#an ask meme came out the queue yesterday and some lovely people sent asks in

[patriciahaefeli]

A Cautionary Tale? A Love Story? You Decide

It's been one of those rollercoaster weeks, one that began with a great deal of pain, which I tried to ignore at first, so as not to ruin my 17- year old’s already Corona-compromised birthday party. At some point during our 5 p.m. family Zoom celebration, I quietly left the room and went upstairs to lie down, writhe in pain, get back up, bend over, moan, repeat. This continued through the night Monday – and at one point, I remember thinking that labor wasn’t this bad and that I should probably go to the emergency room. In this new world we’re in, that thought was quickly dismissed by one word: COVID. I paced the floor at 3 a.m., alternately moaning and then bopping my head and sort of softly singing what kept running through my head, which was the chorus of The Knack’s 1979 hit song, “My Sharona.” Only my version went “My Corona.” Yes, even while suffering, I’m clever that way. 

By Tuesday morning the pain had subsided. I was exhausted however, and slept throughout the day. “Tricia! Drink this! Jesus, she’s burning up.” It was the alarm in my husband’s voice that I responded to more than the command. I sat up, drank the water he was holding out to me, and when I caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser I had the brief, feverously detached impression of someone who’d sat under a sun lamp for too long. Sun lamp, the words made me almost giggle out loud. Sun-lamp, sun-lamp, sun-lamp…Does anyone even know what that is anymore? A few hours later I had a virtual appointment with my regular GP, during which the decision was made for me to go to the office first thing Wednesday for a full exam. My instructions (my fever-addled brain again added the words “should I choose to accept them” - hehehe), for entering the building would come in the form a text. 

My office exam was efficient and thorough. Upon arrival, I called the office and someone met me at a side door. As we were both masked and gloved, we nodded and murmured muffled greetings. Two PAs and an MD palpated my tender abdomen while I stifled screams. They decided that I should have a C-T scan that day, with the expectation that the offending culprit was a kidney stone. As many radiology facilities are currently closed, it took a few hours for them to locate one that would take me. My scan took place at 4:30. I was the last patient of their day. 

 Fast forward to 6:30 p.m. Wednesday evening. I picked up the call, which was remarkable in itself because anyone who knows me knows how irritating it is that, a) my phone is always on silent mode, and, b) I rarely answer numbers I don’t recognize. It was another doctor from Vanguard, calling to let me know that my C-T scan showed no evidence of kidney stones – “Yay!” BUT, he cut in, it did show acute appendicitis. What I needed to do, he said, was to go directly to the nearest ER. 

So here’s where this story really begins, because I was about to get a reality check regarding the difference between the inconveniences of “social distancing” and quite literally, matters of life and death. For those of us who are shuffling around at home in our sweatpants, eating too much, complaining about the buffoonery of our President, laughing at all the funny memes, and who are, to one degree or another, COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS to the fact that health care workers do not have the luxury of ANY of that, here’s the newsflash: The Corona virus has virtually SHUT down normal operations for hospitals and surgical facilities, so if you’re also laughing in the face of social-distancing guidelines, and just can’t wrap your head around the possibility of contracting this deadly disease, know this too: If you break your arm, or your spouse has a heart attack, or your child’s strange rash won’t go away and you’re just really concerned, good luck. We are NOT in Kansas anymore, peeps. 

 I considered doing a bit of a negative a rant on the first hospital that I went to here, but perhaps that wouldn’t be fair. “The nearest ER” for me would have been another hospital, but due to their somewhat dubious reputation, we opted to go just a bit farther away. The best thing I can say about that experience was that the safety protocols to enter the ER were impressive. Picture the scene in E.T. where the Hazmat-suited guys from the space program find out about him and “invade” the house in a tunnel of white - then picture the people standing six feet apart outside of say, ShopRite, only these people don’t look so great. They’re kind of bent over, or swaying, or leaning on someone else. Then count your blessings that your gut hurts and you’re not bleeding out…or struggling to breathe. 

Three hours later, after they’d reviewed my scans and completed all of the necessary pre-op tests (blood work, EKG, urine analysis), I got the word that most of the ORs were being used as ICUs for COVID patients, and they were only doing “emergent” surgeries. They sent me home with massive doses of antibiotics, and a referral to see their staff general surgeon - outpatient. 

I figured they were right, too. Must not be very serious. I was doing well with that notion until the following morning, when I heard the barely concealed shock in the voice of my regular MD.  

“Did they see your scans?” his tone serving only to increase my anxiety. 

 “Yeah. But my appendix hasn’t exploded yet.” I said. 

 “Ah,” he sighed, “I know things are being handled differently in the ‘current environment,’ but last time I checked, acute appendicitis was emergent.” 

Okay, pay attention now, because here’s where it gets really interesting: See if you can answer his parting questions: 

 “Do you have a general surgeon? Preferably one with their own facility?” 

 So, do you? And if you do, are you sure they’re even open right now? I sure as hell didn’t (and the name they gave me at the hospital turned out to be for a doctor whose answering machine told me he was not seeing new patients). And the idea that it was now pretty much my problem to solve was a little intimidating – especially for someone who generally needs to be told that they’re sick (enough) or in (enough) pain to seek help—but that’s another story. Now that doctor, who I respect and like a lot, said he’d be trying to find me one, but that I should do my research as well. 

 My husband and I made a fairly long list of people/places to call, and split it. Those we were able to reach at all offered possible solutions to my dilemma, but each dead-ended pretty quickly. I focused on the task now, trying to ignore what it might mean that the ache in my belly seemed to be spreading down my right leg. 

As of this writing, I have yet to hear back from my regular GP and yet, here I sit, post-op, able to get this down mostly because of a Facebook message I sent to one of the nurses in the Belleville Public School district. The only real help I got came from her, a nurse, who responded immediately to an “in-boxed” message, and kept responding for the next hour, sending me the names and phone numbers of doctors (sometimes with their credentials!), links to possible facilities, and words of encouragement. She gave me her personal cell phone number and encouraged me to call it if I had questions and/or to let her know how it was going. I felt like she meant it, too. I also think she was responsible for the first in a series of serendipitous events that just may have saved my life. One of the names she gave me turned out to be the dad of one of my kid’s friends. 

 At that point, things happened pretty quickly. I called him (at home) and told him my situation. In a matter of 20 minutes, he had my scans and had booked  a time slot for me for same-day surgery at Clara Maass. He’s a high-energy, outgoing kind of guy, and although I’d stood on sidelines with him and his lovely wife at many a sports event, I don’t know him well enough, nor did I think it was appropriate to laugh out loud when he laid out the plan: “With everything going on, I just really want to do you – and get you the hell out of there!” 

So here I am, more grateful to him than I can possibly express and having some time to consider just how random and crazy and dangerous that whole situation was (turns out, my appendix had begun to perforate after all, and the real fun was just beginning) and how fortunate I am. 

 But the real heroes here - Oh, and God, aren’t we all a little sick of the “hero” thing? – well get over it, and listen up! From the minute I walked through the door of Clara Maass yesterday, my experience was the best it could possibly have been. The nurses! OMG the nurses - I was in pre-op for hours. Lucky as I was to have been squeezed in to an already crowded surgical schedule, the truth of the matter was that my presence had required a quick shifting of resources—stretchers and space and - nurses. My sudden appearance in the queue was inconvenient, possibly even annoying. And yet all of them, including the nurse who ran the OR, came by to check on me, to give me extra blankets, to chat with me, and laugh with me. A friend’s daughter-in-law, who is a nurse there, got a text from him and even she came from three floors below just to say hello and charm me with her Australian accent and tired-but-twinkling blue eyes. I swear, for me? The whole experience was a cross between a weirdly sterile spa stay, and – as mine all happened to be women - a girls’ sleepover with your best girlfriends—only these were women I'd just met (but they’d also pretty much seen me naked, so, there’s that…). 

Most of them were nearing the end of a 12-hour shift. As I lay there, relaxed and warm, reading and texting, they race-walked back and forth among those of us who waited, or were recovering. I lost count of how many times one of them asked me if I was okay, or if I needed something. They ate their dinners on the move, taking bites and then sprinting off, tearing off one set of gloves, putting on another. These people Do. Not. Sit. The sink was right near my bed, so I saw a lot of hand-washing traffic too, and a lot of red, chapped, over-sanitized hands. They spoke in soothing voices to those who were waiting, and possibly scared, and loud-enough voices for those emerging from the cloud of anesthesia to understand. Sometimes they shouted good-natured complaints to one another, or teased one another – and me, as when one started repacking those bags they give you for your clothes, amusement in her voice as she yelled, “What the hell did you do here, shove it all in like a little kid? Your purse is open – Maria, come over here and see this – she’s a mess!” Hahahaha! One came by and pointed to the cover of the book I was reading entitled “The Silent Patient”, and joked “That’s the kind we like!” 

I even began to wonder if what I was getting was “special treatment” reserved for those whose surgeries were personally called-in by the surgeon. Once he arrived, however, it was clear that not only did they not know he was the one who got me in, but they chided him in the same affectionate way. At a point, I said to one of them, “Doctors think they’re all that, but nurses really run the show don’t they?” She winked at me and elbowed me a little, “Like husbands, honey – they just think they’re in charge!” 

I lounged, for over four hours while they stood on what had to be tired feet, hands on hips as they talked to me, telling me which part of the hospital they’d spent the morning in, or where they were headed next in this crazy, all-hands-on-deck environment. We chatted about jobs and kids, and only when the topic of this deadly disease came up did the lack of words become conspicuous. Then it was all a mime of sad shakes of the head and downward glances. 

It occurs to me today that after all of this, I'm not sure I would recognize any of them tomorrow if I saw them on street – nor they me. Of course, we were all masked. But maybe I would – if I could see their eyes again. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that most of all, those eyes conveyed a profound kindness. And laughter, and concern, and compassion, and dedication—and a toughness that allows them to do it all. 

I'll tell you a secret: I am a person who often has a weird response to unexpected kindness - it makes me cry. I welled up more than once yesterday afternoon. I may have been just one of many for them – this is just what they do - but for me, a bond was made. I will always remember them. 

Make no mistake: it’s no hardship to be home in your sweatpants with your gel manicure looking a little ratchet, and your spouse and kids seeming more like houseguests who have overstayed their welcome. Today, I want you to feel really, really blessed and grateful, and if you’re like me, a generally healthy person who never really gave too much thought to the job that these people do, I hope I was able to convey just a little of it. 

That school nurse who rescued me put it this way: “I took an oath when I graduated just as physicians do. I have followed it for 28 years and it has never let me or my patients down.” That whole oath thing is good and important and all, but the heart behind it gives it grace. 

So, if you get an invitation to do one of those car processions where you beep your horn and cheer for the local health care workers as they go in to, or leave, work– get in your car and go. Or, just mail them each a check for a million dollars. Either way.

[ettaprince-blog]

I did an otp question meme thing for Etta/Diana. Be warned: I’m basing this all off the movie, which I’ve only seen once. I might be iffy on characterization or speech patterns. Also, I rambled.

Who is the big spoon/little spoon? Diana likes both, but Etta definitely prefers being the little spoon. The first time Diana tucked an arm around her in bed, Etta’s eyes got really wide and her breath caught, because while she’s a fierce, determined (and previously single) woman in her mid-40’s, she yearns for cuddles. Especially cuddles from tall, beautiful, badass women.

Favourite non-sexual activity? After a number of truly disastrous dates, Etta finally loosens up about trying to corral Diana in public and just lets her be, and finds she enjoys going out and just exploring the city together. They do a lot of traveling, too, to wherever Diana is needed, and even though Etta makes a lot of frowny and/or exasperated and/or frantic faces over trying to be the more organized and responsible of the two during their adventures (you can’t just show up in another country and start winning people’s wars or solving crisis’s, Diana, there’s plenty else that’s got to be considered like food and lodging and not creating an international incident) she loves getting involved and making a difference.

Who uses all the hot water? Diana, because it occasionally escapes her notice that she’s no longer in paradise, and she does have a very subtle spoiled streak (bloody princess); but Diana goes out of her way to make sure Etta gets to have relaxing baths and other self-indulgent activities, so it evens out in the end.

The most trivial thing they fight over? Diana feels that Etta clings far to closely to social rules that make no sense (why shouldn’t I hold your hand in public? I was told this is to show others we are together) and Etta thinks Diana takes safety for granted. The issues are actually not trivial at all, but each thinks it is.  

Who does most of the cleaning? Etta. In fact she occasionally gives Diana a hard time about it, but when Diana offers to help, Etta waves her away. Dusting and ironing are as calming as making tea when you live a life of constant adventure. Yesterday Etta had to jump out of a plane. She’ll sort out the mud Diana tracked into the house, thank you. (Also, she did live alone for years, so doing chores on her own comes more naturally to her than trying to divide tasks with someone who’s never any of it before.)

What has a season pass on their DVR/who controls the Netflix queue? As there’s no such thing in this time era, I’ll trade this out for seeing movies at the cinema. And usually it’s Etta, because she keeps up with such things and Diana doesn’t, though if Diana sees a poster she likes they’ll go to that one instead. Diana is much more spur of the moment, though, so when it comes to unplanned things – a walk in the park, a shared ice cream cone, sight seeing – Diana holds the reigns and Etta’s hurrying after her.

Who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working? Etta. She’s the first to get angry when something doesn’t work right, and she’ll get right on the phone or march right to the owner of an establishment (their apartment, a hotel, a restaurant, etc) and raise hell if she has to. She mostly prefers to shmooze her way through things, since it’s safer and gets better or faster results, but you bet your butt she’ll start it on you if that doesn’t work. If it’s something Etta thinks can’t be helped by talking (like how rude a man was to them or poor working conditions, etc), Diana starts giving dramatic, impassioned speeches, or starts yelling indignantly.

Who steals the blankets? Both of them are guilty of it. Diana pursues everything with enthusiasm, and that includes being asleep and wanting to be comfortable; she’ll pull and accidentally roll Etta right off the bed if Etta doesn’t wake her up in time. Similarly, Etta sleeps like the dead and is still used to sleeping alone, so she’ll start curling up and tucking over and Diana will wake up naked and uncovered while Etta is a warm, comfortable bug next to her. It just gives Diana an excuse to smirk, turn over, and tickle Etta awake.

Who leaves their stuff around? The less we talk about how often Etta trips over Diana’s weapons and Diana sits on Etta’s scattered newspapers, the better.  

Who remembers to buy the milk? One time Etta sent Diana out alone for an errand (she really didn’t want to, because of the many, immediately obvious reasons why, but she had her own hands full and Diana was so damned eager to help) and Diana came back six hours later with three new friends, having saved one from a minor factory fire, one from an abusive husband, and one’s cat from a tree. She did not remember being sent out on an errand. The cat was adorable, though.

Who remembers anniversaries? Etta has an obsessive memory of precious dates but tries to be nonchalant about it, because who has time to fuss about over how many months ago a first kiss happened or when it was Diana first suggested they stop sleeping separately, but Diana always has a surprise for her or mentions it when whispering sweet things in her ear. Etta’s too charmed for her own good, but that’s being in love, she supposes.  

Who cooks normally? Etta loves to eat but isn’t the happiest about cooking – she gets anxious about making her own portions, because any time she’s showed an interest in anything culinary, someone has some snide comment about how tempting it’ll be to make ‘too much’. Diana loves her lover’s body and is quick to discourage fat shamers and Etta’s own internalized fatphobia, and one of the many ways she does this is by suggesting they cook together. She distracts Etta with being too bloody adorable, getting stuff on Etta’s face or trying to get her to lick her fingers, and it’s all smiles and enjoying flavors and no shame.

How often do they fight? Etta will yell something in the heat of the moment (you can’t keep running off like that!) and Diana will raise her voice back (I am here to protect people!) but their actual arguments are usually had after the fighting or struggle is over and Etta wants to sit down and put her face in her hands and cry just to release the stress but won’t let herself, and Diana is still high on their success or, rarely, their failure. Diana is endlessly compassionate, so when she realizes Etta is only upset because she was frightened for Diana or frustrated at how fast and dangerous their life is, her face softens and she stops being defensive and indignant and instead comforts her, reassuring Etta that everything will be okay.

What do they do when they’re away from each other? Etta worries, Diana pines, but both of them focus on whatever task is keeping them apart because it’s usually an important one.

Nicknames for each other? As the months go by and their relationship progresses, Etta starts sassing Diana under her breath or behind her back, though it’s all out of fondness (bloody princess, absolutely out of your mind, etc) and occasionally when she’s feeling frisky she’ll call her “Di.”

Who is more likely to pay for dinner? Etta handles finances and thus pays for most things, she often poses as a secretary at places they’re investigating for nefarious things so she’ll chucklingly help herself to a bit of cash on the way out if their concerns prove true. (This is in direct contrast to when she sometimes gets worried about stealing if Diana picks someone’s apple in a yard or something.)

What would they get each other for gifts? Etta loves both frivolous gifts and practical ones, so Diana buys her things like shoes and umbrellas and flowers and treats, but most of all Etta likes candy, so of course that’s Diana’s first inclination when buying her something. Diana is always ruining her clothes so Etta tends to use gift giving as an opportunity to fix her wardrobe, but she’ll also sometimes give physical gifts, because Diana loves to come home and find Etta waiting for her in the tub or in bed.  

Who kissed who first? Diana started the kiss, drew back to make certain she wasn’t doing something Etta didn’t want to do, but it was Etta who dove back in with almost forceful need. Diana’s the most beautiful woman Etta’s ever seen, and Etta’s seen – and pined after – a lot of women.

Who made the first move? Etta, I think, but only accidentally. She made some self-deprecating remark about being a bit greedy when they were talking about attraction (probably sitting on some balcony, watching couples walk by below), and when Diana asked what she meant, Etta talked about her lesbian friends giving her a hard time for falling head over heels for people regardless of gender. “It’s difficult enough getting by liking just the one, what with our lack of women-only islands out here in “man’s world”, however you’d like to call it. And here I am, liking men just the same, and whoever else I suppose, and that’s a bitter pill to swallow for some. They don’t notice that for all that flexibility, I’m still here alone.” And she laughed and tried to make it into a joke but Diana was looking at her with these big, full eyes, going from confused, to angry and indignant, to soft and tender. She held Etta’s hand and was like, “You are not alone” and Etta tittered and said “Well, the view’s certainly been nice lately” in this dismissive way, but Diana immediately smirked and murmured, “You enjoy watching me.” And it was not a question.

The rest’s history.

Who started the relationship? Diana. She and Etta had been carrying on sexually for a few weeks, mostly a sporadic, in between missions/adventures sort of thing, when Diana asked for something more serious. She’d just saved Etta in a dramatic, action movie type situation, and while Etta was trying to be serious and NOT swoon, thank you, Diana smiled at her and said, “I would like to court you.” And Etta tried to wave her off with the usual nonsense excuses (I’m much to old for you) (I’m mortal, you remember, and you haven’t aged a day since we met) but Diana only smiled and told her, “You are a brave and beautiful woman. To share with me your heart” and she cupped Etta’s cheek, the goddamn cheat, “as you share your body now, would make me very happy.” And then she may have dipped Etta and kissed her in front of people, which resulted in a lot less thrown rocks than Etta was expecting.

Who cusses more? Listen, Etta is a suffragette. She’s got plenty of dirty words to hurl back at shitty detractors.  

What would they do if the other was hurt? Defend them. Etta has scooped Diana’s weapon up more than once, sometimes just as a distraction and sometimes to kick some ass, and since she’s sometimes in the thick of it with Diana she often needs to be saved. It’s just part of the job.