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
Friday, February 24, 2006
Bill Murray came back a few nights ago. He came to my compartment and I made him tofu tacos. He liked them. He liked how I put the cheese in the shell before the tofu because it made the cheese all melty on the shell. Which is why I make tacos that way. It just seems obvious to me and I never understand why people always put the cheese on top of tacos. I think I said pretty much that exact thing to Bill and he felt it was symptomatic of the decay of and decline of creativity, everything's prepackaged or ready to assemble and people don't bother to think about the actual best way to do something. He liked that I used real cheese instead of soy cheese. I told him sometimes I use soy cheese and when I was vegan I didn't bother with soy cheese because it's gross and not cheese at all and that's finally why I didn't make it as a vegan because I missed real cheese. He seemed to understand and approve. He stood and looked out my living room window drinking a bottle of Vernor's for a really long time. The forward momentum in this dream is that it's the first time Bill appeared somewhere I recognized. Not only did I recognize the location, it was my own compartment. Surely that Means Something. After dreams set in unrecognized locations, this one was in my apartment. Bill was in my compartment. Having tofu tacos. Oh, and the cheese thing has got to be pulled from Broken Flowers. I think that's good. Something that's really just more of a memory from one of Bill's movies as opposed to some weirdo emotional concoction I've literally dreamt up makes me feel better about my psyche. I'm trying to think of this as a break through and maybe soon I'll dream about something or someone other than Bill Murray.
Anyway, Bill was really depressed and he just kept standing there looking out the window into space. It was one of those moments when the silence wasn't uncomfortable, but I was wishing I was a wiser person better at saying the exact right thing without having it come out like a smarmy platitude. But I didn't know what to say and I knew it didn't really matter because Bill just wanted silence and really, so did I.
Then he was taking a bath. A really, really hot bath in my bathroom. No. Not sexy hot. Hot hot. Temperature hot. My entire compartment was filled with steam. The windows were fogged. I couldn't see anything. Furry Creature meowed and I tried to follow the sound of his meow to find him. I'd call him, he'd meow, and he'd be farther away. I was panicking because my compartment's not that big but Furry Creature sounded like he was getting really, really far away from me and I couldn't see anything because of all that steam pouring out of the bathroom from Bill Murray's hot bath.
And the next thing I remember after that Bill was telling me how much he liked my Lush Veganese hair conditioner.
Later I slipped a new bottle I'd just bought into Bill's messenger bag. Yes. He carries a messenger bag sometimes. At least in the dreams he does. I dunno. I guess he's got a lot of stuff. I saw an iPod Nano in his bag and I thought it was weird Bill Murray's only got a Nano. But I couldn't say anything because I didn't want him to think I was going through his stuff when in fact I was merely slipping a bottle of hair conditioner in his bag as a surprise for later.
Then I worried that when he found the conditioner in his bag he'd know I saw in his bag and he'd know I know he only has a Nano and maybe he'd think I saw other stuff, too, and he might be really embarrassed and upset instead of happy about the surprise of the conditioner in his bag.
Hey, you know I'm a mess. What do you expect from my dreams? Fluid streams of brilliance unrivaled? If so, you're at the wrong blog.
I'm messed up bad and I want my mother.
The irony in that plea is that she's laying right in front of me.
Or. Well. Her body's there. Or what's left of it. The "food" she gets via a feeding tube, while "packed with nutrients!" and keeping her alive, is not exactly bulking her up to a weight anywhere near normal or healthy. Even by Hollywood and advertising female weight standards she's too thin. But hey, she's alive. Maybe it's easier to keep less of her alive. The real time display of her vital stats assures me that she's still alive. I take a lot of comfort in those stats because sometimes she scares me. Her face which is normally full of expression is now gaunt and, well, lifeless. I know it's my mother but, well, I would have difficulty picking her out of a lineup at this point. That thought simultaneously scares and confuses me. It's my mother for crying out loud. No matter what I should be able to recognize her. But I don't. Sometimes when I've spent nonstop hours at her bedside I get kind of, I don't know, disoriented. I half forget why I'm here and what's happening. I have to remind myself that's my mother laying there attached to all that medical equipment.
Call it coincidence or the supernatural power of the maternal bond, but it's almost always at those moments that she'll snap alive into a moment of lucidity. Which is nice for me but I think scary and confusing for her. And that really stinks. Ever have anyone grab your hand with desperation and fear? Ever have anyone on life support do this to you? Ever have your mother on life support do this to you? I hope not. I really hope not. But if you have, you've got my strongest sympathies.
I thought, "Hey, Trill, you've been through a lot, you've endured a lot, you've had your emotions hurt and abused so badly you developed a coping technique wherein you voided all emotions from yourself. I mean, c'mon. If anyone should be siting here dealing with this it's you. Who better? You're an experienced and trained professional when it comes to dealing with pain and suffering."
"Yeah. Well," I thought back at myself, "nothing prepares you for this It's my mother we're talking about here. My mother."
"Ha! Not so tough are you now, Emotionless Girl," I thought back at myself.
True. All true. Not so tough. Not so emotionless. Not so able to cope. I want my mother.
Yes. I'm running like a sissy girl to my mummy. Except she's not there. Well. She's there. But not there. There's a woman laying there who has a tag with her name and birth date, and every now and then she responds to her name. So. You know. I guess she's there. I keep pretending for her sake and what's left of my sanity that she's there just like always. But I dunno. Maybe that's annoying her. Maybe she's laying there thinking, "You stupid girl, I'm obviously not normal, here. Why are you talking to me as if there's nothing wrong? All the nurses talk in that condescending baby voice for a reason. This is ICU. This is not normal. Placate me, will ya?"
The doctors and nurses look at her but talk to me. Like I'm her interpreter. Or because they think I'm conscious and cognitive. I'm not the one on life support so you know, it's all relative. But. I don't feel conscious and cognitive. In fact I feel like I could benefit from a couple of days on life support myself. I'm good at sleep deprivation. I've been deprived of sleep since, well, forever. So it's not the lack of sleep. It's the hours upon hours of time spent sitting in an ICU room waiting for something. I don't know what I'm waiting for until it happens, but mainly I wait for my mother to show some sign of consciousness which might result in her having an increasingly rare moment of lucidity. In those moments she's afraid or confused. I try to calm her and explain stuff to her. She can't talk but she mouths words and pleads with her eyes.
A few days ago I completely misunderstood what she was trying to say, and when I said, "Agnes can't believe what, Mum?" My mother actually laughed. Not a big guffaw or anything, but, you know, a laugh. Turns out she was trying to say "I just can't breath well." Which made the fact that I made her laugh with my misunderstanding beyond bittersweet. Sometimes when she's "awake" she cracks her eyes open a little and just smiles at me. On a really strong day she'll try to raise her hand and point a finger at me and then at the window. That's her way of telling me to go home. She once mouthed Furry Creature and tried to point to a photo of him.
There are a few good signs, a few glimmers of hope. I cling to those. Delusional though it may be, little bits of hope is all I've got.
My parents know a lot of people. Lots of friends. Very involved in their community. Church people. This is good. Except. The ICU is allowing my mother to have some visitors. One or two at a time for a few hours a day. So friends have organized visitation schedules. Again, very nice, thoughtful, you know, great. That's what friends are for and all that. But. These people parade in, cock their heads in that beatific funeral kind of way, sigh, pat my hand and say, "She looks peaceful/at rest/calm."
Okay.
Um.
She's not actually dead.
But every time this happens I find my gaze rushing to her vital stat monitor thinking these guests know something I don't.
I know it's difficult to find words at times like these.
I wouldn't know what to say to me. I wouldn't know what to say at all.
But.
Even if I thought, "Wow. She looks peaceful/at rest/calm," I think/hope I would have the common sense/courtesy to not say the funeral clichés in front of her or in front of her daughter. Maybe I would. I know sometimes words just slip out before people realize they're talking like they're at a funeral. But. You know. Worried and upset daughter at her mother's ICU bedside, here. Just a little scared. A little jumpy. Might wanna not frighten the poor girl more than she already is.
But people continue this funeral speak. I really want my mother to recover. I want her to be well. Mainly for her sake. And my father's. And mine. But mainly for hers. Because her very recovery and consciousness will spite all these funeral cliché talkers. She probably won't know how they effectively wrote her off, but they'll know and maybe they'll wonder if she remembers how they talked about her when she was in intensive care.
Yeah yeah, vengeance isn't healthy or even fun. I know. But it's so irksome and rude of these people to talk this way. If that's what friends are for I'm going to have to rethink this friend business.
Makes me kind of glad I'm leading an increasingly isolated life. If it comes to this point for me at least there won't be people parading by and saying funeral clichés at me when I'm clinging to life on life support.
And about this peaceful/at rest/calm thing. Sometimes my mother really does look restful and calm. But a lot of times she looks uncomfortable and afraid.
I wonder why no one ever says, "Wow. She looks so panicked," or "She doesn't look she's at peace?" I know people say these things in an attempt to make everyone feel okay about what's happening, but the fact is that it's not okay. We all know that. So why pussyfoot around the obvious? No, I don't expect or even want anyone to say, "Whoa. Trill. Your mother looks really bad. Waddaya think, a week, two tops?" In fact I have no idea what I want people to say. I guess nothing. Or whatever they'd normally say. Nag me about the woeful state of my life. I'd welcome an innuendo laden "still not married, eh Trill?" at this point. I'd enthusiastically join into a conversation about my lack of home, car and major appliance ownership. But no. Instead they come in, do the beatific head cock and smile, pat my hand and say, "She looks so restful/at peace/calm."
Want to say: "Um, she's not actually dead and she's far from calm or at peace. She's scared and confused and so doped up she doesn't know up from down. She's got machines performing every bodily function for her and do not get me started on how uncomfortable that bed is. So wipe that smarmy beatific smile off that cocked face of yours and deal with her reality. She might get better, she might not. Hold you comments for the end, okay? Because it's not helping anyone now."
Say instead, "Yes, she's having a nice sleep."
And then there are the ones who come in, plop themselves down and spend a couple of hours talking about what they or their cousin or their spouse went through before they died. Detailed descriptions of procedures and bodily functions and medical anomalies all of which inevitably end in disaster. "'Course, it was too late, lost him the next day," "Made it through the surgery but came down with a staph infection and died two weeks later." "You remember Carole, she was on life support for four months before they finally pulled the plug and let her go in peace."
Yes. People have said these things to me and in front of my mother who's on life support.
Hell is other people.
Yes.
Hell.
God. Heaven. Hell.
One of the few reasons I allow some wonder about a supreme deity is that life can be so crappy for some people that it makes me wonder if this is in fact Hell. There can't be a Hell without a God and therefore, at Hellish times like these I think, "Yeah, maybe there's a God because this sure seems like Hell."
And the thing that's really put me on an existential bent is that fact that I've been sitting here in the ICU of a large hospital off and on for several weeks. My mother is in the second to highest critical care room. The only higher care room is across the hall. I've learned why it's the highest care room and why it's placed where it is. It's the last chance room. It took me a few days to figure this out. But after the fourth Code Blue and everyone running to that room, lots of hubbub and then uncharacteristically quiet hallways I realized: That's the scary bad last chance room. I didn't keep track at first, but somewhere in all of this I started an unconscious tally of doom. There have been 24 Code Blues since I started unconsciously keeping track. One of those was my mother. (She's been Code Blue twice, but only once since the unconscious conscious tally of doom began) The rest were all in the room across the hall. Unfortunately for them, most of those have not ended well for the patients. Or. I don't know. Maybe it was a good ending for them. Maybe they were in pain and suffering. But the thing is, it's not a calm way to go. It's frantic and noisy and desperate. Healthcare professionals are great, you know, really great. They save lives, care for sick people, I mean, I have no words for how great most of these people are. But. Imagine laying there, you know, dying, and having alarms ringing and people in smocks running all around you and beating on you and injecting you frantically trying to keep you alive. But if it's your time, all the medical care in the world isn't going to do a thing. I'm not saying they should just give up on people, but you know, it's just not a very calm or peaceful way to leave.
I’m learning a lot. Mainly I’m learning a lot about how I don’t want to die. I mean, I’m okay with dying. I’m ready. I just don’t want to do it in a hospital. I want to be DOA. No life support, no friends visiting and making funeral comments before I’m even dead, no Code Blues, no alarms or people rushing around trying to save me. Nope. Not for me. DOA is definitely the way to go.
I know. I know. I need to get out more. I need to not spend so much time hanging around an ICU ward. It messes with your mind. If you’re not actually sick, spend a day or two in ICU and you’ll be sick and in need of therapy. Which makes me wonder about the people who choose to work in intensive care units. I mean, you know, glad there are people who make this choice, hats off to them. But. Still. I’m just visiting and I’m getting seriously sick, physically and mentally. I cannot even begin to imagine what it’s like to work in this environment. I hate my job but it’s looking like a fun day at the park compared to what these people deal with on a daily basis.
Speaking of work, you know what stinks? I have to leave my mother and go back to work. “Trill I know this is a bad time for you, but you know that Big Project? Yeah. Well. The client wants it now instead of next month so could you come into the office for a few days?”
Okay. I realize the world doesn’t stop because my mother’s in ICU. I realize this will probably go on a long, long time and I cannot possibly be with her until she gets better or, well. The other thing. I have job. I have a responsibility to that job. It’s not more important than my mother or my responsibility to her. But. It’s a responsibility nonetheless. I’m almost out of vacation and sick days so I’ll have to go on family leave, which means I don’t get paid which means I can’t pay rent which means I end up living on the street or in the ICU but they don’t allow cats in ICU so that’s a problem, so yeah. I have to back to work. I have to leave my mother. Like this. Now. In her condition. It’s wrong. It’s absolutey wrong. But I have to make the choice.
“Travel! See the world! Be independant!” All the things my mother wanted me to do. Grow up, move away, live my life. Okay, check, check, check. But now she needs me and all that moving away and living my life business is causing huge conflicts. I can’t be with her and live my life.
I’m scared to leave. I’m afraid “something” will happen when I’m gone. I’ve seen what happens here when there’s a Code Blue. They pull me out of the room so fast I don’t even know I’m gone. So if “something” happened I wouldn’t actually be at her side anyway. But. Still. I wouldn’t be six hours away, either.
The nurses and doctors tell me this is a good time for me to take a break. She’s critcal but stable. Critical doesn’t sound at all stable to me. Critical sounds critical to me.
My boss said the Big Project deadline is critical. That annoyed me. Lady, you don’t know what critical means.
Mother in critical condition. Job in critical condition. What do people do in these situations? To me, there’s no choice. My mother is more important than any project or job.
But business is business. And if I can’t manage my personal life, if it’s interfering with my job, then I have a problem.
