Amber and jet earrings with acorn and oak leaf accents
Scottish thistle set with amethyst and aventurine
So pretty, yeah?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Birthday Prezzies to Myself
I just ordered these for myself.
Amber and jet earrings with acorn and oak leaf accents
Scottish thistle set with amethyst and aventurine
So pretty, yeah?
Amber and jet earrings with acorn and oak leaf accents
Scottish thistle set with amethyst and aventurine
So pretty, yeah?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Webpages for Jessica
At right, I've added two links to webpages that have been created in memory of my friend Jessica. The Blogger page has pictures, and the Facebook page has links to news articles relating to her death.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
You never think it will happen to someone you know
I found out a couple of hours ago that a woman I know, Jessica, was stabbed to death in her own home over the weekend. She used to be a grad student here in my department, and she was one of my officemates two years ago. I didn't know her well, but I liked her.
They say if you live in New Orleans long enough, you'll know someone who will be a victim of violent crime. I was hoping I wouldn't live here that long.
They say if you live in New Orleans long enough, you'll know someone who will be a victim of violent crime. I was hoping I wouldn't live here that long.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
Endoscopy = weird acid trip
I finally had the esophageal-gastric-duodenal endoscope yesterday. Upon arrival, we had the usual drama of trying to get blood out and an I.V. in -- tell me, how I am I going to keep myself properly hydrated to make those tasks easier when I'm not allowed to have anything by mouth after midnight and you wait to stick needles in me until 2:00ish in the afternoon? Once veins were found, the processes were surprisingly easy, especially considering there wasn't a vein digger in the bunch. The RN got my I.V. on one smooth try, but the vein wouldn't give up any blood. That warranted a second stick on the inside of my left wrist (not too fond of sticks in the wrist), but it gave up about four milliliters of blood which was sufficient for the required tests using the new tiny tubes.
That all settled, I motored back to the surgery area (not easy with an I.V. in the back of my driving hand, but I didn't want to give up control and let someone push me) in my wheelchair since everyone agreed that doing the scope was feasible with me in my chair as opposed to transferring me to another chair to which my body is not accustomed. I sat for a few minutes in the surgery anteroom while they waited for my labs to come back -- not pregnant, hemoglobin and hematocrit low but better than last week, clotting time and blood thinness within parameters acceptable for performing an endoscope. The anesthesiologist, Ryan, gave me three meds in my I.V. and then we chatted a bit before me driving back to the scope room. As I started driving, I got a little lightheaded and felt like I could take a nap. Since I was pretty sure Ryan had said he wasn't giving me Versed until I was in the room and parked so as not to impair my driving ability, I asked him what he'd shot me full of. "Are you a little sleepy?" he asked. At my my affirmative reply, he said, "That's the Benadryl doing that. I haven't given you any happy, floaty drugs yet." Yeah, well, I was feeling pretty happy and floaty. I asked for and received a pillow on which to rest my I.V. hand, but it was traded after seconds for a less bulky warm blanket, and another warm blanket was draped around me. Mmmmmm, I love those warm blankets!
I was hooked to blood pressure and oxygen monitors, and an oxygen canula was placed in my nose. The surgeon came in, and I was given one milligram of Versed. I remember the anesthesiology intern injecting the Versed into my I.V., I remember Ryan saying they'd give me the Versed in milligram increments while watching my respiration (it depresses respiration, NOT COOL in someone such as myself with restrictive lung disease), and I remember Ryan telling me to tell the doctor what I'm working on at UNO. I think I started to, but . . .
. . . that's where everything got freaky.
Ryan says he's amazed I remember as much as I do of what happened next. I'll just start my recollection by reiterating the first thing I remember saying upon "waking up":
Whoa. I will never do LSD.
It seems that the drug I was given to put me in a relaxed state for the scope but wouldn't seriously depress my respiration (not at the dose/amount used) and would in fact also act as a bronchodilator was ketamine -- the stuff known as Special K, the stuff that acts like PCP. Typicallly, a patient given Versed before ketamine will not trip or will not remember that they tripped.
As we all know, I am not typical. I tripped. Boy, did I trip.
In front of me through it all, acting as a backdrop for my images, was what I later called "the kaleidoscope from hell," but I'm not sure why. It was an ever-revolving, 1960s-like psychedelic screen of red, orange, pink, blue, and green. It was frightening yet mesmerizing all at once. In front of that, doing a wonky dance to the soundtrack in my head or just sitting still and being menacing, was a disembodied tongue -- think of those Coke Zero commercials with the two redneck-sounding tongues and the French-sounding eyeball. That tongue was freaking my s--- out because it wasn't there to drink up Coke Zero. Then I felt like someone was using one of those drain snakes on my throat, turning it 'round and 'round. I wanted to tell the jerk who was doing it to stop, but of course I couldn't speak -- and to make matters worse, he wasn't picking up the mental STOP signals I was sending him via telepathy. Jerk. Then my mouth became a volcano, spewing forth not lava but endoscope lubricant. I would choke and then it would fly out like thrown rock and ash, or it would work up little by little and ooze out.
As I started to wake up, I have vague memories of the following:
-- Sitting my head up, blinking around the room, and saying, "Whoa. Whoa! I will never do LSD." Apparently, Ryan and the intern found this an extremely amusing first thing to say.
-- Sticking out my tongue and grunting for Ryan to wipe lubricant off my tongue. He obediently did so. Such a good anesthesiologist.
-- Giving the nurse instructions on how to release the clutches on my power chair. I don't know how intelligible I was (I kinda feel like I was mumbling) or how well I did giving instructions, but the clutches were off and I was in another room when I really became conscious.
-- Saying, "I heard music" (in my head during the trip), which reminded the staff to turn off the surgery room stereo. I wanted to ask the staff if a Poison song had played during my procedure because I had a Poison song stuck in my head the rest of the day.
-- Telling the nurse not to drive my feet into anything. I think someone told me he was a good driver, and I'm pretty sure I had my doubts.
Afterwards, I woke up fine and dandy, though with a very sore throat, obviously. It was a volcano, you know. My esophagus, tummy, and upper duodenum have been given a clean bill of health -- no ulcers, lesions, or polyps, just healthy pink tissue -- so I guess it was worth the trip. He he.
That all settled, I motored back to the surgery area (not easy with an I.V. in the back of my driving hand, but I didn't want to give up control and let someone push me) in my wheelchair since everyone agreed that doing the scope was feasible with me in my chair as opposed to transferring me to another chair to which my body is not accustomed. I sat for a few minutes in the surgery anteroom while they waited for my labs to come back -- not pregnant, hemoglobin and hematocrit low but better than last week, clotting time and blood thinness within parameters acceptable for performing an endoscope. The anesthesiologist, Ryan, gave me three meds in my I.V. and then we chatted a bit before me driving back to the scope room. As I started driving, I got a little lightheaded and felt like I could take a nap. Since I was pretty sure Ryan had said he wasn't giving me Versed until I was in the room and parked so as not to impair my driving ability, I asked him what he'd shot me full of. "Are you a little sleepy?" he asked. At my my affirmative reply, he said, "That's the Benadryl doing that. I haven't given you any happy, floaty drugs yet." Yeah, well, I was feeling pretty happy and floaty. I asked for and received a pillow on which to rest my I.V. hand, but it was traded after seconds for a less bulky warm blanket, and another warm blanket was draped around me. Mmmmmm, I love those warm blankets!
I was hooked to blood pressure and oxygen monitors, and an oxygen canula was placed in my nose. The surgeon came in, and I was given one milligram of Versed. I remember the anesthesiology intern injecting the Versed into my I.V., I remember Ryan saying they'd give me the Versed in milligram increments while watching my respiration (it depresses respiration, NOT COOL in someone such as myself with restrictive lung disease), and I remember Ryan telling me to tell the doctor what I'm working on at UNO. I think I started to, but . . .
. . . that's where everything got freaky.
Ryan says he's amazed I remember as much as I do of what happened next. I'll just start my recollection by reiterating the first thing I remember saying upon "waking up":
Whoa. I will never do LSD.
It seems that the drug I was given to put me in a relaxed state for the scope but wouldn't seriously depress my respiration (not at the dose/amount used) and would in fact also act as a bronchodilator was ketamine -- the stuff known as Special K, the stuff that acts like PCP. Typicallly, a patient given Versed before ketamine will not trip or will not remember that they tripped.
As we all know, I am not typical. I tripped. Boy, did I trip.
In front of me through it all, acting as a backdrop for my images, was what I later called "the kaleidoscope from hell," but I'm not sure why. It was an ever-revolving, 1960s-like psychedelic screen of red, orange, pink, blue, and green. It was frightening yet mesmerizing all at once. In front of that, doing a wonky dance to the soundtrack in my head or just sitting still and being menacing, was a disembodied tongue -- think of those Coke Zero commercials with the two redneck-sounding tongues and the French-sounding eyeball. That tongue was freaking my s--- out because it wasn't there to drink up Coke Zero. Then I felt like someone was using one of those drain snakes on my throat, turning it 'round and 'round. I wanted to tell the jerk who was doing it to stop, but of course I couldn't speak -- and to make matters worse, he wasn't picking up the mental STOP signals I was sending him via telepathy. Jerk. Then my mouth became a volcano, spewing forth not lava but endoscope lubricant. I would choke and then it would fly out like thrown rock and ash, or it would work up little by little and ooze out.
As I started to wake up, I have vague memories of the following:
-- Sitting my head up, blinking around the room, and saying, "Whoa. Whoa! I will never do LSD." Apparently, Ryan and the intern found this an extremely amusing first thing to say.
-- Sticking out my tongue and grunting for Ryan to wipe lubricant off my tongue. He obediently did so. Such a good anesthesiologist.
-- Giving the nurse instructions on how to release the clutches on my power chair. I don't know how intelligible I was (I kinda feel like I was mumbling) or how well I did giving instructions, but the clutches were off and I was in another room when I really became conscious.
-- Saying, "I heard music" (in my head during the trip), which reminded the staff to turn off the surgery room stereo. I wanted to ask the staff if a Poison song had played during my procedure because I had a Poison song stuck in my head the rest of the day.
-- Telling the nurse not to drive my feet into anything. I think someone told me he was a good driver, and I'm pretty sure I had my doubts.
Afterwards, I woke up fine and dandy, though with a very sore throat, obviously. It was a volcano, you know. My esophagus, tummy, and upper duodenum have been given a clean bill of health -- no ulcers, lesions, or polyps, just healthy pink tissue -- so I guess it was worth the trip. He he.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Get real!
I just read this and wanted to share.
Taking The Risk: Permission To Be Real
Most of us are familiar with the idea of keeping it real and have an intuitive sense about what that means. People who keep it real don’t hide behind a mask to keep themselves safe from their fear of how they might be perceived. They don’t present a false self in order to appear more perfect, more powerful, or more independent. People who keep it real present themselves as they truly are, the good parts and the parts most of us would rather hide, sharing their full selves with the people who are lucky enough to know them.
Being real in this way is not an easy thing to do as we live in a culture that often shows us images of physical and material perfection. As a result, we all want to look younger, thinner, wealthier, and more successful. We are rewarded externally when we succeed at this masquerade, but people who are real remind us that, internally, we suffer. Whenever we feel that who we are is not enough and that we need to be bigger, better, or more exciting, we send a message to ourselves that we are not enough. Meanwhile, people who are not trying to be something more than they are walk into a room and bring a feeling of ease, humor, and warmth with them. They acknowledge their wrinkles and laugh at their personal eccentricities without putting themselves down.
People like this inspire us to let go of our own defenses and relax for a moment in the truth of who we really are. In their presence, we feel safe enough to take off our masks and experience the freedom of not hiding behind a barrier. Those of us who were lucky enough to have a parent who was able to keep it real may find it easier to be that way ourselves. The rest of us may have to work a little harder to let go of our pretenses and share the beauty and humor of our real selves. Our reward for taking such a risk is that as we do, we will attract and inspire others, giving them the permission to be real too.
© 2004-08 DailyOM - All Rights Reserved
From dailyom.com
May you be comfortable discarding your mask, even if it's only with a few people. May you have friends/family who are comfortable in discarding their masks.
May you give yourself permission to be real.
Taking The Risk: Permission To Be Real
Most of us are familiar with the idea of keeping it real and have an intuitive sense about what that means. People who keep it real don’t hide behind a mask to keep themselves safe from their fear of how they might be perceived. They don’t present a false self in order to appear more perfect, more powerful, or more independent. People who keep it real present themselves as they truly are, the good parts and the parts most of us would rather hide, sharing their full selves with the people who are lucky enough to know them.
Being real in this way is not an easy thing to do as we live in a culture that often shows us images of physical and material perfection. As a result, we all want to look younger, thinner, wealthier, and more successful. We are rewarded externally when we succeed at this masquerade, but people who are real remind us that, internally, we suffer. Whenever we feel that who we are is not enough and that we need to be bigger, better, or more exciting, we send a message to ourselves that we are not enough. Meanwhile, people who are not trying to be something more than they are walk into a room and bring a feeling of ease, humor, and warmth with them. They acknowledge their wrinkles and laugh at their personal eccentricities without putting themselves down.
People like this inspire us to let go of our own defenses and relax for a moment in the truth of who we really are. In their presence, we feel safe enough to take off our masks and experience the freedom of not hiding behind a barrier. Those of us who were lucky enough to have a parent who was able to keep it real may find it easier to be that way ourselves. The rest of us may have to work a little harder to let go of our pretenses and share the beauty and humor of our real selves. Our reward for taking such a risk is that as we do, we will attract and inspire others, giving them the permission to be real too.
© 2004-08 DailyOM - All Rights Reserved
From dailyom.com
May you be comfortable discarding your mask, even if it's only with a few people. May you have friends/family who are comfortable in discarding their masks.
May you give yourself permission to be real.
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