Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, February 06, 2006
ordeal
Main Entry: or·deal
Pronunciation: or-'dE(-&)l, 'or-"
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ordal, from Old English ordAl; akin to Old
High German urteil judgment, Old English dAl division
1 : a primitive means used to determine guilt or innocence by submitting the
accused to dangerous or painful tests believed to be under supernatural
control ordeal by fire
2 : a severe trial or experience
My mother's going through an ordeal. I was trying to find a word for what she's enduring. It needed to be a word conveying vast magnitude and injustice and pain. I couldn't come up with anything to adequately describe what's happening to her. I was trying to explain the most recent procedure to someone when I said, "It's quite an ordeal." And I thought, "no really, it's an actual bona fide ordeal. Forget everything you thought you knew about ordeals because this is the definition of an ordeal."
She's getting great care and all of that. But it's my mother. Human suffering is bad enough, you know, in general, but when it's your mother it's like nothing you can imagine experiencing. You don't know her, but you'd like her. Everyone does. She makes friends and melts hearts everywhere she goes. She is the kindest, funniest, smartest, classiest person I've ever known and other people feel the same way. People look at her with awe and respect.
Watching her going through a painful and difficult health situation confirms my shaky opinion of this "God" everyone's always going on about.
It stinks a lot. It stinks like stink's stink. No one should have to go what she's going through. It's cruel. It's cruel to her, it's cruel to my father, it's cruel to me.
We all know our parents are going to die at some point. Losing parents is the course and curse of life. Circle of life, and all that. But having to see them ravaged and tormented and indignified in every possible way is cruel and unusual punishment to people whose only offense was to be born to great parents. Bambi and all that.
My father's not taking any of this well. No one could expect him to take it well. No one expects anything from him. Except, well, I mean no one expects him to get in the way of my mother's care.
But he is. Not intentionally. But he's scared and frustrated and helpless. And as a result he's lashing out at her health care providers. He thinks the doctors don't know anything and the nurses don't care about my mother. I'm sitting right there next to him and my mother. I hear and see the same things he does. And yet I feel my mother is getting excellent care. I feel her doctors are doing everything they possibly can for her. I see the nurses gently administering the never ending treatments and medications. I hear them giving her positive encouragement. I see them tirelessly put in 12 hour shifts.
Why the huge difference of opinion between us?
My parents have worked out a system of dealing with life. They've sorted out their individual strengths and weaknesses and they divvy up life's challenges based on their strengths. My dad covers math, knot tying merit badges and auto maintanance. Health and emotional reality have always been my mother's turf. When my dad gets angry my mother sorts out the cause, applies her gentle reasoning persuasions and makes him understand he's not angry at me for my latest life disaster, but that he's actually worried and sad that I'm once again failing miserably. She sorts out his feelings for him and they proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
And she's not able to sort him out right now and so he's unable to proceed on an emotionally adjusted course of action.
Just as well I'm a relationship failure because I can see the torture he's going through with this. At least by being a lone loser I won't have to watch my partner suffer. There we go, turning that negative into a positive! Sure, I'll spend my life alone but think of all the emotional suffering I'll be spared. Atta girl. Turn that frown upside down. Spin it and smile like you mean it.
But I've got an immediate issue with my parents. My father's been reprimanded by the hospital staff. Counselors have been sent to help him but they're not making any progress. The situation's getting worse, not better. So the chief of staff has prevailed upon "us" to remove my father from the hospital.
The "us" I'm talking about includes three grown children. Two of whom are conspicuously absent from their mother's side but eager to dispense advice from afar.
They've got families and responsibilities. I understand. I really do. They're doing the best they can, they'd do more if they could. And besides, I have no spouse or children, no real responsibilities, so of course I'm the one who should be there. My sister. She's great at pointing out the obvious failures in my life at the most inappropriate times. Then again, is there ever an appropriate time to point out obvious life failures? No. So why not wait for stressful family situation to bring up a family member's short comings and failures in life?
I'm a single child-free loser who has no responsibilities so I'm the one at my mother's bedside. And a vote was taken among the siblings, spouses and children and I was the one who won the privilege of telling my father he's effectively been kicked out of the hospital "for his own good and the health and well being of my mother."
Yeah.
Um.
Right.
Can I get a little help here? Someone? Anyone?
This is a what I've come up with so far. It stinks. I stink. No wonder I'm a loser with no spouse or children. I suck at the big stuff like reprimanding my father for loving my mother "too much."
Hi Dad.
Remember when you and Mum taught me about words and how to read and write and what a wonderful thing communication is?
Well, um, yeah. See. Here's the thing. I know, I know, you taught me better than to talk like that. Sorry. It's sloppy and makes me look and sound stupid. I know. Sorry. You taught me how to communicate by proper use of language and I should be grateful and respectful enough to use the tools you gave me. But yeah. About communication.
You may have lived long enough to regret that.
I don't think you're going to like some of the words I need to communicate to you.
It's about Mum.
I know you love her. Everyone knows you love her. There's never been a second of doubt about your feelings for her. We all know you asked her to marry her the night you met her and though she needed persuading you got the girl no one else could get near. Obviously your feelings were and are sincere.
I know you want to protect her. I know you don't want her to suffer. I know seeing her like this is killing you with a slow drip of emotional torture. Which is painful for the rest of us. We know how you feel. We feel it, too. And we see and feel what this is doing to you and that hurts and concerns us, too.
But here's the thing: Mum senses your anxiety and the tension you create among hospital staff. Your old school Marine training of showing no emotion but anger is causing a lot of negativity. Most of us realize what looks like anger is actually fear, concern, frustration, confusion and love. But. Lashing out at nurses and doctors helps no one. And until you can smile like you mean it at the hospital you're not allowed near Mum.
I'm sorry, Dad, really, I am so sorry to have to say this to you. Never in my wildest Bill Murray dreams could I have imagined it would come to this. It's awkward and weird and, well, I mean Dad, you're Dad.You discipline me. Remember when you incessantly quizzed me for school entry exams? No, not math, which by the way I have yet to use in real life, but in those word definition simile things. Father is to daughter as punishment is to perpetrator.
It's not supposed to be this way, it's not the natural order of things. But apparently you don't realize what you're doing. You're creating a tense vibe and general anger and negativity that's prevailing in the intensive care ward.
So for some bizarre and as yet unexplained reason, the burden of disciplining you, baring the bad news, is falling on my shoulders. I thought this sort of thing was squarely in eldest son territory. Or even eldest and most favored daughter territory. I have no idea why I, the youngest of the children, the baby of all people, the swutting black sheep, should have to be the one to do this. You want to talk about confusion and resentment and frustration and yes, a little anger? Yeah, well, let me tell you a few things about your oldest children. They're wusses and cowards who boss me around and convince me I'm best suited for this conversation. What they mean is that they're not touching this with a ten foot pole but it needs to be said and done and they feel I have the least to lose and they know I'll actually say it whereas they might back out at the first sign of danger. Somehow, somewhere, some way I became the responsible one of your children. I know. That scares me, too. A lot. They've reproduced and are raising children and yet I'm the responsible one. I don't get it either. Maybe some time when things are more calm you can try to explain that to me.
Because you're really good at explaining things to me. You taught me how to be resourceful and respectful and to seek knowledge instead of sitting there powerless. You could have just told me how to spell words but instead you showed me how to use a dictionary. When I went through that geology phase you could have guided me toward a more useful interest like cheerleading, but no, you indulged me and bought me a rock tumbler and encouraged me to learn all I could about, well, rocks. You taught me to seek knowledge, Dad. "Leave no stone unturned or untumbled, har har," you said. When I was curious about pre-war German abstract expressionism you and Mum took me to museums and helped me find books and even sent me to college to learn more about it.
I know you didn't expect to have such a dork for a daughter, I know you were cool and popular and not socially awkward so, yes, I'm aware I was a challenge for you to raise. Or at least not quite what you had in mind when you thought about having children. But remember how you told me to politely ask questions and more importantly, you and Mum taught me to listen to the answers? Remember how you and Mum taught me good manners and respect for other peoples' feelings are what separates us from the lower forms of life? Remember how you taught me to respect and learn from other people and cultures? Those were good lessons you taught me. And you and Mum lead by good example. You walked the walk.
Until, well, now. Dad, I know it's really difficult and all that, but this is exactly the sort of situation you told me where manners and respect are most important. Grace under pressure, Dad. Respect for the professionals, Dad. Raise your hand and politely ask questions and really listen to the answers, Dad. Learn everything you can so you understand and act appropriately and responsibly.
It's not that we want to do this. It's not that you're the bad guy. We don't think less of you. We're not disappointed in you. We know how upsetting this is to you. It's upsetting to us, too. And if you think for one minute I want to sit here alone with Mum while you're exiled from the hospital, guess again and study better for the next test, Dad. Because I don't want to be the responsible one and I don't want to be here alone with Mum. We're a family and we're supposed to be together at "times like these." I have no one except you and Mum, and I need you here with me.
But. I don't need you to ignore the doctors. I don't need you tell the nurses they don't know what they're doing. I don't need you to upset Mum.
I don't want to hear a lot of what they're telling us, either, Dad, but we've got to hear it. Knowledge is power, Dad. Manners and respect matter, Dad. And that goes for pouting and scowling, too. Geeze. You used to send me to my room without books or crayons when I did that. Smile in the face of adversity, you told me. It'll still be bad but people will admire your positive attitude and remember that about you and that can come in handy down the road. It's easy to lose your temper but hard to gain respect.
I suppose it's difficult to hear your words thrown back at you. All those fatherly platitudes which sound so trite probably sting when recited back at you by your own daughter. I wish I didn't have to resort to that but the fact is they're good words and good lessons and I can't come up with any better ideas than the ones you taught me. Which means you're really smart or I'm really dumb, or both. I'm willing to accept both. Maybe one of your other children could do a better job, but they nominated me for this and ran like cowards and this is the best I can do.
So yeah, Dad, the point here is that I've been tasked with revoking your visitation privileges.
This hurts me more than it hurts you. But it's for your own good. I can't expect you to understand this now but someday you'll appreciate and respect me for it.
This should feel good. This should be one of the moments us kids live to experience. Getting back at our parents with their own words. There should be some smug satisfaction for me. But there's not. It's just making a sad and miserable situation a gazillion times worse. And it's my mother who will suffer from this. She's only semi conscious but I know she knows what's going on a lot of the time. I know she feels the tension and is frustrated, too. I know she needs me to do this difficult thing and I know she'll understand. Because she's my mother and she's really good at understanding. It's her thing. Still, it doesn't make it better or easier. "Yeah, I kicked Dad outta here because he's an angry old git, bwa ha ha..." is how I feel about this.
I thought my role as youngest and most troubled child exempted me from responsibility for The Big Parental Care Decisions. I thought I was supposed to be powerless and misunderstood. I thought I was supposed to be the one everyone babies and coddles. I thought I was supposed to struggle with being taken seriously as an adult and never given any real responsibility in the family. Not that I want any of that but right now being trapped in the throes of typical family birth order behavior stereotypes sounds good to me.
Having to face A Very Special Episode with my father wherein I have to have a serious grown-up talk to him about his "problem" while my mother is laying there fighting for life is not exactly my idea of a good way to prove my adult capabilities to the rest of the family.
There's a lot of irony here but one in particular is plaguing me. I spent my entire youth and a lot of my young adulthood behaving and being a good girl, doing as I was taught because that's who I was and also because I was afraid of the trouble I'd get into with my parents if I misbehaved or got into trouble. I didn't dread the punishment, heck, punishment was the easy part. My parents were very democratic in their familial judicial procedure. We were always made to explain ourselves and our side of the situation before a fair ruling and subsequent punishment was given. The thought of having A Discussion wherein I'd have to explain myself, my rationale and my misbehavior to my parents filled me with such dread that every time I was confronted with an option for misbehaving I'd quickly and without hesitation do the right thing. Easier to be responsible for myself than have to explain my stupidity, selfishness or lack of respect to my parents.
And yet, now here I am having to have A Discussion with my father about his irresponsibility and bad behavior.
There's a lot of poetic injustice in there, but that's not something I'm going to point out to my father at this juncture. He won't see the humor in the irony. My mother will, she'll get a laugh out of it, if and when she can laugh again. And when she laughs about it she'll make my dad laugh about it. So she's got to get better so my dad can laugh at me.
One huge ball of ironic confusion as a result of an ordeal. An ordeal begetting another ordeal. Oh sure, compared to what my mother's going through it's nothing. Oh sure, my father and I will get through this. We got through multiplication tables and fractions and even Calculous. If we can get through Calculous still speaking to each other we can get through anything. I hated Calculous but I hate this more. My mother was there to prevent my father from insisting I wasn't trying hard enough and insinuating I was one step up from primordial ooze when I struggled with math. But she's not able to buffer us from each other this time.
Dad, remember when you thought I was on drugs or brain damaged because I couldn't grasp Calculous and Mum explained that I wasn't actually smoking crack or handicapped but just differently abled? Remember how she pointed out to you that because I even bothered to spend the time to try to figure it out that I was in fact trying hard enough?
Yeah, well, maybe we can apply that logic here. Let's say you're you and I'm me and your emotional "problem" is Calculous. The hospital chief of staff represents Mum in this equation.
I'm trying really hard to understand "Calculous." I spend a lot of time trying to sort out the variables and theories. Sometimes I think I've finally figured it out and feel pretty good about my understanding. Sometimes I even come up with the right answer. But a lot of times I spend a lot of time doing a lot of work and end up with the wrong answer. I come to you for help understanding "Calculous" and you try to help me.
But I don't think the way you do and you can't make my brain work like yours and you get frustrated and worried about my actual capabilities and start thinking maybe you shouldn't have drank and smoked so much when you were younger because it resulted in a brain damaged child who you'll end up taking care of all your life because she's incompetent and unable to manage life because she can't even sort out "Calculous." You don't want to spend your life taking care of me because you're really looking forward to turning my room into a sewing room for Mum so she won't leave her projects out all over your den.
And you want me to have a successful life and enjoy the benefits of a good marriage and children like yours, or well, at least a marriage and kids like a couple of yours. You worry about my life and Mum's sewing room. A lot is riding on "Calculous." The more you try to help me understand, the seemingly more stoned or handicapped I become.
And just at the point where you think, "she's a lost cause, I might as well just paint the den pink," "Mum" comes along and says, "You need to take a step back and see how hard she's trying and understand not everyone thinks like you. She's doing the best she can. She won't fail for lack of trying and real effort," and then she points out all the success and abilities I have in other areas and "Calculous" might not be an indication of any future success or failure in life and maybe everything will work out okay after all and really, "Calculous" isn't really all that important.
Again, more proof it's a good thing I haven't married or reproduced. Can you imagine me trying to explain sex to a child? Or worse, Calculus?
