The Stench of the Union

A red-meat post about President Bush from an upgraded Cuffs and Stuff~

CandS

Sunrise, Sunrise

I'm up early, before sunrise. Happily so, for the first time in a couple of weeks. I love this time, when the horizon is turning that one-shade-lighter blue, when I know that daybreak is just a few moments away. I've always loved this time of day, even when I was a kid. I remember when I was in 6th grade deciding to take a walk one August early morning, feeling so peaceful and content. Then walking into my house an hour later, to find my out-of-her-mind mother somewhere between wanting to kiss my feet and crack my head open. Needless to say, the entire family's early-summer-day-sunrise reverie was ruined. Who knew you shouldn't just go for pre-sunrise walks without leaving a note?

I was sitting here thinking about sunrises and new beginnings. Whenever Bambina throws a tantrum or does something inappropriate that requires the removal of a toy or treat, I always take it away for a short time and then ask her, "Do you want to try again?" She invariably says yes and invariably does it right/without whining/without drama/whatever. I love those moments because they give her--and me--the opportunity to Try Again. They give her the sense that her actions have consequences, but that there is always a chance to do it right next time. I want her to have that sense of efficacy (that she can make things right), and I want her to know that her mama will always be here for second chances. What I love most about our Try Agains is seeing the pride she takes in doing it right, in being a big girl, in having learned something from all the tears and drama. Those moments are the little things that make parenting so rewarding and such a joy; seeing your child figure it out, making the connection between actions and consequences, learning how to behave in the world. It almost makes all the screaming and "No no no no, Mama!!!" worth it...

(There are obviously those things in life that have to be done right the first time, without fail and without excuse. Those are the things for which I do not offer a Try Again, such as hitting or hurting someone, because I want her to feel the burn she ought to feel when she hurts someone else.) But for now, for most of life's events, I want her know that she always has the power to Try Again.

Same for me. I think I love sunrise because it is God's every-24-hour New Beginning. Every day, we get to Try Again, and I love that. Some sunrises are harder to face than others, to be sure. But there is something about knowing that today is my chance to do it right that starts my day off right.

Today I am going to hug my mom for more than 4 seconds. I see her a lot, but it's always on my way out or in or through, so I don't always sit down and spend some time with her in a real way. I'm going to finally return all the calls and emails from everyone during my most recent hiatus in the hospital. I'm going to spend some time reading all the blogs I've missed over the past couple of weeks. I need to reconnect with the humor and insight that I've been missing from my blogger friends (who have been kind enough to keep visiting me regardless of how much I have not been giving in return). I'm going to start bedtime rituals a little earlier for Bambina. She doesn't get cranky when she's tired; she gets punchy, so bedtimes can be difficult (brush our teeth, do peepees, put on our jammies) simply because I am hitting my most tired point of the day just as she has become a pinball machine. I look back at my frustration with bedtimes and know that any issue with that otherwise sweet time is mine; that if I'm too tired to deal with her 100-mile-a-minute ramp-up to her bedtime crash then I need to start it sooner so that the timing of the "come here and brush your teeth!" stuff isn't hitting just as she's cleared herself for takeoff. Today I'm going to see that the Try Again for bedtime is mine, not hers.

Aha! Here comes the sun as I write this.

Whenever it is that you're reading this, consider seeing today as your chance to Try Again. Pick something you messed up, feel bad about, ought to feel bad about, figured you couldn't do over, wish you'd said differently. Then Try Again. I'm betting you'll be surprised by how well it goes.

“All you umpires, back to the bleachers. Referees, hit the showers. It’s my game. I pitch, I hit, I catch. I run the bases. At sunset, I’ve won or lost. At sunrise, I’m out again, giving it the old try.”--Ray Bradbury

The F Word

By now you have no doubt read about the Isaiah Washington/Grey's Anatomy situation, wherein Mr. Washington called his costar (who happens to be gay) a f$%#@t. Then, in not-very-credibly denying later that he had said it, used the word again TWICE.

I know I'm coming late to this issue, but seeing the SAG awards the other day reminded me of it. I was thinking that the Grey's Anatomy set must be one of the few places in America where you can call someone that and still have a job. It took weeks for the ABC brass to acknowledge that, gee, that probably wasn't okay. Then they had Isaiah do that classic "I am sorry if I offended anyone and I need to look inside myself to determine why I would have said such a thing" non-apology. Only when the drumbeat of people boycotting ABC and the show got some momentum did they react. And how did they react? They sent Washington to "rehab." I guess I wasn't aware that they have rehab for that. I suppose in Hollywood they have rehab for anything, but I'm just not convinced. What do those meetings look like? How do you get "clean" from being a bigot in one month? How do they treat it? I personally think bigotry is a lifestyle choice. A disgusting, evil lifestyle choice. ;)

I know that many people believe we have become an oversensitive nation, that "jeez, you can't say anything about anyone anymore." I'm waiting for someone to elucidate for me why that is a bad thing. Because now you don't get to tell all your hilarious f@%%0t, N-word, Jew, lesbian, Chinaman jokes anymore? Believe me, my town was full of those people growing up. My high school had one Jew, two Haitians, a couple of closeted gay (and totally ridiculed) guys, three Asians, and a brother and sister who were labeled "towelheads." All of them lived with the majority white population who thought it was funny to tell "jokes" about them, to use those epithets about them; and if not about them specifically, near them as if they were supposed to find it funny or no-big-deal too. It was a suffocating and damaging environment as I look back on it with no great fondness, and I think about how that connects to the ABC situation, about how it can no longer be a valid defense to say that "people should get over being sensitive," "it's not that big a deal; it's only words," or "why should I care?"

Washington used that word because he simultaneously knew it had the power to hurt his castmate but also thought he probably had the cover to use it. Why? Because when something is considered to be a funny word, a suitable joke topic, you can wound the person in question then easily retreat into "but I didn't know it was so offensive!" If TR Knight (the cast mate) had called Washington the N word, he wouldn't have been allowed to even clean out his locker before his ass hit the pavement outside the studio lot. Why? Because we have come to a general agreement as a society that the word is not acceptable. Not because we're oversensitive but because its use is just wrong. It's time to do the same for the F word--in every work environment in every small (and apparently, large) town in America.

So what's my point? Twofold. First, I'm depressed at how long it took for anyone in the hierarchy at ABC to clue into how unacceptable that on-set attack was. Second, as depressed as that makes me, I'm simultaneously hopeful for the future when I think about how quickly the general public (admittedly people-who-follow-this-sort-of-thing) made it an issue for which they were willing to vote with their feet...or eyes...or advertising dollars. Indeed, that is the only thing that is going to change the words--and therefore the attitudes--that we as a nation find acceptable.

Think of all the things that used to be considered funny and/or acceptable to say in the Good Old Days. Were those things really funny and no big deal or were they just funny because you didn't know someone they would have denigrated? Were they just funny because it was easier to laugh than wonder why you found humor in them? And was it really humor or something more like fear? Because I can guarantee you that men who are comfortable with their own heterosexuality (including those on successful medical dramas) do not feel the need to attack those who are gay.

Under New Management

I went to my new doctor today. I had to say goodbye to Hottie Hebrew Hematologist for reasons of irreconcilable differences. Those differences boiling down to the fact that he couldn't commit. Story of my life, but more on that later.

The short-story-long of it is this: there is a medicine that can help raise your white blood counts. White blood cells (neutrophils to be precise) are what fight infection. Low neutrophils mean you end up with fevers of 103.9, in the hospital, risking sepsis, and getting your advanced directive in order...once a week for a g**d*mn month and a half. Low neutrophils mean you have to wear a mask whenever you leave your house so you don't breathe in any germs, particulates or godknowswhat. So, it's not even about avoiding sneezes. It's about avoiding construction sites, car exhaust, everything, because of the potential for spores and whatnot. In short, it's effing misery without actually making the decision to live in a bubble a la John Travolta circa 1976.

HHH wouldn't give me that white cell-assistive medicine because it might cause leukemia with long-term use. When I was at NIH this past week with my 103.9 fever and my neutrophils in the toilet, they gave me two shots of that medicine because there was no way I was going to get better with antibiotics alone. I needed it and I got it. And today, my friends, my neutrophils had jumped from 200 to more than 800.

Don't get me wrong. 800 is still really low. It's not a number any normal person should aspire to. But the difference between 200 and 800 is quite simple for someone like me: it's the difference between potentially dying of infection and septic shock--and living an almost-normal life. Seriously. It's that black and white. I ate Japanese food tonight for dinner. Take out. Miso soup. Tofu. Veggies. From a styrofoam container not prepared by my own triple-sanitized hands. 'Cause you can't eat at a restaurant or get takeout when you have no neutrophils. You can't eat fruits or vegetables without pummelling the very life out of them. You can't eat out of the same container as anyone else in your family, so you have to have "your" peanut butter and "your" bagel chips. You can't eat feta or brie. You can't eat any meat or fish product that is not cooked beyond dryness. Same with eggs. You can't bake bread because live yeast is dangerous to the immune-suppressed. You can't eat anything that hasn't been brought to a rolling boil. You can't just pick up a coffee and a muffin at a coffee shop because you can't verify who has touched the muffin, whether it has been handled by only clean hands, who has breathed on it while it sat there, how long it has sat there, what has landed on it while it sat there. And the worst part is that you don't actually lose weight. You GAIN it, because you can't eat salad, can't easily eat an apple with cheese for a snack, can't eat anything The Bambina put her mouth/fingers/hands on first. So you eat bagel chips with peanut butter. Potatoes for dinner with bread. You become the Carbs With Preservatives Queen, so you're not only stuck at home, you're a fattie boombalattie.

As you can tell from that interminably long paragraph, having low neutrophils seriously cuts into your life in ways large and small, where every single food item that you don't purchase, wash, cook like hell and then eat off "your" plate with "your" fork and knife is the scariest thing you think you've ever faced. You get so justifiably afraid of food that you even Fear The Muffin. That delicious-looking blueberry, probably-harmless muffin. Being stored at some dangerous bacteria-forming temperature though, I bet, under that plastic case. Probably got sneezed on by the delivery guy, put on the tray with the finger and thumb of the pimply-faced kid behind the counter who MAY have washed his hands after taking a whizz this morning. Should I do it? {Flash to a hospital being told to get your affairs in order...} Naah. I'll go home and make toast. Sh&t! The only jam we have The Bambina licked the spoon and put back in the jar! Do I have any condiments that are mine? No. Okay, dry toast it is.

All of which is to say that I'm glad I'm back at NIH. I completely believe that HHH is probably right; he's a world-class researcher and physician, and I have no doubt that his opinion is rooted in something solid. I am absolutely at peace should something terrible happen in 2012 and I'll look back and say, "Dude. Thank you for totally having my back on this in 2007." But you know what? I'll be saying that because I'll be (barring any bizarre Ewan McGregor Fan Club bus accidents or bagpipe malfunctions) ALIVE in 2012 to send the thank you note!

So, as is my wont, I'm sure I will have other, future posts about me being back in the hospital. Rare progressive diseases are what they are and can't ever be considered "handled" in the classic sense of the word. But what they can be is managed aggressively. And I think that aggressiveness (aggression?!) is what I've been lacking in the past year.

So. This disease, as of this 600 point jump in my counts, is under new management. Time to get back to work. Without a mask!!

I Heart Molly Ivins

I absolutely adore Molly Ivins' writing and unique sense of humor. My Dad thought she hung the moon, as a "Texan" himself who couldn't stand "Shrub." Here's wishing her all strength for what sounds like a very rough road ahead.

AUSTIN - Nationally syndicated columnist Molly Ivins has been hospitalized in her recurring battle with breast cancer. "I think she's tough as a metal boot," her brother, Andy Ivins, said Friday after a visit with her at Seton Medical Center in Austin.

Andy Ivins said his sister was admitted to Seton on Thursday. She spent Friday morning with longtime colleagues and friends, and was "sleeping peacefully" when he arrived later in the day. A self-described leftist agitator, Ivins, 62, completed a round of radiation treatment in August, but the cancer "came back with a vengeance," and has spread through her body, Andy Ivins said.

Ivins' columns, which she infuses with passion and wit, appear in more than 300 newspapers around the country. She's written six books, four of which were best sellers. They included Shrub: The Short But Happy Political Life of George W. Bush, Bushwhacked: Life in George W. Bush's America, which she wrote with longtime friend Lou Dubose; and Who Let the Dogs In? Incredible Political Animals I Have Known.

Ivins was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1999. A year later, she described her treatment with characteristic wit: "First they poison you; then they mutilate you; then they burn you. I've had more fun."

She received her third diagnosis a year ago; despite her illness, she's managed to crank out her columns. In a piece earlier this month, she wrote that she was starting a newspaper crusade to end the war in Iraq. "Raise hell," she urged readers. "Think of something ridiculous to make the ridiculous look ridiculous. ... We need people in the streets, banging pots and pans and demanding, 'Stop it, now!' "

Blabbing a Thousand

This

Is

The

Thousandth

Post

on

StarSpangledHaggis.

So as not to ruin the moment with lame writing not befitting a thousandth post (or the series finale of Seinfeld), I'll leave it at that. :)

Year of the Boar

February 18th will be the start of Chinese New Year. We're starting to prep for some celebrating here at Chez Haggis, and thought you might like a quick primer on Chinese New Year traditions.

For our Mandarin-speaking friends: Xinnian yu kuai!
And for our Cantonese-speaking friends: Gung hei fat choi!
Wikipedia