For about six days after my eye surgery, my stomach did its best to steal some of the attention back from my eyes. Oh yes, power nausea . . . and projectile vomiting. For six days, I was one fun lady (please be sure to admire the stellar sarcasm). And my roommate Debra, bless her heart, willingly held my hair out of my trajectory and emptied/cleaned my basins (I had a two-basin rotation going during the worst part of it).
On the second day after surgery, the vomiting was particularly powerful — so powerful, in fact, that one rather awful heave actually popped a stitch in my right eye. I will pause my narrative politely so that you may gag as needed. Yes, that eye was very picturesque after that, as Debra shudderingly informed me.
And that is how Brutus came into my life.
The popped stitch resulted in a long (about 1 cm) strand of suture coming free on one side but remaining anchored on the other. I know it's well anchored because twice now, at approximately 4 am, when all forms of behavior seem quite logical, I have grasped it with tweezers and attempted to gently yank it out of my eye. Fear not, I stopped when I felt resistance (I'm just as grossed out by eye stuff as the majority of you). And so, for three weeks now, this loose suture has taken up residence in my right eye. Since he has no immediate intention of leaving, I felt that naming him was appropriate. And no name was more imminently suited to him or our relationship than that of Brutus.
Imagine, if you will, the feeling of an eyelash stuck in your eye. Now imagine that the eyelash is made of steel wool and is bound to you with greater dedication than most Hollywood marriages. Yes, that is precisely my relationship with Brutus. He likes to do aerobics and yoga, being a rather spry fellow, so there is never a chance to get used to him in any position. Thus, my eye constantly itches, aches, and waters. Many nights, I am unable to sleep because there is nothing capable of distracting me from Brutus's late-night calisthenics. I get by with naps, but I really miss sleeping an entire night. Some nights, I don't fall asleep until 7:00 or 8:00 am. I methodically scan the eye in the mirror multiple times per day, assessing whether or not Brutus has loosened himself enough on the anchored end to get out the tweezers again. So far, he is remaining stubbornly fixated.
Et tu Brute?
Showing posts with label Surviving Difficult Times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Surviving Difficult Times. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Communist Infiltration of Our Precious Bodily Fluids
I think the general anesthetic had an odd reaction when it reached my brain during my operation, because for some reason it made me think about Dr. Strangelove. I don't know whether I dreamed about that film or whether the anesthetic coupled with the pain meds (no idea what they gave me, but it was goooood) awakened the part of my brain that obsessively remembers movie lines and plots. Either way, when I awakened with my leaky eyes, I kept giggling thinking of the poor general's obsessive fear of Communists gaining control of our precious bodily fluids . . . because here I was, in Communist China, rapidly losing my own precious bodily fluids!
I know, it was the meds talking. Not nearly as humorous now that they've long worn off.
So, how did the surgery go? Well, let me illustrate for you:
I arrived at the hospital to learn that I needed to retake the urine test because, and I quote, "something was wrong." (That something later proved to be nothing.) I was then told that my chest x-ray (in China you need a chest x-ray before eye surgery because . . . because . . . yep, I'm stumped, too) showed a serious problem. "You have a mass," the doctor informed me. "You will need to get a CT scan right after surgery."
Cancer. That's immediately where my brain leapt. I pondered whether or not to call off the surgery — after all, why operate on my eyes unnecessarily if I only had months to live? A mass, in my chest . . . lung cancer, I decided. From all that second-hand smoke in elevators and restaurants . . . curse you, smokers! It's not fair! I've never even so much as sampled a single cigarette and now here I am approaching my deathbed . . . common sense came back after a short jog around my brain. Best to hold off panicking until after the CT scan, I reasoned. And you might as well get those eyes fixed so that at least you can read in your remaining months, if you do happen to be dying. It was reasonable, so I took a deep breath and went in the room to be prepped for surgery.
Dr. Ai (her name, most appropriately, is pronounced "Dr. Eye") wanted my eyes thoroughly flushed. The method for accomplishing this was not, as I had expected, one of those sinks with the emergency eye flushing faucet like factories and laboratories have. Instead, the friendly, smiling nurse asked me to lay on my back, relax, and remain perfectly still while she stuck that needle in my tear duct?!?! I really wanted to be a good patient, the sort that nurses beam approvingly at, but in all honesty, who exactly in this world can actually relax while a needle goes into their tear duct? Any takers? I didn't think so. My tear ducts, apparently, bear much in common with Goldilocks: one needle was too big, another too small, and, in the end, no needle could be located that was just right. Maybe I have oddly shaped tear ducts, or perhaps the hospital just forgot to order my size. Regardless, I was relieved beyond belief when Dr. Ai showed up and said, "Let's just pour water into her eyes with this tube." Ah, yes, that I could stay calm and cool for. No problem (or mei wenti as we say in Chinese).
After the eye flushing, they sent me upstairs to my private room (my surgery was inpatient) to wait. "Think of some stories to tell me while we're doing the surgery," Dr. Ai told me as we parted ways temporarily. In a little less than an hour, the nurses and stretcher arrived for me and I was carted off downstairs to my fate. Personally, I would have preferred to walk, but I guess the nurses wanted some exercise. They wheeled me into the operating room, which was decidedly cold and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Dr. Mallard's morgue in NCIS. Since I knew I had lung cancer and was likely morgue-bound in the next few months anyways, I tried not to ponder that idea too much.
I know, it was the meds talking. Not nearly as humorous now that they've long worn off.
So, how did the surgery go? Well, let me illustrate for you:
I arrived at the hospital to learn that I needed to retake the urine test because, and I quote, "something was wrong." (That something later proved to be nothing.) I was then told that my chest x-ray (in China you need a chest x-ray before eye surgery because . . . because . . . yep, I'm stumped, too) showed a serious problem. "You have a mass," the doctor informed me. "You will need to get a CT scan right after surgery."
Cancer. That's immediately where my brain leapt. I pondered whether or not to call off the surgery — after all, why operate on my eyes unnecessarily if I only had months to live? A mass, in my chest . . . lung cancer, I decided. From all that second-hand smoke in elevators and restaurants . . . curse you, smokers! It's not fair! I've never even so much as sampled a single cigarette and now here I am approaching my deathbed . . . common sense came back after a short jog around my brain. Best to hold off panicking until after the CT scan, I reasoned. And you might as well get those eyes fixed so that at least you can read in your remaining months, if you do happen to be dying. It was reasonable, so I took a deep breath and went in the room to be prepped for surgery.
Dr. Ai (her name, most appropriately, is pronounced "Dr. Eye") wanted my eyes thoroughly flushed. The method for accomplishing this was not, as I had expected, one of those sinks with the emergency eye flushing faucet like factories and laboratories have. Instead, the friendly, smiling nurse asked me to lay on my back, relax, and remain perfectly still while she stuck that needle in my tear duct?!?! I really wanted to be a good patient, the sort that nurses beam approvingly at, but in all honesty, who exactly in this world can actually relax while a needle goes into their tear duct? Any takers? I didn't think so. My tear ducts, apparently, bear much in common with Goldilocks: one needle was too big, another too small, and, in the end, no needle could be located that was just right. Maybe I have oddly shaped tear ducts, or perhaps the hospital just forgot to order my size. Regardless, I was relieved beyond belief when Dr. Ai showed up and said, "Let's just pour water into her eyes with this tube." Ah, yes, that I could stay calm and cool for. No problem (or mei wenti as we say in Chinese).
After the eye flushing, they sent me upstairs to my private room (my surgery was inpatient) to wait. "Think of some stories to tell me while we're doing the surgery," Dr. Ai told me as we parted ways temporarily. In a little less than an hour, the nurses and stretcher arrived for me and I was carted off downstairs to my fate. Personally, I would have preferred to walk, but I guess the nurses wanted some exercise. They wheeled me into the operating room, which was decidedly cold and reminded me, unpleasantly, of Dr. Mallard's morgue in NCIS. Since I knew I had lung cancer and was likely morgue-bound in the next few months anyways, I tried not to ponder that idea too much.
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| On the bright side, he shares all sorts of fascinating trivia with his patients . . . |
Now, I should pause here to explain why I was still awake and alert at this point. The reasoning behind this was that, in order for the best possible chance of success in an operation that I only had about a 75% chance of success in, the doctor wanted me awake and alert enough to be able to tell her what I was seeing. This was to help her get the adjustments more accurate. Unfortunately for me, this also meant that I would have to be awake while both eyes were being cut . . . and I would need to be able to feel much of the pain. It was no easy choice, but I did opt to try for local anesthetic just to give my eyes a better chance at being fixed. I was more terrified of a future of only being able to use one eye than I was the pain of the operation . . . or so I thought, pre-surgery.
As I lay on the VERY narrow table, reflecting on the fact that it clearly was not built with a western body in mind, the nurses and Dr. Ai bustled about preparing for the Big Event. They set up instruments, sterilized my entire face, gently scolded me for touching my newly-sterilized face, and draped several coverings over my head so that eventually only the left eye was exposed. They offered to tie down my arms and legs, but I felt that I would be more comfortable untied. I tried not to think about my lungs, pitifully heaving against that encroaching tumor. I focused on the surgery instead . . . and then decided that it might be better to think about butterflies and mint milkshakes.
As I tried to think happy thoughts, I felt my arms begin to shake. Clearly, they were not listening to my brain telling them, in soothing terms, to relax and ponder Irish sunsets. My lungs felt heavy in my chest . . . probably that tumor weighing them down. I decided to think about how selfish and evil smokers are for polluting the air of innocent bystanders . . . and that's when that needle came into view. Yes, the one aimed DIRECTLY FOR MY EYEBALL!! "Don't look," Dr. Ai commanded. A reasonable request, which my eye had no intention whatsoever of following. An enemy is approaching! my dutiful left eye informed me loudly. Captain, enemy vessel in sight. Initiating closing procedure . . . Dr. Ai put the needle aside momentarily and captured my wayward eyelids in a most uncomfortable clamp that clearly was designed during the Spanish Inquisition. Captain, Captain, enemy vessel in sight again! Approaching rapidly — abort, abort! Closing procedure denied — Captain, whatever are we to do? My poor left eye screamed in terror as the needle plunged into the eyeball. My brain winced in sympathy, but then reminded me that chemo would definitely hurt a lot worse. With that comforting thought, I forced my forsaken left eye to abandon its post and focus on the wall rather than that other rapidly approaching sharp object . . .
Dr. Ai paused and asked if I felt that we should give up on local and switch to general anesthetic. She reminded me that there was an anesthesiologist standing by for that very purpose, if I should feel that the pain/fear/outright trauma was too much for me. "No, I want to try for local," I resolved. I could tell from her voice that my doctor was pleased. I tried to feel happy about that, but there just wasn't room in my brain for another emotion. Dr. Ai made pleasant small talk as the sharp object approached again . . . she reminded me not to look . . . my left eye feebly tried to warn us all about the encroaching danger before submitting to being redirected towards the wall again . . . and then the excruciating pain and pressure started and I knew quite certainly that my eyeball was being forcibly ejected from my skull. Traitor! my left eye whimpered as the pain overpowered it. I involuntarily cried out and shuddered.
"I don't think you can do this, Stephanie. I think we need to switch to general." Dr. Ai told me.
"Yes," came my strangled response as I fought the wave of nausea that accompanied the pain.
I drifted in and out of awareness as they prepped me for general; perhaps it was a result of pain coupled with far too much fear. I apologized over and over again for not being strong enough to handle the pain. Dr. Ai kept patiently reassuring me that it was fine; most people can't stay awake. I drifted in and out again. At one point, I thought that maybe I was awakening and the surgery was over. But then I heard the anesthesiologist informing me that he was about to give me the good stuff, and I knew that we had scarcely begun. Another flight of panic welled up within me as they inserted the oxygen tubes in my nose. I'm going to die on this operating table . . . right now . . . oh, Lord Jesus, into your hands I commit my spirit . . . I don't recall anything further after that frenzied prayer.
The next thing I knew, I was awakening, blind, in what I decided was probably the recovery room. The sound of a man somewhere within the room shrieking in agony confirmed my hypothesis. I was in quite a bit of pain, too, but I decided to just whimper quietly until the nurses gave him his morphine first. After all, even on my deathbed I'm polite. In a short while, the screaming man's voice petered off into something dazed and rather loopy, and I knew that he was well-dosed. A nurse came to me then and asked how I was feeling. "Hurts," I gasped out. And then, moments later, I felt the very nice sensation of whatever she put in my arm, and the pain was just a memory. I thought about asking to go home now that I was all better, but then I remembered that I was inpatient. After an hour or so, they finally carted me back to my private room.
And that's where I started thinking about Dr. Strangelove, as my eyes dripped something that I instinctively knew was bloody, and as I drooled slightly on the pillow. Hee hee, the Communists are getting my precious bodily fluids! my brain gleefully chortled. My eyes, having lost their sense of humor, ignored my brain, but the rest of my body enjoyed the joke. I continued to privately ponder my macabre little jests as I was slowly weaned off the heavy pain drugs (i.e. morphine) and onto the lighter sort. The next day, they carted me down and performed the CT scan. I tried to think positive thoughts. At least I've done a few good things with my time here on earth, I reassured myself. No matter what happens, I know that I tried in good conscience to do the right thing, to brighten my corner, and to serve God and others. I guess that's a pretty good legacy, even if I didn't get as much time as I had hoped.
In the early evening of the day after surgery, Dr. Ai uncovered my eyes and did an adjustment to the suture in the right one (because I had to be put to sleep, she had opted to put in an adjustable suture so that she could try to be more exact in getting the angle of my eye right). The time came to test my eyes:
"Stephanie, how is this Q-tip?" Dr. Ai asked me. "Can you see it clearly? Only one?"
My heart sunk deep into bleak despair. For, after all that suffering and all that fear and those three months of nearly constant migraines and worsening vision . . . the surgery had failed. My eyes were still seeing two Q-tips.
"Oh no," I told her. "I see TWO of them, STILL!!"
Dr. Ai cast a startled glance at her hand.
"Oh no," she laughed, "There are two!"
And then she shared the CT results with me: No mass at all, just swelling because I apparently had pneumonia a few times in the past year or so without knowing it. No cancer. But I probably should do better about going to the doctor the next time that I'm sick.
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| My eyes, about two weeks after surgery. Red, sore, and itchy, but only seeing ONE of everything! (Unless there are supposed to be two.) Surgery was a success! |
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
The Day Before
Well, tomorrow's the day. Tomorrow at 11:30 am, I go under the knife. Last night it was impossible to sleep; tonight will probably be the same. So many thoughts keep galavanting through my mind, all crowding into one another like over-stimulated aristocracy at a Regency-era cotillion (oh, thank goodness all this has not hindered my ability to make metaphors):
- Will my three months of nearly constant headaches come to an end (or at least lessen) tomorrow?
- How are my students going to do on their finals without me helping them prepare?
- Did I teach them well enough? Oh gosh, what if I didn't?
- What if I can't bear the pain and have to switch to general anesthetic during the operation? What if that means Dr. Ai can't do the adjustment correctly?
- How am I going to get dressed the morning after, when both eyes are bandaged up?
- How will I keep from going crazy having to sit out the last weeks of the school year in order to recuperate? Could I maybe go in and just stay on the first floor . . . . no, too many stairs just getting there.
- But what about the students who are leaving our school? I want to see them one last time!
- How much more help am I going to have to ask for?
- I hate asking for help! Argh, I don't want to keep burdening other people!
- I know it's going to hurt, I know it's going to hurt . . . how much?
- What if I accidentally move during surgery, right when she's cutting?
- Thank goodness Jane is coming to help me make it home; she's so comforting.
- Oh man, I am going to be blind at Beijing airport!!! How the heck is Jane going to get me through there?
- What if it doesn't work?
I know it's going to be fine; I know I will survive. I really am focusing on the 75% chance of success — I'm no gambler, but I do know those are good odds. I am still keeping my sense of humor, even when I've got worries tumbling around inside.
I thoroughly appreciate the fact that my flight out of Beijing Friday night is a red eye!
Saturday, May 18, 2013
The Eye Saga, Day Three Point Five: "I'm Not a Klutz After All — I Just Have Miserable Eyes!"
Today might be best summarized as a "whiplash day":
. . . And then we did the other tests. I completely and spectacularly failed the binocular vision and the 3D tests! This was something that had not been expected — I figured I wouldn't do great at those tests, but I never imagined my eyes were that bad. Also, my binocular and 3D vision is steadily getting worse (thus the lousy depth-perception). This means that a little more needs to be done during the surgery, making recovery a bit longer and the procedure more painful. I was startled by the results, but also a bit relieved in some ways: For so long now, I have felt like I must be stupid or inept to be so clumsy all the time, and I have been driven nearly mad trying to establish why I get so many headaches, migraines, and eye aches. I am relieved to at least have answers about all of that. It's truly amazing just how important your eyes really are!
After the initial meeting with the specialist, the afore-mentioned Dr. Ai, she said that surgery would be necessary on both eyes, as expected, and that this could be done on Thursday. She did some pre-surgery measurements and then patched over my left eye for some further tests she needed to do. I had to wait for about an hour and then return to her. So, I began to make plans to go ahead and return to Qingdao tonight, since I would not need to be back in Beijing until Thursday . . .
. . . And then we did the other tests. I completely and spectacularly failed the binocular vision and the 3D tests! This was something that had not been expected — I figured I wouldn't do great at those tests, but I never imagined my eyes were that bad. Also, my binocular and 3D vision is steadily getting worse (thus the lousy depth-perception). This means that a little more needs to be done during the surgery, making recovery a bit longer and the procedure more painful. I was startled by the results, but also a bit relieved in some ways: For so long now, I have felt like I must be stupid or inept to be so clumsy all the time, and I have been driven nearly mad trying to establish why I get so many headaches, migraines, and eye aches. I am relieved to at least have answers about all of that. It's truly amazing just how important your eyes really are!
Then Dr. Ai very gently dropped a bombshell: There is about a 25% chance that the surgery won't work - it's really hard, apparently, to fully correct issues like this in an adult. However, since there is still a decent chance of surgery fixing the problem, it's worth going through with. Basically, if it doesn't work, I will keep worsening until my vision is permanently double — I would then have to start using only one eye for the rest of my life. If I do nothing, it will definitely happen, so I have opted to take the 75% chance of saving my vision. I know that it is possibly to have a very meaningful and rewarding life without vision or with terrible vision, but I am going to take every possible chance not to have to experience that firsthand.
So, I will remain in Beijing until Friday of next week. On Tuesday, I will complete pre-surgery examinations and testing. On Thursday, Lord willing, I will have the operation on both eyes. Because I had a previous operation as a child on the easiest eye muscles, this time it will be on the two most difficult muscles of each eye, which is a little more complicated. Furthermore, in order to have the greatest possible chance of success, I need to be awake for it, so I have agreed to do local anesthetic instead of general. They need to be very certain with positioning my eyes and such. Dr. Ai explained that this means I will feel a lot of pain during the surgery. I will also need to stay in the hospital for one night.
The recovery will take a while — at least 2-3 weeks, and I will be quite uncomfortable during that time. Also, during that time, I cannot use computers or read — that part is going to be really tough. I need to be resting my eyes as much as possible. I cannot wear contacts again until my retinas are fully healed, which will be about 4-5 months after surgery. I will be more sensitive to light for a while and I have to be careful about the possibility of infection. I will likely have red "rabbit eyes" for about 4 months as well! That should come in handy for scaring my new students next school year . . . (^_^)
Obviously I am a bit scared about the surgery, especially since I know it will be very painful. I am trying not to think about the possibility of it not succeeding, since that is not helpful. I do have the comfort of a very good doctor — I took an immediate liking to Dr. Ai. She is very intelligent, kind, compassionate, and just has a great way of being both reassuring and factual. Also, the hospital where I am having the procedure done is, quite honestly, the nicest hospital I have ever in my life seen. So, on the whole, I am in a reasonably okay state mentally/emotionally. I am just going to take this whole business one day at a time and stay focused on the positives.
As the Andrews Sisters memorably sang, "You've gotta ac-cent-u-ate the positive, e-lim-i-nate the negative, latch on to the a-firm-a-rive, don't mess with Mr. In-Between."
The Eye Saga, Days Two and Three: Frankly, Boredom Is a Nice Change
Despite not leaving a forwarding address, my birthday still had no trouble locating me here in Beijing. Yup, today starts my last year of my twenties . . . I'm not sure how I feel about that, to be honest. Part of me feels like I'm already 40, but then there's also a part of me that is frolicsome and young and bears absolutely no resemblance to the slightly frumpy ole gal I'm starting to get glimpses of in the mirror each morning.
I was, admittedly, initially rather sad about the prospect of spending my birthday alone in Beijing with an impending surgery dangling its black crepe over the day. I live in an environment where it is pretty easy to feel or be forgotten, so that mixed with the general migraine-created gloom that had descended over my life for the past few months. I quite frankly was all set to skip this birthday entirely because it just didn't feel like a day worth remembering after the past few months that I've had. But, thankfully, my natural self is starting to return little by little (especially now with a cure in sight . . . pun unintentional), and I actually feel pretty good today. I'm not entirely alone, either. I was awakened by a text message from one of my two dearest friends here wishing me a happy birthday, and by the time I had blearily texted back a reply, my other dearest friend texted me. It was a nice way to wake up. And then, at noon, I'll be joining my new friend Diana for lunch before we head off to my appointment with an eye specialist (whose name, appropriately, is pronounced Dr. "Eye" — although it's actually spelled Dr. Ai).
Yesterday's appointment went well. I saw a Dr. Xi who was friendly and quite competent — I liked her immediately and felt like she took my problems seriously. She agreed with the previous diagnoses, but wanted me to see the strabismus specialist before actually having the surgery (I like the whole "measure twice, cut once" philosophy when applied to my eyes or other body parts). I do not have glaucoma, which is a HUGE relief. I do have something a little off about my left retina, but it's nothing worrisome.
After the appointment, I spent some time with my friend Kathryn, who had come to Beijing to join me for a day, and then from 1:00 on, I was on my own. I elected to stay in the hotel room and do absolutely nothing, since my eyes were really bothering me (particularly after some of the eye tests I had to do). One Beijing is bustling enough — when you see the whole thing in double, it's beyond overwhelming. It wound up being a very dull evening, but I honestly appreciated having a boring night. I dealt with necessary correspondence, listened-rather-than-watched to some television programs, and decided that impending surgery justified eating some of the birthday cake Oreos that my roommate bought for me before I left Qingdao.
After the meeting with the specialist in just a few hours, I should finally have a surgery date and know exactly what is about to be done to me. And then I'll have another pleasantly boring evening, I hope.
I was, admittedly, initially rather sad about the prospect of spending my birthday alone in Beijing with an impending surgery dangling its black crepe over the day. I live in an environment where it is pretty easy to feel or be forgotten, so that mixed with the general migraine-created gloom that had descended over my life for the past few months. I quite frankly was all set to skip this birthday entirely because it just didn't feel like a day worth remembering after the past few months that I've had. But, thankfully, my natural self is starting to return little by little (especially now with a cure in sight . . . pun unintentional), and I actually feel pretty good today. I'm not entirely alone, either. I was awakened by a text message from one of my two dearest friends here wishing me a happy birthday, and by the time I had blearily texted back a reply, my other dearest friend texted me. It was a nice way to wake up. And then, at noon, I'll be joining my new friend Diana for lunch before we head off to my appointment with an eye specialist (whose name, appropriately, is pronounced Dr. "Eye" — although it's actually spelled Dr. Ai).
Yesterday's appointment went well. I saw a Dr. Xi who was friendly and quite competent — I liked her immediately and felt like she took my problems seriously. She agreed with the previous diagnoses, but wanted me to see the strabismus specialist before actually having the surgery (I like the whole "measure twice, cut once" philosophy when applied to my eyes or other body parts). I do not have glaucoma, which is a HUGE relief. I do have something a little off about my left retina, but it's nothing worrisome.
After the appointment, I spent some time with my friend Kathryn, who had come to Beijing to join me for a day, and then from 1:00 on, I was on my own. I elected to stay in the hotel room and do absolutely nothing, since my eyes were really bothering me (particularly after some of the eye tests I had to do). One Beijing is bustling enough — when you see the whole thing in double, it's beyond overwhelming. It wound up being a very dull evening, but I honestly appreciated having a boring night. I dealt with necessary correspondence, listened-rather-than-watched to some television programs, and decided that impending surgery justified eating some of the birthday cake Oreos that my roommate bought for me before I left Qingdao.
After the meeting with the specialist in just a few hours, I should finally have a surgery date and know exactly what is about to be done to me. And then I'll have another pleasantly boring evening, I hope.
Friday, May 17, 2013
The Eye Saga, Day One: "A Hospital by Any Other Name . . ."
As people may or may not know, over the past 2-3 months I have had a troubling increase in my migraines (actually, there has been a general increase ever since the May 2011 car accident, but the past few months have been surging out of control). It reached the point where I truly felt like I was a poor, battered little rowboat adrift in an endless typhoon of migraines. I eventually concluded that I must have a brain tumor and perhaps only weeks to live (migraines tend to stifle logic). So, I reluctantly trudged to the local international clinic at the hospital, where I was subjected to more tests than my body has seen in years: MRI, blood work, you name it. All came back normal or at least un-worrisome. Finally, in desperation, I thought about having my eyes checked.
Previously, I had always assumed that such issues as double-vision, severe eye pain, and other vision problems were merely symptoms related to the migraines — it had not occurred to me that these might, in fact, be the triggers. Since the conditions with my eyes were getting worse even in the rare moments when I did not have a headache or migraine, it seemed that an examination was in order. As the initial eye visit and a visit to the local eye hospital concluded, this was in fact the case. Furthermore, both doctors said that surgery was necessary, along with further testing. They were positive that I had strabismus (a condition that causes double-vision), but also concerned that I may additionally have glaucoma.
And so, "hi-ho, hi-ho, to Beijing I must go . . . " I took time off from school and scheduled an appointment at an excellent hospital up in Beijing. I booked a hotel. I booked a flight. With my magnetic attraction for trouble and disaster, what followed was perhaps quite inevitable:
The Trouble with Visually-Impaired People Booking Flights
The night before I left — around 11:00 pm to be precise — I wisely remembered to double-check my plane ticket to determine the exact time that I would need to leave home. As I soon learned, it is perhaps not the wisest course of action for a person struggling with vision issues to book her own flights. Yep, the flight that I thought left at 9:30 am was actually a 9:30 pm flight! Panic! Forehead smacking! Lamentations! I rushed online to change the ticket and learned another important lesson: Orbitz sucks. Sure, they may have great prices and convenience when initially booking, but the minute you try to change a flight . . . grief. It could not be done online, the phone number that Orbitz provided for overseas customers did not work, and finally my only recourse was to call my father in America over a deplorable Skype connection and beg him to call Orbitz on my behalf. I emailed him all of the details and finally, at just past midnight, the flight had successfully been changed. Whew!
On the plane to Beijing, I enjoyed perusing two complimentary newspapers. After fully digesting all of the highly amusing heavily-biased articles (I do love Chinese newspapers), for lack of anything further to read, I happened upon the page where horoscopes are listed. Now, of course, I never read or regard such idiocy . . . but maybe I should have just this once. Mine read, "When things start to get tense today, don't lose your head. Make sure that you're keeping a cool mind. Patiently arrange everything and handle those tasks one by one. You are going to make it!" (I recall thinking at the time, "Sheesh, good thing I don't believe in omens!")
I got in and found my hotel with a delightful lack of trouble. I relaxed briefly, then asked the hotel concierge, in Chinese, which bus to take to the hospital from the hotel. She cheerfully informed me that it was actually within short walking distance and gave me directions. I was perhaps a bit too prideful at completely understanding the entire conversation . . .
A City Tour of Beijing's Hospital Industry
Indeed, a short walk away and exactly as directed, there was a hospital . . . but it looked too small and the name wasn't quite right. Since my Chinese friends have graciously overloaded me with phone numbers of complete strangers to ring in case of trouble, I texted one lady whom I had at least met once before to ask what the characters were for the hospital I was supposed to go to. She texted back, "协和医院". Nope, that definitely did not match the name on the sign. So, I walked a bit further, found nothing, and decided to ask for further directions. I was still about an hour early since I had not wanted to run the risk of being late. The nurses at the front desk of the wrong hospital were quite friendly and immediately told me that I needed to take a taxi. Although catching a taxi in Beijing is much like snipe-hunting at times, I actually got one rather quickly. He understood my accent and cheerfully headed off to the hospital with me.
It was a long drive. Too long. People had told me to book that particular hotel because of its convenient proximity to the hospital. Now, granted, convenience is often largely in the eye of the beholder . . . but I cannot think of any definition in which a 40-minute drive across gridlocked Beijing is considered "so convenient!". I began to worry that perhaps the driver thought that I was out sightseeing and had requested transportation to the Summer Palace or some such location. Was my accent that bad? Quite possibly, I told myself. To test this theory, I oh-so-casually struck up a conversation with the driver about the quality of hospitals in Beijing. Was this a good one? Oh yes, quite famous, he reassured me. Ah, good. So we were headed for the hospital after all . . . but still a nagging doubt persisted. Convenient distance? Really? Something was off . . .
We got to a ginormous conglomeration of buildings with the correct characters (协和医院) on the front of one of them. It was a bustling, crowded, not-terribly-clean place with an overlying aura of hopelessness and a lot of people in lab-coats rushing about. There did not seem to be any way to enter the buildings, as every single likely door was labeled “出口" (exit). I glanced at my phone — only 20 minutes until the appointment, and they had asked me to arrive 30 minutes early to handle registration paperwork. I quickened my step and beseeched the first non-harried-looking lab-coat wearer, in my best slightly-stressed Chinese, to please tell me where I could locate the eye clinic. He pointed abstractedly to the left and muttered something unintelligible. I sprinted in that direction, located another exit, and hailed another lab-coat wearer. This lady smiled encouragingly, pointed back to the direction from which I had come, and told me to go to the third floor. I was still outdoors at this point, so the mention of a third floor was not as helpful as the mention of where an entrance existed would have been. The next four wearers of white lab-coats directed me to four additional directions. It seemed that this was a hospital from which patients leave, in droves, but seldom actually enter. Was it like the Ministry of Magic with a phone booth or toilet entrance? I noticed, with no small amount of concern, that I was now exactly on time for my 2:30 appointment.
Fighting back some inopportune tears of frustration and also fighting to convince my eyes to see only one hospital instead of two, I battled my way through a crowd of people who seemed equally baffled by this entrance-less fortress. My eyes alighted on a sign that bore glorious English words. Once I managed to focus my eyes better, I saw that the sign said "International Clinic" with an arrow pointing towards a direction that none of the lab-coat wearers had sent me toward. I raced into a quite forlorn entryway (Huzzah! An entrance! Who cares if it isn't a pretty one!), found a bored security guard, and begged him to direct me to the eye clinic that, frankly, I had begun to doubt the existence of. Furthermore, I was growing increasingly uneasy that this might not be the correct hospital, despite the characters on my cellphone matching those on the front of the (I assume) main building. The guard directed me to the third floor . . . oh, so the first lab-coat wearer was partially correct — just a bit geographically challenged. I was now definitely late for my appointment, so I charged up the stairs with all the vigor of Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill.
Ah ha! I spied other people with non-Chinese faces. Foreigners! Yes, this was indeed an international clinic . . . crowded, old, quite dank, but unmistakably a place where a foreigner might seek aid. I wasn't so sure that I wanted my eyes being operated on in this place, but it seemed preferable to limitless migraines. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. After all, appearances can be deceiving. Some of the best-tasting Chinese food bears a troublesome resemblance to a bowel movement, after all. I could be brave and seek treatment here. I took a deep breath and sought out the nearest nurse. She didn't seem terribly fond of humans, but she did direct me to a different dank hallway when I asked about the eye clinic . . . sadly, there was no eye clinic down that hallway. I did find a urology room, but felt it wouldn't quite suffice as a substitute. Timidly I returned to Nurse Frightengale, who sternly directed me back down that same hallway.
I found a nurses' station and asked another nurse about the eye clinic. By this time, the eye clinic was beginning to resemble Xanadu in my mind — a mythical and lovely land that cannot be found. I was, by now, about 15 minutes late. This nurse smiled and reassured tearful me that this was the right place . . . but she had never heard of the doctor I was supposed to be seeing. "Isn't this 协和医院?!" I semi-shrieked. The nurse nodded. Something was very, very wrong.
I called the hospital (the one I had made the appointment with) and asked them, as, in retrospect, I should have from the beginning, what the name was in Chinese. "和睦家," the very friendly and perky operator helpfully informed me. "和睦家?!?!? I'm at 协和医院!" I gasped. "Oh, that is very far away," the operator sympathetically clucked. "You definitely will not be able to see the doctor today."
The Comfort of a Semi-Stranger
I walked about, blinded by tears, as I struggled to track down a taxi. A bus nearly ran me down, followed by a car and then a motorcycle. I felt very alone and utterly despondent. I would never make it to the hospital. I would not be able to get the surgery in a timely fashion. I may have weeks of waiting ahead of me . . . 3:30, and I was still semi-blindly struggling along, hopelessly lost and taxi-less. And then, my friend's friend texted me. I texted back a terse reply about seeking out a taxi after going to the wrong hospital and she immediately called me. After a confusing interlude of walking and scanning crowds for a Chinese face that I had only seen once before (and briefly at that), we amazingly were able to find one another. I felt a bit like Stanley located Dr. Livingstone at last, minus the cannibals.
Diana (her English name) was deeply apologetic over the mix-up and immediately made me a fresh appointment for the next morning. She sat me down in a KFC and held my hand while I poured out, in a mixture of English and Chinese, the tale of my tragic day. She led me by the arm back out to the street where she located an elusive Beijing taxi. She then located the correct hospital (just down the street in the opposite direction from the first one that I had walked to . . . about ten minutes' walk from my hotel). Diana saw me safely to the door of my hotel and then left, with a promise to accompany me the following morning.
I love my new friend Diana.
Previously, I had always assumed that such issues as double-vision, severe eye pain, and other vision problems were merely symptoms related to the migraines — it had not occurred to me that these might, in fact, be the triggers. Since the conditions with my eyes were getting worse even in the rare moments when I did not have a headache or migraine, it seemed that an examination was in order. As the initial eye visit and a visit to the local eye hospital concluded, this was in fact the case. Furthermore, both doctors said that surgery was necessary, along with further testing. They were positive that I had strabismus (a condition that causes double-vision), but also concerned that I may additionally have glaucoma.
And so, "hi-ho, hi-ho, to Beijing I must go . . . " I took time off from school and scheduled an appointment at an excellent hospital up in Beijing. I booked a hotel. I booked a flight. With my magnetic attraction for trouble and disaster, what followed was perhaps quite inevitable:
The Trouble with Visually-Impaired People Booking Flights
The night before I left — around 11:00 pm to be precise — I wisely remembered to double-check my plane ticket to determine the exact time that I would need to leave home. As I soon learned, it is perhaps not the wisest course of action for a person struggling with vision issues to book her own flights. Yep, the flight that I thought left at 9:30 am was actually a 9:30 pm flight! Panic! Forehead smacking! Lamentations! I rushed online to change the ticket and learned another important lesson: Orbitz sucks. Sure, they may have great prices and convenience when initially booking, but the minute you try to change a flight . . . grief. It could not be done online, the phone number that Orbitz provided for overseas customers did not work, and finally my only recourse was to call my father in America over a deplorable Skype connection and beg him to call Orbitz on my behalf. I emailed him all of the details and finally, at just past midnight, the flight had successfully been changed. Whew!
On the plane to Beijing, I enjoyed perusing two complimentary newspapers. After fully digesting all of the highly amusing heavily-biased articles (I do love Chinese newspapers), for lack of anything further to read, I happened upon the page where horoscopes are listed. Now, of course, I never read or regard such idiocy . . . but maybe I should have just this once. Mine read, "When things start to get tense today, don't lose your head. Make sure that you're keeping a cool mind. Patiently arrange everything and handle those tasks one by one. You are going to make it!" (I recall thinking at the time, "Sheesh, good thing I don't believe in omens!")
I got in and found my hotel with a delightful lack of trouble. I relaxed briefly, then asked the hotel concierge, in Chinese, which bus to take to the hospital from the hotel. She cheerfully informed me that it was actually within short walking distance and gave me directions. I was perhaps a bit too prideful at completely understanding the entire conversation . . .
A City Tour of Beijing's Hospital Industry
Indeed, a short walk away and exactly as directed, there was a hospital . . . but it looked too small and the name wasn't quite right. Since my Chinese friends have graciously overloaded me with phone numbers of complete strangers to ring in case of trouble, I texted one lady whom I had at least met once before to ask what the characters were for the hospital I was supposed to go to. She texted back, "协和医院". Nope, that definitely did not match the name on the sign. So, I walked a bit further, found nothing, and decided to ask for further directions. I was still about an hour early since I had not wanted to run the risk of being late. The nurses at the front desk of the wrong hospital were quite friendly and immediately told me that I needed to take a taxi. Although catching a taxi in Beijing is much like snipe-hunting at times, I actually got one rather quickly. He understood my accent and cheerfully headed off to the hospital with me.
It was a long drive. Too long. People had told me to book that particular hotel because of its convenient proximity to the hospital. Now, granted, convenience is often largely in the eye of the beholder . . . but I cannot think of any definition in which a 40-minute drive across gridlocked Beijing is considered "so convenient!". I began to worry that perhaps the driver thought that I was out sightseeing and had requested transportation to the Summer Palace or some such location. Was my accent that bad? Quite possibly, I told myself. To test this theory, I oh-so-casually struck up a conversation with the driver about the quality of hospitals in Beijing. Was this a good one? Oh yes, quite famous, he reassured me. Ah, good. So we were headed for the hospital after all . . . but still a nagging doubt persisted. Convenient distance? Really? Something was off . . .
We got to a ginormous conglomeration of buildings with the correct characters (协和医院) on the front of one of them. It was a bustling, crowded, not-terribly-clean place with an overlying aura of hopelessness and a lot of people in lab-coats rushing about. There did not seem to be any way to enter the buildings, as every single likely door was labeled “出口" (exit). I glanced at my phone — only 20 minutes until the appointment, and they had asked me to arrive 30 minutes early to handle registration paperwork. I quickened my step and beseeched the first non-harried-looking lab-coat wearer, in my best slightly-stressed Chinese, to please tell me where I could locate the eye clinic. He pointed abstractedly to the left and muttered something unintelligible. I sprinted in that direction, located another exit, and hailed another lab-coat wearer. This lady smiled encouragingly, pointed back to the direction from which I had come, and told me to go to the third floor. I was still outdoors at this point, so the mention of a third floor was not as helpful as the mention of where an entrance existed would have been. The next four wearers of white lab-coats directed me to four additional directions. It seemed that this was a hospital from which patients leave, in droves, but seldom actually enter. Was it like the Ministry of Magic with a phone booth or toilet entrance? I noticed, with no small amount of concern, that I was now exactly on time for my 2:30 appointment.
Fighting back some inopportune tears of frustration and also fighting to convince my eyes to see only one hospital instead of two, I battled my way through a crowd of people who seemed equally baffled by this entrance-less fortress. My eyes alighted on a sign that bore glorious English words. Once I managed to focus my eyes better, I saw that the sign said "International Clinic" with an arrow pointing towards a direction that none of the lab-coat wearers had sent me toward. I raced into a quite forlorn entryway (Huzzah! An entrance! Who cares if it isn't a pretty one!), found a bored security guard, and begged him to direct me to the eye clinic that, frankly, I had begun to doubt the existence of. Furthermore, I was growing increasingly uneasy that this might not be the correct hospital, despite the characters on my cellphone matching those on the front of the (I assume) main building. The guard directed me to the third floor . . . oh, so the first lab-coat wearer was partially correct — just a bit geographically challenged. I was now definitely late for my appointment, so I charged up the stairs with all the vigor of Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill.
Ah ha! I spied other people with non-Chinese faces. Foreigners! Yes, this was indeed an international clinic . . . crowded, old, quite dank, but unmistakably a place where a foreigner might seek aid. I wasn't so sure that I wanted my eyes being operated on in this place, but it seemed preferable to limitless migraines. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. After all, appearances can be deceiving. Some of the best-tasting Chinese food bears a troublesome resemblance to a bowel movement, after all. I could be brave and seek treatment here. I took a deep breath and sought out the nearest nurse. She didn't seem terribly fond of humans, but she did direct me to a different dank hallway when I asked about the eye clinic . . . sadly, there was no eye clinic down that hallway. I did find a urology room, but felt it wouldn't quite suffice as a substitute. Timidly I returned to Nurse Frightengale, who sternly directed me back down that same hallway.
I found a nurses' station and asked another nurse about the eye clinic. By this time, the eye clinic was beginning to resemble Xanadu in my mind — a mythical and lovely land that cannot be found. I was, by now, about 15 minutes late. This nurse smiled and reassured tearful me that this was the right place . . . but she had never heard of the doctor I was supposed to be seeing. "Isn't this 协和医院?!" I semi-shrieked. The nurse nodded. Something was very, very wrong.
I called the hospital (the one I had made the appointment with) and asked them, as, in retrospect, I should have from the beginning, what the name was in Chinese. "和睦家," the very friendly and perky operator helpfully informed me. "和睦家?!?!? I'm at 协和医院!" I gasped. "Oh, that is very far away," the operator sympathetically clucked. "You definitely will not be able to see the doctor today."
The Comfort of a Semi-Stranger
I walked about, blinded by tears, as I struggled to track down a taxi. A bus nearly ran me down, followed by a car and then a motorcycle. I felt very alone and utterly despondent. I would never make it to the hospital. I would not be able to get the surgery in a timely fashion. I may have weeks of waiting ahead of me . . . 3:30, and I was still semi-blindly struggling along, hopelessly lost and taxi-less. And then, my friend's friend texted me. I texted back a terse reply about seeking out a taxi after going to the wrong hospital and she immediately called me. After a confusing interlude of walking and scanning crowds for a Chinese face that I had only seen once before (and briefly at that), we amazingly were able to find one another. I felt a bit like Stanley located Dr. Livingstone at last, minus the cannibals.
Diana (her English name) was deeply apologetic over the mix-up and immediately made me a fresh appointment for the next morning. She sat me down in a KFC and held my hand while I poured out, in a mixture of English and Chinese, the tale of my tragic day. She led me by the arm back out to the street where she located an elusive Beijing taxi. She then located the correct hospital (just down the street in the opposite direction from the first one that I had walked to . . . about ten minutes' walk from my hotel). Diana saw me safely to the door of my hotel and then left, with a promise to accompany me the following morning.
I love my new friend Diana.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Summarizing Four Months in One Post
It has been such a long time since I've been able to blog. Four months . . . and actually, it feels in some ways like four years. There's been so much to come to terms with and so much to take on, and frankly, there are times when I question absolutely everything . . . except for why I'm here. I can honestly say, I never question that. I question my abilities, my effectiveness as a teacher, how I'm viewed by others, some of my decisions in the past. But in spite of everything, I still know I'm supposed to be here.
I had a conversation several days ago with two friends whom I regularly help with their English. One of them asked me about my decision to come to China. Well, I call it "my" decision, but in all frankness, it was not. It was His decision, and I accepted it and I have never regretted accepting it. My friend asked me how I knew it was the right choice, and I struggled for a moment as to how to explain the inexplicable certainty that I felt and still feel. I have never in my life, other than when I accepted Christ, felt so certain. Finally, I found the right words for it. I answered her with another question, "How do you know that the sky is blue?" That, I think, is the best explanation I shall ever have for how I know.
Obviously, I can't go into too many details of some of the struggles of the past four months. Some things would be distasteful to air in as public a forum as a blog, others unprofessional, and other details would merely serve no constructive purpose. Suffice to say, there are a lot of struggles that I battle through emotionally; sometimes I almost feel inclined to succumb to temptation and blame Satan by labeling it all a 'spiritual attack'. Some mornings, when I've felt so overburdened that I've wanted to hide away from life, from people, from everything one can hide away from, I've had that very thought. And, because I know better, I eventually slap on some common sense and pull myself together.
The truth is that every trial I face boils down to being a flawed human working with other flawed humans in a world riddled with further flaws. Satan doesn't have to lift a finger — he can merely recline in his lair and watch bemusedly as we all do his work for him, many of us claiming all the while to be doing the Lord's work. In fact, I sometimes speculate that we Christians do an awful lot of Satan's work for him — all with the best of intentions, of course. We shut people out and call it 'community'. We work ourselves to exhaustion and call it 'service' without actually serving anyone. We pat ourselves on the back and feel holy because we did one simple task that's expected of us; all the while, the truly important tasks are left for someone 'more qualified'. I believe that nothing demonstrates the unfathomable scope of God's love so much as the fact that He deliberately chose the most inefficient, whiny, insufferably arrogant creatures and called them His children.
I had a conversation several days ago with two friends whom I regularly help with their English. One of them asked me about my decision to come to China. Well, I call it "my" decision, but in all frankness, it was not. It was His decision, and I accepted it and I have never regretted accepting it. My friend asked me how I knew it was the right choice, and I struggled for a moment as to how to explain the inexplicable certainty that I felt and still feel. I have never in my life, other than when I accepted Christ, felt so certain. Finally, I found the right words for it. I answered her with another question, "How do you know that the sky is blue?" That, I think, is the best explanation I shall ever have for how I know.
Obviously, I can't go into too many details of some of the struggles of the past four months. Some things would be distasteful to air in as public a forum as a blog, others unprofessional, and other details would merely serve no constructive purpose. Suffice to say, there are a lot of struggles that I battle through emotionally; sometimes I almost feel inclined to succumb to temptation and blame Satan by labeling it all a 'spiritual attack'. Some mornings, when I've felt so overburdened that I've wanted to hide away from life, from people, from everything one can hide away from, I've had that very thought. And, because I know better, I eventually slap on some common sense and pull myself together.
The truth is that every trial I face boils down to being a flawed human working with other flawed humans in a world riddled with further flaws. Satan doesn't have to lift a finger — he can merely recline in his lair and watch bemusedly as we all do his work for him, many of us claiming all the while to be doing the Lord's work. In fact, I sometimes speculate that we Christians do an awful lot of Satan's work for him — all with the best of intentions, of course. We shut people out and call it 'community'. We work ourselves to exhaustion and call it 'service' without actually serving anyone. We pat ourselves on the back and feel holy because we did one simple task that's expected of us; all the while, the truly important tasks are left for someone 'more qualified'. I believe that nothing demonstrates the unfathomable scope of God's love so much as the fact that He deliberately chose the most inefficient, whiny, insufferably arrogant creatures and called them His children.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Into the Magnet . . .
It's been one of "those" weeks. The entire world's weight is stacked on my shoulders in concrete blocks, I'm juggling twenty things that all happen to be on fire, and all I really want some nights is just to curl up and have a good cry. Everything always seems to fall due at the same time. People choose the same weeks to be undependable, or to guilt me into taking on extra work. It's like bad weeks are a magnet that collect chaos and stress unto themselves.
My flu is finally gone, although the cough is still lingering a bit. It left quite the path of destruction in its wake, as I was incapable of accomplishing anything for a full two weeks. It's good to have my health back, but I feel like all that piled-up work has just body-slammed me to the floor. I started trying to pick up some of my old "releases" again: started planning a new story, got out the jewelry supplies, bought a bike, even tried to find a new novel to hold my attention. But, honestly, I think my usual stress relievers really just added more. My mind is devoid of inspiration for writing or crafting, I need to buy a lock before I can use the bike, and the books I started all frustrated me with tedious plots that simply could not captivate me. What I really want, even need, is the wet nose of a dog pressed up against me. But that will have to wait.
I don't want to give the impression that life is dreadful, or that I regret being here. It isn't that way at all. I have found that when life goes well here or when it goes poorly, it all seems to clump together - one thing piled onto like thing piled onto another mirror image of the thing before it. I think back to when I was a child and used to enjoy scooping up pins, thumbtacks, and such with a large magnet my mother gave me. The entire magnet would be so covered in the silvery-colored metal objects that its blue hue was quite hidden to the eye. That's life here, expressed in one image.
My flu is finally gone, although the cough is still lingering a bit. It left quite the path of destruction in its wake, as I was incapable of accomplishing anything for a full two weeks. It's good to have my health back, but I feel like all that piled-up work has just body-slammed me to the floor. I started trying to pick up some of my old "releases" again: started planning a new story, got out the jewelry supplies, bought a bike, even tried to find a new novel to hold my attention. But, honestly, I think my usual stress relievers really just added more. My mind is devoid of inspiration for writing or crafting, I need to buy a lock before I can use the bike, and the books I started all frustrated me with tedious plots that simply could not captivate me. What I really want, even need, is the wet nose of a dog pressed up against me. But that will have to wait.
I don't want to give the impression that life is dreadful, or that I regret being here. It isn't that way at all. I have found that when life goes well here or when it goes poorly, it all seems to clump together - one thing piled onto like thing piled onto another mirror image of the thing before it. I think back to when I was a child and used to enjoy scooping up pins, thumbtacks, and such with a large magnet my mother gave me. The entire magnet would be so covered in the silvery-colored metal objects that its blue hue was quite hidden to the eye. That's life here, expressed in one image.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Soul-Weary
I feel so tired sometimes — soul-weary might be a better name for it, perhaps. As though I were ceaselessly running, running, running; fighting to live selflessly, and better, and more wholesomely and guided by Someone other than myself . . . but sometimes I just want to sit and stare into space and envelop myself in nothingness.
I suppose I'm still working through grief. And my way of handling grief is, well, to work. Sitting and dwelling on loss doesn't bring anyone back, and it certainly does not restore what is broken. It merely makes you more aware of the gap that used to be filled by someone — or, in my instance, someones. In my estimation, it's the only healthy response. "We can never go back to Manderly", as du Maurier immortally penned — so we've nothing left but to move forward.
But sometimes, alone, at night . . . Oh, how I miss them.
I suppose I'm still working through grief. And my way of handling grief is, well, to work. Sitting and dwelling on loss doesn't bring anyone back, and it certainly does not restore what is broken. It merely makes you more aware of the gap that used to be filled by someone — or, in my instance, someones. In my estimation, it's the only healthy response. "We can never go back to Manderly", as du Maurier immortally penned — so we've nothing left but to move forward.
But sometimes, alone, at night . . . Oh, how I miss them.
Monday, September 3, 2012
A Study in Melancholy
“The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.” ~ Virginia WoolfIn the quiet stillness of the nights, or in the midst of a crowd, I've recently found my thoughts dabbling in swirls of melancholy. Oh, there's no need for the butterfly nets or the oft-recited platitudes — I'm still, at the root, a happy person. I'm still happy, but I'm also . . . sad.
The summer was one of loss.
My best friend's mother died in July, and I even now tear up at the flood of memories from fourteen years of having my life touched by hers. How does one even begin to say goodbye . . . from across the world? It was an anticipated pain, for she had been gravely ill for quite some time, but no matter how prepared I thought I was . . . I wasn't. I wasn't at all. It seems so silly to me that Lorie's death should entangle itself so with the selling of my parents' house in August, the house I spent half of my life in . . . but it did. It was as though in one summer two ties were severed, forever. Lorie's death was even more than that, though — it was a gunshot that hit just over my shoulder, missing me by such a small distance that I felt its sting as it rushed past. My mother is sick, too. I worry so much about her . . . and there's absolutely nothing I can do about the time bomb living inside of her. She can say she's well, she can come all the way here to visit, as she did in June . . . but she's still sick, and I'm still afraid. I can pray and I can praise God for the little things . . . but my mother is still sick. She who seemed invincible to me once . . . is not.
I was blessed last year with two very special, lovely friends whom I immediately felt at home with (kindred spirits, if you will). Through difficult times last year, they were there. When I yearned for deep conversation, beyond what generally can be found, they were there. We could discuss philosophy, novels, theology . . . for all of it, they were there. And then, in June . . . they weren't. One went back to America, another on to a different city here in China. In mere weeks, two of the people here who made it most a home were suddenly gone.
My dearest friend here, my 姐姐 who has led me more than any other individual to love China and to have a heart for Chinese people, was so overjoyed to at last be expecting a baby. She had struggled and hurt from an empty womb for so long. I rejoiced with her, because no one could possibly be a more loving mother than she. And then, just as suddenly as God had given . . . He took away. I know in my heart, as deeply as I know anything, that He loves us all and means all things for good. I know that someday something beautiful will bloom in the empty place. But at the moment, I ache so much for her. I selfishly miss seeing her each day, and that special way she has of blessing people just by a word.
For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were. O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen. ~ Psalm 39:12b-13
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Sacrifice?
I was caught off guard recently when three different friends all used the same word in describing my life here in China. They all said that I had made sacrifices to be here. At the time of each conversation, I didn't quite know how to respond adequately or appropriately -- I think I express myself much better in writing than I do verbally.
I adamantly do not view life here as sacrifice. Is there hardship? Sometimes, but it isn't privation of any sort. Emotionally I have gone through quite a bit these past nine months, and yes, all of those things are difficult to handle alone and so far from the sources. I struggled tremendously with guilt during the worst part of Mom's illness, wondering how I could stay here while she was left without a daughter to care for her -- but at the same time, I was following the clearly marked path that I saw God leading me down, and also honoring my mother's wishes; there just was no other course to take. I've struggled recently with some of the other bad news coming in from stateside, coupled with some issues here. It's hardship, it's baggage, it's weight; in my crasser moments I refer to it succinctly as "crap." Sometimes things make me cry. Recently, things made me angry (a rare occurrence, so I didn't quite know how to handle it). But I don't think it warrants the title "sacrifice".
To me, sacrifice is so much bigger and deeper. It involves tremendous loss. I've lost things, yes, and the losses of some things do hurt (like Eowyn, St. Timothy's, the close involvement with Lantern Hollow Press, Inklings III, freedom in some of my decisions). But I haven't had to give up anything essential. And I feel like I have gained so much that to call coming here sacrifice is almost an insult to God. I've been given so much, even when I'm spending a few weeks weighed down with situations beyond my control. I know that my previous two posts lacked my usual joy, but even in the dark cloud I've been inside lately, I've still known that I am blessed to be here. It's a gift, not a sacrifice. I know that the people who have called it that have meant well, but I really stiffen at having such a significant word applied incorrectly -- it just seems like a slight to the people who really do make sacrifices.
Jesus's work on the cross was sacrifice. God sending Him was sacrifice. David Brainerd working himself to death at age 29 was sacrifice. Taking a bullet meant for someone else or giving away your last dollar to feed someone else or living in a leper colony in order to care for them -- these things are sacrifice. I don't think that sacrifice always needs to involve death necessarily, but it does need to be pretty earth-shattering, in light of precedent. Moving to China to teach my favorite subject to extraordinary students and show love to the most gracious and loving people I've ever met -- that's just not sacrifice. Having a few tough blows isn't enough to make it that either. It makes me really uncomfortable to have that word applied to my situation. I know that most people stateside have a very different view of China; please, please let this post convince you that life in China is not a sacrifice.
To the three dear people who have used that word with me recently -- please don't feel censured; I understand what you meant even if I stumbled about in a verbal confusion when you first said it. But my life here is not sacrifice. I may have spent 26 years not wanting to ever set foot NEAR China, but it only took a few months to change that. I am exactly where I want to be. I've been given the rare gift of having my dream come true, even though I never knew it was my dream. I am honestly very happy, even when I'm sad.
I adamantly do not view life here as sacrifice. Is there hardship? Sometimes, but it isn't privation of any sort. Emotionally I have gone through quite a bit these past nine months, and yes, all of those things are difficult to handle alone and so far from the sources. I struggled tremendously with guilt during the worst part of Mom's illness, wondering how I could stay here while she was left without a daughter to care for her -- but at the same time, I was following the clearly marked path that I saw God leading me down, and also honoring my mother's wishes; there just was no other course to take. I've struggled recently with some of the other bad news coming in from stateside, coupled with some issues here. It's hardship, it's baggage, it's weight; in my crasser moments I refer to it succinctly as "crap." Sometimes things make me cry. Recently, things made me angry (a rare occurrence, so I didn't quite know how to handle it). But I don't think it warrants the title "sacrifice".
To me, sacrifice is so much bigger and deeper. It involves tremendous loss. I've lost things, yes, and the losses of some things do hurt (like Eowyn, St. Timothy's, the close involvement with Lantern Hollow Press, Inklings III, freedom in some of my decisions). But I haven't had to give up anything essential. And I feel like I have gained so much that to call coming here sacrifice is almost an insult to God. I've been given so much, even when I'm spending a few weeks weighed down with situations beyond my control. I know that my previous two posts lacked my usual joy, but even in the dark cloud I've been inside lately, I've still known that I am blessed to be here. It's a gift, not a sacrifice. I know that the people who have called it that have meant well, but I really stiffen at having such a significant word applied incorrectly -- it just seems like a slight to the people who really do make sacrifices.
Jesus's work on the cross was sacrifice. God sending Him was sacrifice. David Brainerd working himself to death at age 29 was sacrifice. Taking a bullet meant for someone else or giving away your last dollar to feed someone else or living in a leper colony in order to care for them -- these things are sacrifice. I don't think that sacrifice always needs to involve death necessarily, but it does need to be pretty earth-shattering, in light of precedent. Moving to China to teach my favorite subject to extraordinary students and show love to the most gracious and loving people I've ever met -- that's just not sacrifice. Having a few tough blows isn't enough to make it that either. It makes me really uncomfortable to have that word applied to my situation. I know that most people stateside have a very different view of China; please, please let this post convince you that life in China is not a sacrifice.
To the three dear people who have used that word with me recently -- please don't feel censured; I understand what you meant even if I stumbled about in a verbal confusion when you first said it. But my life here is not sacrifice. I may have spent 26 years not wanting to ever set foot NEAR China, but it only took a few months to change that. I am exactly where I want to be. I've been given the rare gift of having my dream come true, even though I never knew it was my dream. I am honestly very happy, even when I'm sad.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Where Have All the Outlets Gone?
I think I've partially solved the mystery of my increased headaches (besides the two health issues): it's the lack of outlets for my stress and emotions. While I have always been a person who actually thrives, to an extent, on stress, here I have encountered a situation never previously dealt with: my primary outlets for stress are completely gone. Additionally, I have dealt with a considerable amount of emotion here, something I am not generally comfortable with or welcoming to (I generally completely avoid anger, and I have a similar response to sadness and grief).
My biggest outlet was always the presence of a pet, usually a dog. In fact, I have only spent two years out of my entire life NOT having a dog (not including this almost-a-year in China). I never realized just how much that meant to me until now. I wondered recently how I coped with loneliness in Korea, since I was so isolated in Gyeongju. The answer is Jasper. That furry darling got me through a lot; I don't know that I would have made it through grad school without him and, later, Eowyn. But here, I've had to give that up. I dream at night about Jasper and Eowyn, and I often wake up feeling a sense of emptiness at their absence. In the past, empty apartments never felt so empty as this one does now. Some days I almost dread the apartment, knowing that no one furry is waiting with wagging tail to greet me. During the difficult emotional times, such as now, the apartment almost feels like a prison at some moments.
I also have greatly missed my jewelry-making, though not nearly to the extent that I miss having a dog. When I was packing for China, I wanted to bring my supplies, but since I had no idea what situation I would be entering, I was afraid to bring too many things that would have to be carted back to America if things didn't work out (clothes can easily be disposed of, but not all belongings are so easy to part with -- a lot of money went into my jewelry supplies!). On the bright side, I'll at least have these things when my parents come to visit in two months.
My third missing outlet is a bike -- what a difference that made in Korea! Riding past the tombs, the rice paddies, the temples . . . it was rejuvenating. I have thought about buying a bike here, but being more in a city than ever before in my life, I am uncertain about the quality of rides that I would have. Somehow I can't imagine gaining quite as much relaxation from back alley streets as I found pedaling past cornfields in Michigan, the river in Gyeongju, the flowering dogwoods and Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia.
I've made studying Chinese an outlet here, and it does honestly help, but I think I really need to find another outlet as well, one that perhaps uses my mind a bit less. My writing, at present, just adds stress -- the more I read through and edit Sídhe Eyes, the more I grow to hate what I have written. At present, I am thoroughly convinced that my novel is the most uninspired and nauseating piece of drivel ever written. I'd love to step away from it, but I can't let down the rest of Lantern Hollow Press. And honestly, I do want to publish the thing . . . I just kind of want to burn it first. I keep hoping that it will turn out like my thesis -- I spent the whole time convinced I had written something completely bush-league and pathetic, but when I recently reread it, I was actually a bit impressed (I even, I will admit, briefly again entertained the thought of expanding it into a book -- delusions of grandeur, I know).
I guess I'll just have to keep searching until I find that perfect outlet for life in China.
Any suggestions?
My biggest outlet was always the presence of a pet, usually a dog. In fact, I have only spent two years out of my entire life NOT having a dog (not including this almost-a-year in China). I never realized just how much that meant to me until now. I wondered recently how I coped with loneliness in Korea, since I was so isolated in Gyeongju. The answer is Jasper. That furry darling got me through a lot; I don't know that I would have made it through grad school without him and, later, Eowyn. But here, I've had to give that up. I dream at night about Jasper and Eowyn, and I often wake up feeling a sense of emptiness at their absence. In the past, empty apartments never felt so empty as this one does now. Some days I almost dread the apartment, knowing that no one furry is waiting with wagging tail to greet me. During the difficult emotional times, such as now, the apartment almost feels like a prison at some moments.
I also have greatly missed my jewelry-making, though not nearly to the extent that I miss having a dog. When I was packing for China, I wanted to bring my supplies, but since I had no idea what situation I would be entering, I was afraid to bring too many things that would have to be carted back to America if things didn't work out (clothes can easily be disposed of, but not all belongings are so easy to part with -- a lot of money went into my jewelry supplies!). On the bright side, I'll at least have these things when my parents come to visit in two months.
My third missing outlet is a bike -- what a difference that made in Korea! Riding past the tombs, the rice paddies, the temples . . . it was rejuvenating. I have thought about buying a bike here, but being more in a city than ever before in my life, I am uncertain about the quality of rides that I would have. Somehow I can't imagine gaining quite as much relaxation from back alley streets as I found pedaling past cornfields in Michigan, the river in Gyeongju, the flowering dogwoods and Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia.
I've made studying Chinese an outlet here, and it does honestly help, but I think I really need to find another outlet as well, one that perhaps uses my mind a bit less. My writing, at present, just adds stress -- the more I read through and edit Sídhe Eyes, the more I grow to hate what I have written. At present, I am thoroughly convinced that my novel is the most uninspired and nauseating piece of drivel ever written. I'd love to step away from it, but I can't let down the rest of Lantern Hollow Press. And honestly, I do want to publish the thing . . . I just kind of want to burn it first. I keep hoping that it will turn out like my thesis -- I spent the whole time convinced I had written something completely bush-league and pathetic, but when I recently reread it, I was actually a bit impressed (I even, I will admit, briefly again entertained the thought of expanding it into a book -- delusions of grandeur, I know).
I guess I'll just have to keep searching until I find that perfect outlet for life in China.
Any suggestions?
Monday, April 16, 2012
Standing (almost) Alone
"Stand up for what is right, even when you stand alone."
My fourth grade social studies teacher had this statement on a poster hung amidst a myriad of similar mantras in her classroom. I recall that the words overlay a photograph of a man standing dramatically erect in an obvious sea of disapproval. Although the image was cliche enough that I don't recall it clearly, the sentiment has stayed with me all this time.
I had to live out this statement earlier last week; I have seen something all year which is horribly wrong and which I have fought against constantly. The sheer frustration at people who should know better behaving in such a callous, inexcusable fashion built up until I suddenly found myself speaking out about it, trying desperately to hold back emotion and avoid inadvertent insult. I didn't want to cause hurt or anger, I didn't desire confrontation; I just knew that if I stayed silent, I was as guilty as the rest of them. I needn't have concerned myself: my words were "water off a duck's back" as they say. Nothing changed; the people who are most to blame in this either ignored me completely or showed me the cold shoulder. Conversations in the days to follow proved that my stand accomplished nothing; apparently this situation is not even on the radar for the people creating it. And that, to me, is the ugliest fact of all.
Was it worth it? Yes; I can answer affirmatively without hesitation. It made no discernible difference, I regretfully have to admit. I suppose I didn't really expect it to -- this cancerous behavior is too engrained at the moment. Definitions and morals will have to change before this situation can be resolved -- and the message is just getting completely blocked out by other, more frivolous concerns. However, I can sleep with a clear conscience because I know that I TRIED. I spoke out. I didn't blindly accept something that I know to be wrong.
It's been difficult because I want so much to like every person I meet and to think the best of him or her. But when you consistently see people content to behave in a hideous manner towards other people, perfectly content to keep hurting and excluding them, how can you keep thinking the best of the "guilty" parties? They KNOW better. They each have an obvious moral compass. They have NO EXCUSE. They make excuses, but none of them are valid.
How do you fight against wrong when the people doing it don't view it as wrong? How do you keep yourself free from the tarnish of their actions? How do you avoid falling into a self-righteous attitude? How do you fight against the anger that rises up within you when you see so little impact from words that came from the heart, words tinged with pain at what you witness each day? How can seemingly GOOD people be so BLIND? These are the sorts of questions I've been grappling with each day. They're the tarnish on otherwise beautiful, meaningful days. I've had to remove myself repeatedly from situations just to keep from speaking out again, this time in anger. I'm not completely alone -- a few other people share the frustration and the burden -- but sometimes it feels like I might as well be alone.
I've shed a lot of tears lately.
My fourth grade social studies teacher had this statement on a poster hung amidst a myriad of similar mantras in her classroom. I recall that the words overlay a photograph of a man standing dramatically erect in an obvious sea of disapproval. Although the image was cliche enough that I don't recall it clearly, the sentiment has stayed with me all this time.
I had to live out this statement earlier last week; I have seen something all year which is horribly wrong and which I have fought against constantly. The sheer frustration at people who should know better behaving in such a callous, inexcusable fashion built up until I suddenly found myself speaking out about it, trying desperately to hold back emotion and avoid inadvertent insult. I didn't want to cause hurt or anger, I didn't desire confrontation; I just knew that if I stayed silent, I was as guilty as the rest of them. I needn't have concerned myself: my words were "water off a duck's back" as they say. Nothing changed; the people who are most to blame in this either ignored me completely or showed me the cold shoulder. Conversations in the days to follow proved that my stand accomplished nothing; apparently this situation is not even on the radar for the people creating it. And that, to me, is the ugliest fact of all.
Was it worth it? Yes; I can answer affirmatively without hesitation. It made no discernible difference, I regretfully have to admit. I suppose I didn't really expect it to -- this cancerous behavior is too engrained at the moment. Definitions and morals will have to change before this situation can be resolved -- and the message is just getting completely blocked out by other, more frivolous concerns. However, I can sleep with a clear conscience because I know that I TRIED. I spoke out. I didn't blindly accept something that I know to be wrong.
It's been difficult because I want so much to like every person I meet and to think the best of him or her. But when you consistently see people content to behave in a hideous manner towards other people, perfectly content to keep hurting and excluding them, how can you keep thinking the best of the "guilty" parties? They KNOW better. They each have an obvious moral compass. They have NO EXCUSE. They make excuses, but none of them are valid.
How do you fight against wrong when the people doing it don't view it as wrong? How do you keep yourself free from the tarnish of their actions? How do you avoid falling into a self-righteous attitude? How do you fight against the anger that rises up within you when you see so little impact from words that came from the heart, words tinged with pain at what you witness each day? How can seemingly GOOD people be so BLIND? These are the sorts of questions I've been grappling with each day. They're the tarnish on otherwise beautiful, meaningful days. I've had to remove myself repeatedly from situations just to keep from speaking out again, this time in anger. I'm not completely alone -- a few other people share the frustration and the burden -- but sometimes it feels like I might as well be alone.
I've shed a lot of tears lately.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Back at Last
After a three-month absence, at last I am back to blogging!
It has been a difficult three months, to say the least. I don't like to let myself dwell on negatives when there are always positives that one ought to focus on, but here are three of the "yuck ducks" I've battled recently:
It has been a difficult three months, to say the least. I don't like to let myself dwell on negatives when there are always positives that one ought to focus on, but here are three of the "yuck ducks" I've battled recently:
- Headaches every day for the past month. And I do mean every day. Up until this past week, about 4-5 of those headaches were migraines each week. It was exhausting and miserable trying to work through the pain, but I really had no other option -- I can't just quit when my body gets in the way. I got quite frightened at one point, wondering if perhaps my two little aneurisms had decided to grow up and cause trouble. During the worst of the migraines, I would huddle in my bed and worry that it was a brain tumor (believe me, migraines make even the most illogical things seem perfectly logical and likely). I greeted each new day with dread, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before that day's headache arrived. I finally broke down and went to the doctor, and I am now trying to make some changes to improve my condition. I'm still having headaches each day, but it has been a full week since my last migraine.
- My closest friend here in China had to leave, owing to visa problems. This is her story, not mine, so I won't go into all the details. We spent the past week in Hong Kong trying to get another visa for her and had the sudden surprise ending of her having to temporarily return to the USA instead of getting a visa -- I didn't see that blow coming. It's going to be lonely without her.
- For one terrifying week, my MacBook died and appeared to have deleted everything on it. EVERYTHING . . . including my only (at the time) copies of my master's thesis and my 310-page completed first novel. It was my most emotional week of 2012, believing that I had lost the only two impressive achievements of my life.
And, for balance, three of the "yay ducks":
- I was able to restore everything on my MacBook, so nothing was truly lost. And, now everything is backed up as well.
- I can now read more than 800 Chinese characters, after only eight months in China. Although I'm a little proud of this, I'm also a bit disappointed with my recent slow progress (owing mostly to the headaches). I had set a goal of 1,000 characters by my upcoming birthday, which means I need to speed up the learning process if I am to make it. I did, however, have one achievement today: I finished writing my first short story entirely in Chinese characters. It's nothing great, of course, but I am pretty happy that I managed to do it. I can't wait until the summer, when I can work on writing a much longer and more complex one!
- I got to go to Hong Kong this past week (for spring break; blog post about it coming soon)!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
"Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?"
Yesterday and today are dedicated to securing much-needed funds for grad school. In other words, applying for every scholarship conceivable, and chasing down Stafford loans. To accompany me, and since I feel like I'm reliving the Depression at the moment, I've been watching films from the early thirties while I work. It's too bad my life can't be more like an old movie - wouldn't it be lovely if all my problems could be solved by a strategic tap dance, or a spontaneous song? Wouldn't it be marvelous if I could conveniently be the misplaced heiress to a fortune, or if a fur coat could land on me while I'm out walking and spark a chain of events leading to marriage to the perfect millionaire (who, coincidentally, also looks exactly like Ray Milland)?
So far, I've managed to secure a Stafford loan (pending approval from the lender I selected). Now if only just one of those lovely scholarships could fall into my waiting arms. Why must it cost so much to become well-educated and seek one's academic dreams?
So far, I've managed to secure a Stafford loan (pending approval from the lender I selected). Now if only just one of those lovely scholarships could fall into my waiting arms. Why must it cost so much to become well-educated and seek one's academic dreams?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Free at Last...But a Little Stunned
On Thursday, the school's "leadership" rose up to my low expectations of them and fired me. I had a feeling (call it prophecy) that they might pull a stunt like that, so I was not completely unprepared - I had already taken most of my things home from my classroom, although I had not prepared for the emotional impact. Right now I feel blindsided, numb, and exhausted.
I left school as quickly as I could after the "meeting" with the two headmasters, packed up a bunch of my things from the apartment, and then on Friday drove to Lynchburg to sign the new lease, then back to Michigan. Whew! I got in at 4:30 in the morning, and went straight to bed. Today, I am completely wiped out, both physically and emotionally. I expect a great surge of emotion to wallop me on Monday, but for now I'm still varying between feeling absolutely nothing and experiencing short-lived bursts of emotion.
A few words about that "meeting" on Thursday:
Right after school, in his usual domineering fashion, one of the headmasters informed me that he wanted to see me. As soon as he and his stooge (the other headmaster) closed the door of the office, I knew what was going to happen. They, naturally, were furious at what I had written in my letter of resignation (I told the truth, which seems to be something they despise at that school). Those two grown men yelled at me and behaved in their usual threatening, unprofessional manner. They had clearly been watching and waiting until they could gather a good flimsy reason for letting me go, and I could see it all clearly as they did their worst.
Normally, a confrontation like that with authority would have reduced me to immediate violent tears (especially since I have never before been in a situation like that). This time, however, something happened within me. As the two men railed on, my mind awoke to a few realizations:
1. These two men, with their yelling and their pompous self-righteousness, were making themselves look too foolish to be taken seriously. No longer could I see them as figures of authority worthy of respect; they had now removed the veil of respectably and metamorphosed themselves into their true natures: twin paradigms of idiocy and amateurish management. Thus, I was no longer capable of fearing them.
2. No amount of groveling on my part could have save me; nor would I have wanted it to. I was clearly in the right, and thus there was no reason to apologize for being correct.
3. None of this was my fault. I had been looking for possible ways to blame myself for the situation I found myself in, but honestly, I had behaved in an upright, ethical manner through all of it. There was nothing that I could or should have done differently. Although normally it "takes two to tango," in this instance, all of the blame rests on the incompetent shoulders of two absurd men.
So, I made no attempt to fight against what was happening. I accepted the early dismissal from my position, and left the room with my emotions intact, for the moment at least. With remarkable speed, I packed up what remained of my belongings in the classroom, and got out of that fetid environment. I resisted the urge to seek revenge in any way. The next day, I brought in the textbooks that I had at home and my classroom key. Then I left that miserable school behind forever.
What have I learned from this abhorrent experience? A few things:
1. Those who call themselves Christians can stab in the back even harder than non-Christians. Very sad, considering the example that this places before the rest of the world.
2. A signed contract is no guarantee that one will be treated fairly. Unethical people find it very easy to violate signed contracts.
3. The word "Christian" is in the title in no way guarantees that a school is actually Christian in practice.
4. School boards are actually capable of hiring complete idiots to lead a school, and can be deceived into thinking that these individuals are "saving" their school.
I predict that that school will either close next year or the year after, and it is probably a good thing. The educational standards are appallingly low, and those poor students need and deserve a more competent place to be educated and prepared for life. I did the best that I could to smuggle in education to those children while I was there (despite the abominable excuse for curriculum and the completely inept leadership), and I can only hope that some of it sticks. As more and more teachers eventually escape from that sinking ship, parents are bound to wake up and realize what is going on. Sadly, I do not expect that they will awaken in time to save the school. The devastating blows have already been struck, starting with the firing of the former headmaster, who most likely could have rescued that school. Oh well, none of it is any concern of mine anymore.
I am free at last. Allen and Bill have immeasurably brightened and enriched my life - by leaving it.
I left school as quickly as I could after the "meeting" with the two headmasters, packed up a bunch of my things from the apartment, and then on Friday drove to Lynchburg to sign the new lease, then back to Michigan. Whew! I got in at 4:30 in the morning, and went straight to bed. Today, I am completely wiped out, both physically and emotionally. I expect a great surge of emotion to wallop me on Monday, but for now I'm still varying between feeling absolutely nothing and experiencing short-lived bursts of emotion.
A few words about that "meeting" on Thursday:
Right after school, in his usual domineering fashion, one of the headmasters informed me that he wanted to see me. As soon as he and his stooge (the other headmaster) closed the door of the office, I knew what was going to happen. They, naturally, were furious at what I had written in my letter of resignation (I told the truth, which seems to be something they despise at that school). Those two grown men yelled at me and behaved in their usual threatening, unprofessional manner. They had clearly been watching and waiting until they could gather a good flimsy reason for letting me go, and I could see it all clearly as they did their worst.
Normally, a confrontation like that with authority would have reduced me to immediate violent tears (especially since I have never before been in a situation like that). This time, however, something happened within me. As the two men railed on, my mind awoke to a few realizations:
1. These two men, with their yelling and their pompous self-righteousness, were making themselves look too foolish to be taken seriously. No longer could I see them as figures of authority worthy of respect; they had now removed the veil of respectably and metamorphosed themselves into their true natures: twin paradigms of idiocy and amateurish management. Thus, I was no longer capable of fearing them.
2. No amount of groveling on my part could have save me; nor would I have wanted it to. I was clearly in the right, and thus there was no reason to apologize for being correct.
3. None of this was my fault. I had been looking for possible ways to blame myself for the situation I found myself in, but honestly, I had behaved in an upright, ethical manner through all of it. There was nothing that I could or should have done differently. Although normally it "takes two to tango," in this instance, all of the blame rests on the incompetent shoulders of two absurd men.
So, I made no attempt to fight against what was happening. I accepted the early dismissal from my position, and left the room with my emotions intact, for the moment at least. With remarkable speed, I packed up what remained of my belongings in the classroom, and got out of that fetid environment. I resisted the urge to seek revenge in any way. The next day, I brought in the textbooks that I had at home and my classroom key. Then I left that miserable school behind forever.
What have I learned from this abhorrent experience? A few things:
1. Those who call themselves Christians can stab in the back even harder than non-Christians. Very sad, considering the example that this places before the rest of the world.
2. A signed contract is no guarantee that one will be treated fairly. Unethical people find it very easy to violate signed contracts.
3. The word "Christian" is in the title in no way guarantees that a school is actually Christian in practice.
4. School boards are actually capable of hiring complete idiots to lead a school, and can be deceived into thinking that these individuals are "saving" their school.
I predict that that school will either close next year or the year after, and it is probably a good thing. The educational standards are appallingly low, and those poor students need and deserve a more competent place to be educated and prepared for life. I did the best that I could to smuggle in education to those children while I was there (despite the abominable excuse for curriculum and the completely inept leadership), and I can only hope that some of it sticks. As more and more teachers eventually escape from that sinking ship, parents are bound to wake up and realize what is going on. Sadly, I do not expect that they will awaken in time to save the school. The devastating blows have already been struck, starting with the firing of the former headmaster, who most likely could have rescued that school. Oh well, none of it is any concern of mine anymore.
I am free at last. Allen and Bill have immeasurably brightened and enriched my life - by leaving it.
A Lot of Explaining in a Short Space...
Finally, I am free to post on my blog again! I apologize for the long gap in posts, but I was afraid of losing my job if I posted about what was going on in any visible place online. Not a problem anymore!
Needless to say, the situation at work did not stay rosy for long. I soon learned that I was employed by a hostile dictatorship, intent on targeting all of the new teachers that the last headmaster hired. I don't want to run through the lengthy laundry list of all the things that went wrong at work, but I will mention the top few issues:
1. My contract was violated a grand total of four times.
2. The school forced me against my will to go to their church (contract violation, by the way). Any church or ministry that so much as considers the use of force in order to gain members is clearly out of line and is obviously not following God’s will correctly. A church that is serving its purpose and behaving biblically will have the affect of making people want to attend, or will so convict them that they will be compelled by the Holy Spirit to attend.
3. The headmaster is incompetent and constantly lies, procrastinates, and/or blames other people.
4. The school is run in such a disorganized manner that I went crazy for two months.
5. The staff are mistreated in an absolutely appalling manner.
6. I was having 5-7 migraines per week, owing to the conditions at work.
So where am I off to next? I am going to the place that I should have gone to begin with: Back to Liberty to finish my MA in history. This time it is written in stone, as I have already completely financial check-in, paid my first payment, and broken my lease. No turning back!
Needless to say, the situation at work did not stay rosy for long. I soon learned that I was employed by a hostile dictatorship, intent on targeting all of the new teachers that the last headmaster hired. I don't want to run through the lengthy laundry list of all the things that went wrong at work, but I will mention the top few issues:
1. My contract was violated a grand total of four times.
2. The school forced me against my will to go to their church (contract violation, by the way). Any church or ministry that so much as considers the use of force in order to gain members is clearly out of line and is obviously not following God’s will correctly. A church that is serving its purpose and behaving biblically will have the affect of making people want to attend, or will so convict them that they will be compelled by the Holy Spirit to attend.
3. The headmaster is incompetent and constantly lies, procrastinates, and/or blames other people.
4. The school is run in such a disorganized manner that I went crazy for two months.
5. The staff are mistreated in an absolutely appalling manner.
6. I was having 5-7 migraines per week, owing to the conditions at work.
So where am I off to next? I am going to the place that I should have gone to begin with: Back to Liberty to finish my MA in history. This time it is written in stone, as I have already completely financial check-in, paid my first payment, and broken my lease. No turning back!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Living Arrangement Frustration
I decided last night that if I do not have an answer from the bank this coming week, I will withdraw my offer. The bank has behaved in a manner that I find ridiculous, unethical, and just plain rotten. It is no longer worth the battle to become a homeowner. I refuse to spend the next month or more living out of a hotel (which I cannot afford) while clinging to the desperate hope that someday the almighty bank will condescend to give me a yes or a no.
So, instead of moving into a new house before starting work, and having the fun of fixing it up to my specifications, I am going to spend my first week of work in a hotel, desperately hunting down an apartment. No more hope of equity, no financial security for my future. Thank you, bank, for screwing up my dream.
Don't get my wrong - apartments aren't horrendous. I've lived in a few now, and I really don't have a laundry list of complaints. It could be a lot worse. At least this way I don't have to keep hanging on waiting to hear yes or no. I just hope this bank remembers the way they've treated people like me once they bury themselves deeply in unnecessary debt and crash hopelessly underneath it all, with little hope of resurrection. What goes around comes around...it just takes a while sometimes.
So, instead of moving into a new house before starting work, and having the fun of fixing it up to my specifications, I am going to spend my first week of work in a hotel, desperately hunting down an apartment. No more hope of equity, no financial security for my future. Thank you, bank, for screwing up my dream.
Don't get my wrong - apartments aren't horrendous. I've lived in a few now, and I really don't have a laundry list of complaints. It could be a lot worse. At least this way I don't have to keep hanging on waiting to hear yes or no. I just hope this bank remembers the way they've treated people like me once they bury themselves deeply in unnecessary debt and crash hopelessly underneath it all, with little hope of resurrection. What goes around comes around...it just takes a while sometimes.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
This Is the Last Time I Move!!
I say this every time that I move, but I mean it more this time: "This is the last time that I am ever moving!"
First of all, I think that my books must enjoy very active sex-lives, since they are obviously reproducing at an alarming rate. I keep finding titles that I had no idea existed, much less belonged in my library. Where did all these volumes come from? I've found books on subjects ranging from shipping history, to men's psychology (an attempt on my part to save a doomed relationship some time ago), to Victorian etiquette, to nutrition. There are British murder mysteries from the thirties, Mark Twain first editions, Bible commentaries, a bookcase-worth of autobiographies from classic film stars, and several poetry anthologies. If I ever want a new deck on the townhouse, I could build it out of my books!
My clothes hangers have the opposite problem of the books - apparently there is a Clothes Hanger Mafia in the closet that keeps killing off weaklings, putting them in cement bathing suits, and dropping them into Lake Michigan while I sleep at night. I think the Clothes Hanger Mafia might also be responsible for the recent CD case shortage. And don't get me started on the washer's voracious appetite for half of each pair of socks! Doesn't that beast ever get full?
The moving boxes are rapidly filling, and slowly taking over my bedroom (technically the guest room) and my parents' storeroom. I guess you never really know how much stuff you have until you try to shove it all into boxes and move it several hundred miles away. I think the kitchen alone has about fifteen boxes now! Maybe I should just let the stuff have the townhouse, and find a small apartment for me. I can drive out and visit my belongings on weekends, and occasionally let some of it come to my place for a sleepover.
First of all, I think that my books must enjoy very active sex-lives, since they are obviously reproducing at an alarming rate. I keep finding titles that I had no idea existed, much less belonged in my library. Where did all these volumes come from? I've found books on subjects ranging from shipping history, to men's psychology (an attempt on my part to save a doomed relationship some time ago), to Victorian etiquette, to nutrition. There are British murder mysteries from the thirties, Mark Twain first editions, Bible commentaries, a bookcase-worth of autobiographies from classic film stars, and several poetry anthologies. If I ever want a new deck on the townhouse, I could build it out of my books!
My clothes hangers have the opposite problem of the books - apparently there is a Clothes Hanger Mafia in the closet that keeps killing off weaklings, putting them in cement bathing suits, and dropping them into Lake Michigan while I sleep at night. I think the Clothes Hanger Mafia might also be responsible for the recent CD case shortage. And don't get me started on the washer's voracious appetite for half of each pair of socks! Doesn't that beast ever get full?
The moving boxes are rapidly filling, and slowly taking over my bedroom (technically the guest room) and my parents' storeroom. I guess you never really know how much stuff you have until you try to shove it all into boxes and move it several hundred miles away. I think the kitchen alone has about fifteen boxes now! Maybe I should just let the stuff have the townhouse, and find a small apartment for me. I can drive out and visit my belongings on weekends, and occasionally let some of it come to my place for a sleepover.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Just to Clear up Any Confusion...
Because I frequently post about plans on here, and my plans have a habit of changing, it can sometimes be a little hard to keep up with me! So, just to clear up things for my dear readers...
While I did get accepted to graduate school, I originally was not offered an assistantship. I was named an alternate, which left me with no funding to pay for my master's degree. Since I could not justify going so deeply into debt with the current economic state of the country (and the rest of the world), I decided to put in job applications. Owing to my purchase of a new car, I knew that I had to limit my search to the USA and Canada. I sent out a few "feeler" resumes to some private schools (I would rather strap my head to the underside of a garbage truck than teach in a public school), just to see if I could generate any interest. Within days, I was hearing back from interested schools. After about two weeks of sending out resumes, and having only sent out about ten or so, I had already turned down one offer and accepted an offer from a school that I never imagined would want me!
Let me explain that last statement: I do believe that I am a good teacher (my former students and former director have said so), but I am not yet certified, and I have only a major to work with (no minor). Since the position called for teaching both history and English, I figured that they would not think me qualified to teach English (even though I honestly believe that I am). Also, I am young and have only a year of experience as a teacher, so I assumed that someone with more experience would be snatched up. I was surprised and delighted beyond belief when ECS showed interest in me, and I almost cried with joy when the headmaster offered me the position. I guess passion for the subjects really is worth something!
One week after signing the contract with ECS, I was contacted by Liberty and offered the assistantship that I had previously wanted. Since I always honor my agreements, and since I know that ECS is where I am supposed to go, I made the decision to turn down Liberty's offer. Since Manassas is too far from Lynchburg to allow me to commute, I am deferring my enrollment for a little while. I am going to take a few CEUs (continuing education units) in English, just to improve my skill in teaching that subject, and then next year (Lord willing) I will get back to work on the master's degree (part-time and most likely through the distance learning program).
I am very excited about the opportunity awaiting me in Manassas, and even more excited to be returning to my favorite state of the USA - Virginia. Michigan has its moments, but Virginia is everything wonderful about the USA, all rolled into one glorious and beautiful state.
While I did get accepted to graduate school, I originally was not offered an assistantship. I was named an alternate, which left me with no funding to pay for my master's degree. Since I could not justify going so deeply into debt with the current economic state of the country (and the rest of the world), I decided to put in job applications. Owing to my purchase of a new car, I knew that I had to limit my search to the USA and Canada. I sent out a few "feeler" resumes to some private schools (I would rather strap my head to the underside of a garbage truck than teach in a public school), just to see if I could generate any interest. Within days, I was hearing back from interested schools. After about two weeks of sending out resumes, and having only sent out about ten or so, I had already turned down one offer and accepted an offer from a school that I never imagined would want me!
Let me explain that last statement: I do believe that I am a good teacher (my former students and former director have said so), but I am not yet certified, and I have only a major to work with (no minor). Since the position called for teaching both history and English, I figured that they would not think me qualified to teach English (even though I honestly believe that I am). Also, I am young and have only a year of experience as a teacher, so I assumed that someone with more experience would be snatched up. I was surprised and delighted beyond belief when ECS showed interest in me, and I almost cried with joy when the headmaster offered me the position. I guess passion for the subjects really is worth something!
One week after signing the contract with ECS, I was contacted by Liberty and offered the assistantship that I had previously wanted. Since I always honor my agreements, and since I know that ECS is where I am supposed to go, I made the decision to turn down Liberty's offer. Since Manassas is too far from Lynchburg to allow me to commute, I am deferring my enrollment for a little while. I am going to take a few CEUs (continuing education units) in English, just to improve my skill in teaching that subject, and then next year (Lord willing) I will get back to work on the master's degree (part-time and most likely through the distance learning program).
I am very excited about the opportunity awaiting me in Manassas, and even more excited to be returning to my favorite state of the USA - Virginia. Michigan has its moments, but Virginia is everything wonderful about the USA, all rolled into one glorious and beautiful state.
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