Not so much anymore. Thank goodness. Today there is a fierce battle being fought for restaurant royalty and the dining patron is benefiting from the fight. Many so-called celebrity chefs have opened up shop along the strip. I have a few favorites that I've accumulated over the years, including Michael Mina and Emeril Lagasse.

This trip I tried Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill. Holy Chili Pepper! What a wonderful meal I had. My only regret is that I ordered a glass of wine and not tequila. Next time I'll know better. The chili relleno was the best I've had but the fire really needed the sweet and sour of a margarita for balance. What impressed me about the food at Mesa was that the spice was all full and forward. It didn't linger and scald. It didn't ruin the next bite.

For my last dinner I went to the Venetian and asked for a table for one at B&B Ristorante, a Mario Batali establishment. It wasn't late, about 7:30, and there were many open tables to be seen. I was told I could sit at the bar or be put on a list and the wait would be fifteen or twenty minutes. Uh, no. I left and walked over to AquaKnox where I was seated immediately in an extremely comfortable, high-backed, deep-cushioned, luxurious chair.

I was given ample time to peruse the menu, finally choosing the ahi tuna which was barely seared and served over a bed of couscous seasoned with blood orange. If I tell you it was delicious I'm not even beginning to do it justice. I finished my meal, I finished my drink (see above) and thought, "I'm done. I want to go home."

I was tired.

I'd attempted to scout out the best and I'd stumbled onto even better. Mario Batali can keep his pasta and his attitude. I had a simple and perfect meal and one perfect martini along with it. My glass was empty, my stomach full.

I decided the night would best be finished with a walk down Las Vegas Boulevard, through Harrah's casino and onto the Monorail platform to catch the ride back to my hotel. It seemed a shame to take a cab and let it all end so early. Lest I be lulled into complacency and think there was some sort of magic to the night, I happened to witness a full-on fist fight in front of Denny's and I narrowly avoided being vomited on by a woman wearing a bright pink feather boa. But wait, there's more.

I arrived at McCarran airport this morning and breezed through baggage check and security. I grabbed a cup of coffee and made my way toward gate C-2 to wait for boarding. I noticed a young man sleeping - snoring - on the floor. He couldn't be missed because his snores were so LOUD. Oh, and his face was covered with black and red marker. Someone had written all over his face. And his neck. And his arms.

I walked around him and soon I heard a young woman shouting at him, "Jason! Wake up! We have to get on the plane!" Jason wasn't waking up. People around him were looking, nudging each other. A few even got up to take pictures of him with their cell phones. Someone got a wheelchair and then Jason was poured into it. He slept on, snoring like a bear.

You know what comes next, right?

I made my way to the service desk and asked (discreetly) if they were really going to let that young man on the plane. The woman at the counter told me that his flight didn't take off for a couple hours. Holy shit. I'm glad he wasn't on my flight.

That's what I told her. "Holy shit. I'm glad he's not on my flight." Oh, I added. "What will you do if he has a seizure?" She just shrugged and said, "He's just really sleepy."

(If I'd been working the ER, he'd have an IV hanging and his airway protected. No doubt in my mind he was on the edge of alcohol poisoning - if not there already.)

I feel:

old
sad
tired
disgusted


tired.


©Michelle Scofield, June 4, 2011 All Rights Reserved