Category: Essays

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Karma

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

So, here is the order of events:  I stopped at the ATM yesterday to have some cash on hand to tip my massage therapist.  Because the ATM only spews out twenties, and because I don’t want to set a $20 tip precedent with the aforementioned therapist, I stopped at a convenience store to get a Coke and thus break a twenty.

In front of the convenience store was a man in fatigues sitting at a table collecting money for The Wounded Warrior Project.  Now, I’m all for taking care of returning veterans.  I think we should provide medical care and housing assistance and education and just about any need for those who are willing to put their lives on the line for the pittance we pay them to do that.  But, I have a natural resistance to people asking for money at the entrance to stores.  It’s such a deeply seated antipathy for me that I’m not even fond of the Girl Scouts when they do that.  Yeah, I know.  I’m a jerk.

Getting accosted as I’m entering or leaving a store is just something I don’t like.  It’s bad enough that the WalMart greeters make me feel like a criminal when they eye my cart as I’m leaving the store.  Having my social conscience mauled by the cause of the week takes me over the edge.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am generally a quite generous person.  Even if I’m irritated by the spoken or even silent request, I usually give something.  The non-politically-charged issues are easiest.  Children raising money for new Little League uniforms?  Absolutely.  Salvation Army bell ringers during the holidays?  Hmmm . . . no, I almost never give to religious organizations as most of them have judgments I find unspiritual.  Homeless person on the side of the road?  Sure, most of the time, if I have some cash on hand.

Two bucks.  That’s my standard.  If someone needs it, and I feel good about giving it, then I’ll pull out two bucks and wish them well.

When I entered the convenience store, I only had twenties, of course.  I nodded at the gentleman and mumbled something about needing to get change.  By the time I got my Coke and paid, I had actually forgotten all about his presence, so I was taken a bit off guard when I saw him again.  I almost walked past, but then I stopped and turned around and reached for my wallet.  As I fumbled for two bucks, I had a nice little chat with the gentleman.  He told me about Wounded Warriors and mentioned some of the celebrities involved.  He said that Bill O’Reilly talks about it all the time.  I said that I didn’t care for Bill O’Reilly, but I would give some anyway and smiled.  He backed away from the statement and claimed he didn’t actually watch Bill O’Reilly, but he had just heard that.  I put my money in the jar and wished him well.

I had a few minutes to kill before my massage was to begin, so I stopped in the bookstore.  I had taken $40 out of the ATM, so had the cash available when I found yet another book I just couldn’t live without and probably wouldn’t actually read.  I opened my wallet to pay for the book.  There were a few ones and the ten for my massage tip.  I riffled through the bills for a few seconds and then it dawned on me.  I had mistakenly put a one and a twenty into the donation jar for the Wounded Warriors.

For a brief moment, I had that sinking feeling you get when you don’t have money you thought you had.  I went through a brief analysis of how to retrieve the money and reached a conclusion within about 2.3 seconds that it was simply gone.  I had donated $21 to the Wounded Warrior Project in spite of myself.

As I laid on the massage table a bit later, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that I actually had two legs which could be rubbed and manipulated and pounded into relaxed muscular submission.  And two arms.  And a fully functioning body, even as much as I took it for granted.  I thought about those returning wounded veterans, many of whom could probably benefit from a therapeutic massage, and all of whom gave a precious part of themselves in service to our nation.

As I lay on the massage table, I fully released my internal grip on that twenty.  By the time Kevin patted my shoulder and said, “We’re done; I’ll be waiting for you outside,” my only regret was that I hadn’t given the twenty deliberately.

I left the ten in the tip envelope for Kevin, scheduled my next massage, and walked out into a bright, breezy day with a relaxed body, an empty wallet, and a full heart.  As non-religious as I am, I couldn’t help but think of the words of St. Francis of Assisi: “It is in giving that we receive.”  It is how we become instruments of peace in a warring world.

Managing Facebook Friends: It’s an Art, Not a Science

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

Facebook friends are AWESOME. (Insert smiley face, emoticon, tag, etc.)  Until they’re not.

My FB friends list, probably much like yours, includes old friends, new friends, friends of friends, friends I’ve never met and likely never will but we somehow got connected on FB friends, work friends, and so on.  Most of these connections are rewarding.  Some are practically nonexistent (Uncle Joe who signed up because his kids told him to and then has never returned).  Some are thought-provoking and even challenging.

And then there are the almost unbearables.

Younger people seem more comfortable with blocking someone on Facebook, sending them to that nowhereville where even their incessant Farmville updates won’t reach you.  I have only ever blocked one person, and that was for personal attacks that I won’t tolerate in any forum.  But, blocking seems so complete and permanent and . . . well, mean. 

I have a few Facebook friends that I wish I could soft-block.  They aren’t annoying or pissy so much as they just don’t get me.  I have annoying and pissy friends who get me, and I really don’t mind them so much.  They can disagree with my politics or views on religion or sexual mores, but they understand who I am and we keep a safe distance or tango only as a dance and not a war.  It’s the ones who interact with me as if they haven’t a clue about any aspect of my life that cause me irritation.

These are people I can’t block for various reasons.  Perhaps they’re connected to far too many other people in my circle, or they are professional colleagues, or they’re family. (I can hear the buzz now — “Is she talking about me?”  Just to set the record straight, no.  No, I’m not.  I’m not talking about you.)  For some reason, I just can’t drop them on the chopping block.

Mostly, I keep them around because I figure it says more about me than it does them if I can’t tolerate them.  And I guess that’s the beauty I find in Facebook; it is teaching us to interact with each other in completely new ways.  My little inner communications major observes this like a sociologist studying mob mentality.

We may piss each other off.  But, we’re connected.  And somewhere in that is a truly beautiful gift.

Why Doctors Should Rethink Smoking

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments

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I went to the doctor recently to get my hormones checked.  I was positive I was beginning the long, slow descent into the black hole of menopause.  That HAD to be it.  I was moody and angry and depressed.  There were so many good things happening in my life, and yet I had this big ball of intense crying just behind my eyes waiting for the slightest provocation to burst forth.

I mentioned all of my symptoms to my doctor, plus I added that I had quit smoking (again!) about a month before.  He nodded, ordered blood work, referred me to a gynecologist, and scheduled me for a transvaginal ultrasound.

The labs came back within normal limits.

The gynecologist will be seen in two weeks simply because I’m due for a Pap smear.

The ultrasound was cancelled.  I thought it was overkill, and since I consider myself to be the primary player in my own healthcare, I get to trump the doctor.

I knew what the truth was.  I was jonesing.  I’ve tried to quit smoking at least 746 times . . . diligently.  I have rarely made it through an entire month stretch.  The symptoms that drove me to the doctor were simply brought on by moving through another threshold of withdrawal.  The key to my issues was completely overlooked by my well respected primary care physician.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was in the hospital.  I was visiting her when the doctor came in the room.  In the course of their conversation, he asked, “You don’t smoke, do ya’?”

“Sure do,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said.  “I thought you were smarter than that.”

It took me a few minutes to process this conversation.  By the time I determined a reply, he was down the hall.  I should have chased him.  I should have grabbed him by his white-coat lapels and said, “How dare you?  How can you call yourself a medical professional and belittle your patient in this way?  If she had just declared that she was an alcoholic or a heroin addict or a little too dependent on prescription painkillers, you would have addressed her issue with the gravitas expected from a medical professional.  You would have considered that information in her treatment plan.  You would never dare look an Oxycontin addict in the eye and say, ‘I thought you were smarter than that.'”

Nicotine addiction is a serious issue, and the approach that doctors and nurses usually take desperately needs to be reconsidered.   Belittling your patient is neither effective nor professional.  Ignoring that aspect of a patient’s overall health picture is perhaps missing the easiest path to a diagnosis.  Doctors need to have honest conversations with patients about smoking without that undercurrent of moral judgment.  Save the guilt trip for my mother.

Smoking isn’t a wise choice.  Most smokers I know wish they could go back in time and never start.  But, belittling someone is not likely to help her abandon an addiction that some say is one of the most difficult to conquer.

My next step is an e-cigarette.  I’m hearing good reports about the success of this transition and the vastly reduced health risks.  But, for now, nicotine is my Paxil.  You can start nagging me about it when you get off your anti-depressant and stop drinking coffee.

132 Friends Have Posted to Your Wall

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

Birthdays sure aren’t what they used to be.  The birthdays of my childhood were like mini-Christmas, and I was the babe in the manger.  There was usually a party, and the wisest among us would come bearing gifts.

These were not the bouncy-place, pizza-for-everyone, invite-the-whole-class, pink-and-purple princess parties of today.  No, I’m old enough to remember when your birthday meant primarily family gathered for dinner; the leaf placed in the dining room table to accomodate aunts, uncles, and cousins; the nice table cloth used on a Tuesday.  My mother had a red plate with white letters around the edge which spelled out “You are special today.”  The plate only came out for good report cards, opening nights of the school play, and, of course, birthdays.

Despite the generational difference between those relatively spartan celebrations of the 70s and the stop-the-presses clusters of these modern times, there is an aspect of the childhood birthday that has remained the same: the child feels special.

The shift in the birthday experience which took place as I entered my 20s was a true shock to the system.  I had moved away from my family, so the dinner and the cake went the way of the pterodactyl.  Presents became less . . . well, convenient at first, I suppose, and then just not even considered.  That wasn’t too horrible.  I sucked so badly at remembering others’ birthdays that I was grateful to be let off the hook by the benign treatment of my own.  I settled into the acceptance of birthdays marked by a card in the mail from my mother, a call from my sister, perhaps a casual acknowledgement at work, and a possible gathering of a few close friends, if one of them remembered and put forth the energy to spearhead the event.  Not bad.  And some of them were even quite nice.  But, somehow, birthdays as an adult had become somewhat of a disappointment.  The anticipation I felt by force of habit far outweighed the reality of the day.

Then came Facebook.  Yes, I said, “Facebook.”  The first year I was on Facebook, it was a total shock to see post after post on my wall wishing me well on my birthday.  At first, I was kind of, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”  I mean, Facebook tells them it’s my birthday.  It’s not as if they have it circled on their calendar with a red sharpie.

And Facebook tells me when their birthdays are as well.  Thus, I conversely felt a bit shallow and pathetic when I would send well wishes to dear, precious, old friends who really deserved better than for a social network to nudge me to do so.  But, I didn’t know the birth dates of many of my Facebook friends to begin with.  And everybody needs a reminder.  (I contend it is the primary role of a partner to remind your circle of friends that your birthday is coming.)

It took a couple of years to get used to the social implications of this new way of celebrating a birthday.  But now when my birthday rolls around and the timeline posts start stacking up, I am absolutely THRILLED by it.  I LOVE that my friends, both close and casual, are reminded and then care enough to send me their best.  It is such a tidal wave of positive energy that my entire day seems elevated.  It’s far better than the annual feeding of my messiah complex in my youth.  It beats the hell out of the bouncy place.

No, birthdays aren’t what they used to be.  They’re much, MUCH better.