On the Planet... Still

I'm still here. Thought I may need to state that for reasons relating to the last sentence of my previous post.

I was simply too exhausted when I rolled in from work Saturday morning around 10am to do anything other than doff my watch, keys, phone, and clothes and climb into bed.

It had gotten quite unseasonably cool (though there is nothing to this global climate change myth) overnight last Friday. Down to around 51. I had worn jeans to work and taken a light jacket to wear as well. Still, I was chilled in spite of baking in the sun for a several minutes before I made the trip home. I even put on the heat in the van during the ride. I still shivered under a cotton thermal and a vellux blanket for more than an hour before I could get warm enough to fall asleep.

I awoke around 5, having missed the birthday party for the two older grandchildren and was bitched at by my daughter. I don't know why it didn't occur to her to open my front door and call for me. It isn't as if she doesn't live right next door. My phone only rings aloud if I plug it into the charger and living in an urban environment has pretty much made me able to sleep through anything other than my phone or someone calling my name.

Having slept away my only day-off on Saturday, I was up all night, finally got to sleep somewhere after 6:30am in order to get up (finally at 9:50am) and be at work at 10:45.

I made it at 10:50, strolling in in flip flops (fashionable metallic ones mind you) and with wet hair. Hey, at least I was showered and smelling nice. Brian was already in our office and, being the boss, had to do the boss thing of asking if I was supposed to be wearing those shoes at work. I responded no, and that I had figured that Eugene managed to mangle my ankles with the footrests on his wheelchair in spite of whatever kind of shoes I wore so it really didn't matter much. He laughed, having had his own ankles mangled by Eugene's footrests in his years of working the floor.

I found the clean coffee pot that I had stashed last Sunday, started my Starbucks, and took the nasty coffee pots from the coffee room out to the apartments to toss in the dishwasher, as has become my Sunday morning ritual. Hindolo wasted no time in coming to help me, and I'll give him credit for observance (or for having a thing for feet), noticed that my ankles were no longer swollen and deformed looking. "Your feet are regular?" he queried as he bent down and began to poke at my non-swollen and non-deformed-looking feet and ankles. I explained that, yes, my feet and ankles are not deformed. It is the rheumatoid flaring that makes me look club-footed.

I told him that the coffee should be done by now, and he grabbed his cup and followed me across to the admin building. I told him I was now off to put on some makeup and make myself beautiful or, at least, cover some of the ugly. He didn't comment but flashed me that smile that I'm coming to like a lot.

Of course, I ran my ass off on Sunday. I generally run my ass off every day, but with everyone being in and out on Sunday, it means a few more trips in and out of the apartments than usual.

The way skinny sister of one of our gals was in to visit on Sunday. She's a wonderful person and very concerned about her sister. We talked at length about the recent medication change, her disdain for the psychiatrist who would not even look her in the eye when he responded to her concerns at her sister's last psych appointment, and what may be a good course of action to try next for her sister's increasing wandering and increase in obsessive-type fixations that leave her dangerously un-redirectable.

I was at the foot of the sidewalk talking with a couple of my guys as skinny sis was leaving. My patients remarked as to how skinny she was. I told them that, in my pre-steroid days, I was that skinny was determined to be that skinny again. My guys were not happy about that. Hindolo was sitting on the front porch and didn't say anything but shook his head. His co-worker, who had stuck his head out the front door and had heard the exchange between me and the guys, remarked something along the lines of thank God for steroids as he ducked back inside the door. As he has been known to say, "Bones are for dogs. Men need meat."

For my bone structure and body type, I am about 5 pounds over the upper limits of my normal weight range. Yet, still I feel I am grossly over weight. In having a weight and body image discussion last week involving different cultural perceptions with one of my African staff who is currently in nursing school, he was quite surprised to learn that I view myself as being "fat." He commented that it's quite interesting to have these types of discussions regarding differences in cultural perceptions with the American women in his class because our views have become so distorted from the way most of the rest of the world thinks. We talked about how American women see our significant other looking at other women as damaging to our self-image; how if our man is looking at another woman, it is because there is something wrong with how we look. He commented that when he is out with his own wife, if he looks at another woman and calls his wife's attention to her hair or her pants, it isn't because he finds that woman more attractive, it's because he thinks that hairstyle or style of clothing might look really nice on his wife, and that she is not offended by his looking and his comments. One of the male African nurses laughed and commented when I told him about this conversation, "African men love to look. We like big women with big butts! A woman will be walking down the street and the men will be watching going... ~ bobs head back and forth~ ... in time with the way her butt is moving. It's very different in Africa." His comment regarding my statement that diseases like bulimia and anorexia are mainly unique to the US... "Oh, we have anorexia in Africa..." the two of us in unison, ...."it's called famine."

As further conversation with one of my newer women African staff proved as well. She had commented last week about having a c-section when she had her daughter. I asked her how old her daughter is now. She replied that her daughter is nearly four and that it's so funny getting her ready to go to day care because her daughter insists that her clothes match. "In Africa, you wear what your mother gives you."

I enjoy having these conversations with my coworkers. I find it very interesting to learn their perspectives and views. I wish more of my American coworkers would take the time to have these types of discussions and learn some things about and from the people we work with. I have talked about everything from health care to stealing to education with many of the Africans. I have learned much.

Most of the Africans that I work with are from West Africa - Gambia, Nigeria, Sierra Leone, Ghana, Cameroon. That is not a listing of all the countries in West Africa, just the ones that we have represented on our job. We have a few from East Africa - Kenya, Tanzania, Ethiopia. The over-all demeanor between West and East is very different, as the Africans themselves are quick to point out.

The majority of the Africans are from Sierra Leone. Most of them fled very quickly at the end of the decade-long civil war. I cannot blame them. During those years, the people of Sierra Leone were the most impoverished population on the planet. I still have not explored the brutality inflicted on the people during the war. That is a subject that is still too real and too painful for many of them to delve into at length. Hindolo is from Sierra Leone and lost both of his parents during the war. I do not know if he was forcibly conscripted at gunpoint into service as many teenagers were. I haven't asked. Being that he's 30 and has his masters degree from Notre Dame and went back to Sierra Leone at the end of the war while working for the UN, I would hope that he was able to come to the US early on in the war. From comments he has made, I do know that he was there for at least part of the war.

In some ways, his quiet demeanor and continued belief in God though he has abandoned religious dogma at this point, give me a feeling of petty selfishness for my own motivation and reasonings for abandoning belief in a deity. He is understanding and respectful of my sentiment of, "I can do badly on my own so why do I need a god?" Though in our talks about religion, I found his admission that he was thinking of becoming a Jehovah's Witness as disturbing as some of my friends have found my decision to be atheist. Thankfully, my knowledge of theology surpasses that of our workplace's resident JW so that temptation has been removed from his mind. He laughed when I told him that the other nurses get a kick out of it when I do finally breakdown and enter into the theological debate with our JW nurse because I'm the only one with enough theological study and training to be able to refute argument and correct bad translation and improper and inconsistent application. Though, in his quiet and direct way, his question to me of, "You have so much knowledge. How can you say that you will walk away from God?" hit directly on the mark he was seeking to hit.

It's a shame that he didn't like political science (As he said, it really is a science when you think about and apply it.) enough to pursue his doctorate once his project with the UN was completed. He is quite adept at choosing to say the right things at the right time in seeking to accomplish his point to completion. Is it OK to admit that I both hate and respect that about him? LOL In coming to know him better, those few and rare moments of conversation that are just between the two of us are appreciated more and more.

I eschewed the company of my three usual smoking partners last Sunday evening at quitting time for the midshift and went off to sit and smoke by myself on the bench next to the planter at the north parking lot. Hindolo came around the corner and smiled widely when he saw me there. He dropped off his bag to his car and returned to find I'd been joined by a couple of other exiting mid-shifters. He excused himself to go talk to another of those leaving and returned when the crowd began to dissipate. hmmmm... He knows me well enough to have discerned my intention with that particular ploy. Maybe that's a good thing. Also, it doesn't do to appear too obvious at work. We have an effective grapevine, and for what it may lack in accuracy, it more than makes up for in content and creativity.

Those few minutes of conversation there in the fleeting twilight, made me question more things than they answered. I came away feeling like that line from Shrek - Ogres are like onions; we have layers. He had an early class and more reading to do for it, and I had more work in the office to finish. It was only with selfish regret that I let him be on his way. We could very well have talked for hours.

He fails to understand my passion to be a working artist rather than finish my BSN and find an admin position or take my daughter's suggestion and pursue a degree in finance or even return to computer science. I'm left wondering what it was about teaching that he disliked so much and why the study of microbiology is what intrigues him at this point. Ground for further conversation and more than enough interest to keep me hanging around until I can get in to see my doctor and get my medication adjusted and get some therapy to combat the suicidal ideation.