Loathsome: The Medical Years

In the process of answering an email, I was reminded of yet another fun Loathsome story. There are a million of them. I've known him for a couple of decades now, so I've had a lot of time to accumulate them.

When Loathsome was in the Army (drafted during Vietnam), he was assigned to the mental health unit (or whatever it's called). I can only imagine that they thought one crazy person would just naturally recognize any others he happened upon. (Turns out, that's not necessarily true. My dad never recognized any other insane people. Or rather, he just thought everybody was crazy except him.) Loathsome mainly had to go collect military guys after they'd gone over the deep end.* I don't exactly know what he did with them then, but suffice it to say Loathsome believes he did a damn good job at a very difficult assignment.

I digress. After the Army, Loathsome capitalized on that experience by getting hired as an orderly in a state-run psychiatric institution in California during the late sixties. Orderly. Excellent career move. He likes to tell me (and probably anyone else he can force to listen) that he made a great contribution to the psychiatrically challenged population housed there. I, of course, wondered what Loathsome could possibly offer anyone in the way of functional living skills. Our original conversation was revelatory and entertaining, as always.

"I showed them how to dress," he told me with enormous pride. You could just see his chest puffing out as he said it.

"You showed them how to dress?" I smiled as if I was already impressed. You've probably noticed by now that pretty much any statement from Loathsome immediately requires some explanation.

"Yeah. I brought my own clothes in and showed them how to match things. Like plaids and colors." Big, big Loathsome smile here. He was very impressed with himself.

I can only imagine the huge positive impact the ability to mix and match outfits was for people with, say, schizophrenia. I've always wondered where exactly he thought they might put this powerful new knowledge to work. As far as I know, back in the sixties in state-run psychiatric hospitals, there weren't a whole lot of wardrobe options. Let's see now. Hospital clothing--green or white. Not Dior by a long shot. I don't think they had plaid, either.

I also wonder how the hell he got his clothes in there. Do orderlies regularly get to take their personal wardrobes into the hospital and, like "What Not to Wear," analyze the various outfit possibilities the patients could apply in their own lives? If so, I could definitely take that on as a part time gig. Very fashion savvy here, especially when we're talking about people who are currently hallucinating or who have their own running conversation about the style tips with people who exist solely in their heads.

Several years ago, Owner fell out of a deer blind and broke his back on a hunting trip. He was incredibly lucky that he wasn't paralyzed. He managed to break just the right vertebrae to survive relatively unscathed. He did have to have surgery and was in the hospital for a while, though.

When the accident first occurred, Loathsome was on it immediately. He wanted to know which hospital Owner was in so he could head on over there to get some answers. We were understandably (once again) puzzled.

"I need to go over there and make sure they're given him the right treatment. I have a medical background, you know."

Maybe that was a long way to go to get to a disappointing end. Personally, I find the "medical background" statement breathtakingly hilarious. My husband and I still, years later, say that to each other when one of us is having a small medical crisis. Like a paper cut.

Sometimes I just love my job.

*Please be assured that I mean no disrespect to the men and women who served in Vietnam. As a person with post traumatic stress disorder, I know how bad that can be. The things they saw were unimaginable, as in all wars, I suppose. I've known some men who served there and they deserve enormous compassion and respect.

I also mean no disrespect to people with mental illness. God knows I've got enough of it in my father's family. And let's face it, ptsd and chronic depression are the definitions of mental illness. I just happen to have a sense of humor about it.

IBS in Crazy Land

The pest control guys get it. The problem isn't my cats. It's not my cats' food. It's that they're digging up that field across the road. It's that the city is replacing all of the sewer lines all down this street (even I didn't remember that). It's that the building is old and the neighbors are derelict in their responsibilities. Of course, none of that means people won't still decide to be miffed at me. That's fine. You know how I like being right, though. And I am right.

You know, I could just go on and on about the silent treatment and the rats and the fleas. I have a tendency to get a little obsessive. It's possible I may be a little defensive. (Oh surely not!) I'll spare you the gory details and try to move on. I hear the Chief Shunner downstairs talking to the pest control guys. What an idiot. Okay, I'm moving on now.

I found out why Loathsome isn't in the office this week. It's because Owner told him not to come here. He has to stay at the client's site. All of the time. I wouldn't be surprised if Owner didn't try to make him sleep over there. I guess the client's security people would have a problem with that, though. I'm glad to know he's not still on vacation. That was really annoying me in a big way.

You'd think that after being diagnosed with breast cancer, nothing else could really rattle my cage. I guess everyone's unhappiness with me has taken a toll, as much as I hate to admit it. I have IBS and the stress has made that kick in, even though I never had it during the most stressful months of cancer treatment. So I've been in pain for several days now.

On the grand scale of needles in the breast, chemotherapy sores in the mouth or reconstruction agony, this pain is small. However, it is constant pain. It really makes me angry that I've allowed Crazy Land to get inside my head this way. I'm trying not to be annoyed with myself, because that makes it worse (of course). So today I feel whiny, obsessive and a little vindictive.

The good news is that last night was my first night alone. My mom has been staying over ever since I had reconstruction surgery. I love my Mom and I'm infinitely grateful for her help. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without her. Having said that, I'm a person who needs a lot of alone time and I haven't had any for a couple of months now.

Andy the Demon Dog seems to be much better behaved when it's just the two of us. Or rather, three if you count the Sheba Woo. What a relief to not be fending off his arm-gnawing. It's a miracle I have all of my limbs intact.

I spent my evening reading the mammoth biography I've been working on for about a month or so. I still didn't finish it, but we're heading into Levi's final days. I'm saddened by his struggles.

However, I'm looking forward to my next book, which I already have picked out. It's a biography of Zen spiritual master Hakuin Ekaku, who lived from 1685-1768. It's been quite some time since I read any new Buddhist books. They used to keep me from moving into the dark moods that sometimes overtake me. I stopped reading them about the time I was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was just too hard to concentrate on anything other than enduring.

I reread The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying at some point in my treatment. My memory of those days is a little fuzzy, though.

It's time for lunch now. We're having a going-away luncheon for a co-worker of mine. Not going. The food will be inhospitable. I'm not feeling particularly charitable towards any of the other Crazy Land denizens. I have officially sentenced them to the harsh punishment of dealing with each other. Plus, this will give them all extra time to talk to each other about how mad they are at me. I'm happy to oblige. My colon and I are signing off now.

Please. Don't Talk To Me.

At least one of my co-workers is still miffed about the kitty issue and isn't speaking to me. Oh no. Not that. The problem is that they contend our rat problem (they are plentiful lately) and a flea problem are solely due to the kitties. Despite the fact that the field across the street from us is being dug up for a shopping mall or something. Anyone ever hear of "field rats?" Anyone know why they're called that? They've got to go somewhere and we're convenient. I bet they've completely taken over the empty building across from the other side of the excavation site.

The woman who lives in the house right next door to us has two dogs and never does anything about fleas. I don't think fleas recognize property lines and refuse to cross them. But, you know, don't confuse us with the facts. And no one has stepped up to talk about it directly to me or the owner. I'm being given the silent treatment because they're all terrified and this is what five-year olds do (or maybe I'm insulting five-year olds).

Everyone is afraid to talk to me about it because

1. I can be scary when angry. I'm so calm and icy, the windows frost up.

2. My boss is on my side. I believe I've covered the "Official Torture List" in several other posts.

So some of them just aren't speaking to me. I wonder if they think that bothers me. The reality is that it's all a big drama here every single damn day. I'm just temporarily the focus of the general office-wide hate fest that constitutes my working life. Please. Don't talk to me.

In other news, Loathsome is still on the owner's shit list. I dropped by to ask Owner where I should direct a phone inquiry about a quote for a job. I asked if Loathsome should get the call. Owner replied, "You should never call Loathsome about anything." Hmm. Doesn't sound good. Still no sight of him anywhere. If he were here, everyone would be not speaking to him. Or the Useless One. (I'll get to him later. ) See? My "professional" (and I used that term advisedly) life is a rollicking adventure every day.

The Money Man is having a really good week. He loves it when there's conflict. Especially when he has a part in it. He may have gotten the kitty ball rolling when he announced to everyone that he had 50 fleas on him when he entered the small building where kitty food is stored. Oddly enough, my mom, the Foot Lady and I have never had a flea problem over there. But far be it from me to challenge that assessment. I certainly am not interested in counting the fleas on his khakis; I'll just have to take his word for it.

Tomorrow, maybe we'll cover the Useless One. Or the bizarre behavior of an old friend of mine. I seem to attract bizarre. I'm a beacon shining a light into the Land of Crazy. They flock to me like (you guessed it) rats after the Pied Piper.

News From The Office Front,. Meet the Foot Lady.

I work with a woman who is obsessed with her feet. Foot Lady has managed to work her feet into every conversation she’s had for the past decade. She stopped me last week to ask how the plastic surgery visit went and was able to parlay that into more foot commentary.

This has driven co-workers absolutely mad. It’s not even merely a reaction to the tedious subject matter; it’s because she randomly plops one or both of her feet on her desk to get specific about the latest problem. Yes, we are forced to look. And yes, many times she’s wearing a dress. I don’t think you wish to hear the details of how that happens. You just never know when she’s feeling inspired, so it’s hard to prepare yourself emotionally for a foot encounter.

She had surgery on both feet last year. Before surgery, she made me look at this icky sore on the bottom of one of her feet. I guess I deserved it. I’d managed to remain unscathed for years. Some people have been forced to gaze upon their majesty many times. Having seen them once, you most definitely wouldn’t want to see either one of them again.

We’ve all been required to acknowledge the foot surgery by listening to a blow-by-blow recounting of how long the surgery took, how long she had to wear funny shoes, how painful it was. You can see where I’m going with this.

I’d hoped that, after the surgeries and rehab, her feet would cease to be a major focal point of conversation with her. Obviously, I was wrong. After Foot Lady launched into a full-blown recitation of her ongoing problems and hiked one foot up on the desk, I was edging toward the door, trying to make my escape.

“Gotta go. Really, really tired,” I kept saying whenever she took a breath. I’m polite to a fault. It’s partly due to growing up in the South, where we’re always polite no matter how much we hate you. It’s partly due to my father’s insistence on (some types of) manners. It’s partly due to my own obsessiveness. God forbid that I should forget the basic rules of etiquette.

It’s especially hard for me to walk away when someone has been kind enough to inquire as to how the whole cancer thing is going. It just seems rude to give them an abbreviated version of my current state of being and then waltz away, leaving the inquirer to curb their need to work in a little bit about themselves. Hey, I’m hip to that. We all like to talk about ourselves. Well, except for the pathologically independent ggirl (according to my therapist).

So there you are. I count myself lucky that Foot Lady didn’t make me touch it. She was comparing the numbness on part of her foot to some numbness I experience as a result of multiple surgeries. Trust me, I do not make people look at the places where I’m numb. I most certainly do not make people touch them.

I saw her briefly this morning, but our discussion centered on rats. Hey, better than feet.

On the Loathsome front, he still hasn’t put in an appearance in the office. I’m amazed and nonplussed. I’ve started to feel stupid for making myself show up at the office when it’s been physically difficult for me. I was so looking forward to running into him and asking a seemingly polite question about the tool accident. Fortunately, I have mastered the art of looking innocent while I politely and surreptitiously cause untold amounts of discomfort. Yet another benefit of that Southern thing. That’s okay. I’ll see him at some point. I have a very long memory.

I sent out an email to everyone about the cat situation. Coworkers have been very unhappy about my kitties for a very long time. They (unfortunately, I do not mean my colleagues) have been disappearing at an alarming rate. We’re down to 2.5. One of them is only here part-time, so he really gets to be counted as half a cat.

Yes, I admit to being a little angry and bitter about their collective attitudes. Nonetheless, I sent out a brief and factual email to everyone in the office about the dwindling kitty population. Later, I stopped in to say hello to the owner of the company and we discussed the (as yet) unread email.

“Who did you send it to?” he asked.

“Everyone in the office.”

“Was it sardonically worded?” he smiled conspiratorially. Owner is aggravated by coworkers’ kitty irritation.

“No.” I said.

“Why not?” I could tell he really, really wanted me to take verbal gloves off and come out swinging.

“I edited myself on the way back from lunch. You know, it’s usually better that way,” I smiled at his appreciation for my rapier tongue and my unerring instinct for finding the soft underbelly of everyone I meet.

“Were people giving you shit about the cats?” He narrowed his eyes as he looked at me. I could tell that would have added more people to the torture list or just upped the ante on those folks who are already on it.

“No. I just know how happy that would make them. Just wanted to say ‘congrats,’” I gave him that half smile I get when retribution is definitely in the offing.

Yes, I’m angry and a trifle bitter about their constant whining about the cats. If you work here and that’s the biggest source of your unhappiness, you are one very lucky (and possibly stupid) human being. But you know, whatever makes the assholes happy.

I don’t have to be friendly and solicitous to anyone except the guy who always sees eye to eye with me over the kitty issue, the owner of the company. Grown men have been known to almost lose control of their bladders when faced with my icy, but infinitely polite gaze. I have my ways. You know, I’m a Southerner.