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
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The two words which strike fear in the hearts of all who hear them have been spoken.
Nursing home.
No one said anything about a nursing home to me. It’s all been, “if and when your mother gets strong enough to go home...”
Home. Not The Home. Not nursing home. Just home.
But now, suddenly (at least to me) arrangements are being made to “put” my mother in a nursing home.
Over my dead body.
Right?
No one willingly “puts” their parents in a nursing home, right? I mean except for bad and evil kids who want nothing to do with their parents.Bad and evil kids “put” their parents in nursing homes. They do it with sadistic glee.
That’s always been my assumption.
I know, I know, I know. Sometimes a nursing home is the only option in certain situations.
And apparently my mother’s in one of those situations.
A swutting nursing home? My mother?
A long, long time ago I promised I would never let my parents “end up” in a nursing home.
And yet, without even so much as a “what do you think, Trill?” my mother’s being “put” in a nursing home. One of those smelly, horrible chambers of neglect and decay where death lurks openly in the corridors.
Okay. So. Maybe not all nursing homes are that way.
But still.
They’re not The Ritz, either.
They say it may only be for a short time, a week or two, while she’s still on medication and in need of nursing care.
But one day is one day too many as far as I’m concerned.
But it’s about what’s right for my mother. And they say this is what’s right for her right now.
So I have to concede to the authorities, the health care professionals, the doctors...I have to trust them. Which hasn’t been difficult for me up to this point. I’ve had blind faith in their abilities to save and care for my mother and they’ve done a great job. But this nursing home thing is testing my faith in them.
“Isn’t there some other option, another way, something else?” I begged and pleaded with a doctor over the phone.
“The facility where we’re sending her is very nice, she’ll be very comfortable and have excellent care. It will probably only be for a few weeks,” he said, in that affected calm “now just relax, this shouldn’t hurt” tone of voice.
“Would you put your mother there?” I asked him.
Silence. Sigh. He tried to placate me with, “If my mother were in your mother’s situation I would want her to have the best care possible and I would do whatever I could to get her into the best facility for her. Whispering Oaks is a very good facility, it’s not a typical nursing home. You’ll see, it’s very nice. Very comfortable, very pleasant.”
Whispering Oaks. Why do they always have names like that? And just what are the oaks whispering? “Heh heh, he’s a goner, I give him two, three days, tops.” “No one’s been to visit Sally in eight months. She doesn’t even talk to the nurses anymore. Sits there staring into space all day. I wonder how much longer she’ll hang on?” “As long as she still hopes someone will visit her she’ll hang on. Remember Martha? The one who clung to that birthday card from her granddaughter for over a year hoping the kid would visit her?”
And no, it’s not as if my mother’s going to be neglected. People will visit her. I’ll visit her. But the problem is that there will inevitably be people who are neglected there. My mother’s going to have to spend her days in a “facility” with people who are literally sitting/laying there, alone, waiting to die. It’s the nature of the beast of nursing homes. I don’t care how cheerful the fresh coat of paint and curtains are, it’s a nursing home. And my mother’s being put there. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
