My heel and my wife, the doctor

I cut my heel a few days ago. The underside of it. It didn't bleed that much, while I was examining it. But when I started walking around, the wound functioned like a puncture on the bottom of a barrel. Blood seeped through it persistently.

And it actually hurt. I mean, up to a certain level, I am ok with pain. Physical pain, that is. And that level is comfortably high. That is, I would consider myself to have a relatively high threshold for pain. I can work with pain. Talk it into submission. Slow-dance with it. Gently move it out of focus. As long as it is not overwhelming. Now, when I tore the ligaments in my right ancle, that pain was out of my control. Ditto when I broke my left one. Cuts and stabs, sprains, bruises and even the odd fracture, plus broken ribs have all been manageble, if persistent. Also the time I severed my pinky almost clean off, but I'm told that really was just because I numbed up so quickly that pain didn't get to be an issue.

Anyhoo.

I had a bandage on my heel, which I had planned on changing once my wife came home today. I wanted to hear what she thought of the wound, and what I should do with it. So she came home. We ate. Did the dishes. And then I took off the bandages. Lo and behold, it actually did not look that bad anymore. Quite a bit longer and deeper than I thought, but looked pretty good all the same. So the doctor, who had suddenly supplanted my wife, quickly, routinely and calmly told my I should wash the wound in warm soap water, pat it dry and wrap it into fresh bandages. Then she stood up and went to do something else.

I went to the bathroom, sat on the bathtub, turned on the water, found the right temperature, and stuck my feet under the faucet. It felt like a big jolt of electricity shooting through my foot. I uncontrollably yelped with pain, but shut my mouth as not to alarm my wife and daughter too much. I held my breath and heard feet running to the bathroom. I thought I'd hear something like "What happened? Are you ok?!" But it was my daughter. With a worried look on her face. I smiled and told her, as calmly as I could manage, that daddy was ok.

After I had dried my foot, I hobbled into the living room. My foot was distinctly uncooperative, hot and throbbing. I sat down next to my wife and started telling her what had happened, thinking she might have missed that pathetic cry of mine. But she hadn't missed it. And generally wasn't moved by any of this. At all. She asked me a few more clinical questions, and then, when it was apparent that no medical attention was needed, she gently lost interest again.

And then two things dawned on me:

- One, my wife was not being cold or uncaring, she just defaulted to her attitute towards how she deals with traumas, real traumas, day in and day out. She tri-oshed me, examined, evaluated, prescribed treatment and did a quick follow-up. Or something. All done calmly and effortlessly. But distantly. Somehow professionably. I have lived with this woman for more than a decade, and if this had happened in our first years of living together, she would have had very little of her current composure, calm and skills to effectively deal with something even as small as this cut. She would have jumped to my side, patting me on the shoulder, holding my hand, asking me irrelevant questions, and generally been of no concrete clinical use.

But she would have empathised with my little trauma. It would have registered.

- Which brings me to two: I really did not need her there as a doctor. Sure, I probably would have done something silly without her help, like making it hurt even more by pouring disinfectant into the wound. Or scrubbing it with a sterile cloth. Or something. But what I actually needed, was my wife. Someone as startled by this as I was. Somebody sharing that aspect of it.

The thing is, my wife is getting to a place where my favorite line from Blade Runner applies: "If only you could see what I have seen with your eyes". In her work, she has seen such horrors, with her eyes. Horrors which I only hope I will never see. And every day she is surrounded with truly traumatised people. Bleeding. Praying. Dying. This gives her a whole different perspective. I mean, she has kids dying in her arms. What possible right do I have to even whince at this miserably insignificant little bruise, let alone expect her to join me in that wallowing. To boot, she spends almost all her waking hours in that environment. And she does it so well. I am so proud of her. Have always been, and always will. For example, this is the most recent evaluation she got from a surgeon who was training her:

She is one of the outstanding residents in her training year. At all times, she was professional, knowledgeable, trainable, and pleasant. A woman of few words, she is concise and accurate in her evaluations and presentations whether oral or written. She is an exceptionally talented surgical resident and will do exceedingly well in surgery both because of her outstanding surgical skills, but also because of her extreme honesty and trustworthiness.

Isn't that great? Isn't that magnificent? I think so. Her dream is finally coming true. And she is so deserving.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I miss that insecure little medical student, who once upon a time was still marvelling at how big the world looked back then.

Dinner

It is so easy to slowly drift into mac&cheese land, and just stay there, when you only have a toddler for dinner. But last night I rebelled against that, and made real mexican meatballs, with oregano and cummin, sautéed in good beef stock with diced tomatoes. Granted, I did put fewer jalapeños in there than I otherwise would have, but that was the only adjustment. And she loved it! She ate almost five of them, plus a lot of tomatoes.

Now, where to next? Coq au vin, peut-être?

Roper v. Simmons

There is a concept that is commonly used in my profession when discussing questions of legal competence, i.e. whether a person is fit to stand trial for what she or he is accused of. This is the concept of lucida intervalla. In brief, it refers to a deranged person, which commits a punishable act while being temporarily lucid, or free of his or her madness.

Today felt like a lucida intervalla in these otherwise deranged times we are living. The Supreme Court finally managed to find the public slaying of juveniles in conflict with the Constitution. Granted, there is some merit to dissenting Justice Scalia's opinion, wherein he criticizes that the Court does this by finding that "the evolving standards of decency" have reversed the way in which the Eighth Amendment should be interpreted. However, his stinging denunciation, though directed at the Court, serves mainly to expose the shame of the legislature in the States where this abomination has been left on the books. A shame which extends to the people of these States, which have silently condoled this practice for decades. People, who quite probably can not fathom how a whole nation can look the other way while the state commits mass murder in their name. Nazi Germany anyone?

Nevertheless. Today, a small restoration of the reputation of this nation from perceived barbarism. I guess baby steps is the best we can hope for.

Decisions, choices

I was playing with my daughter tonight, just before I put her to bed. That isn't what we usually do. I try to heed that sensible advice, to keep everything calm just before I put her down. But I just couldn't help myself. So we jumped on the sofa, and ran around the sofa table, and rolled on the floor. I sang silly songs to her, and pretended to sneeze a lot, which is what really cracks her up these days.

It was when I was carrying her upstairs that she sighed. This completely care-free sigh of a child, riding the train of life along what seem like never-ending tracks. No stops in sight. No forks in the road. No decisions to be made. You wake up. You are dressed, fed, teeth are brushed, you're dressed some more. You are driven to the daycare, where you eat every now and then, play, sleep, look at a few books. Then you are picked up again, you play some more, you eat, you're bathed, put in pajamas, teeth are brushed again, more playing, and then you are carried off to bed.

And I started thinking. When did this really stop? I mean, when did I have to make my first real decision? The first hard one?

First, there was a period where I actually got to have choice. What clothes to wear, what to eat, whom to talk to, what movie to go to. Then that choice widened. When to go to sleep. To smoke or not to smoke. What to smoke. What subjects to pick in school. What to do in my love life. Once I had a love life. Somehow, these choices were not that hard. Sure, they seemed all-important, at least at the time. But there always seemed to be a Right Answer to every question. One possibility was always better than the rest.

I guess it wasn't until I turned twenty, that I actually had a life-defining decision to make. One that had only two choices, and neither one was better than the other.

One the one hand, I wanted to live my life playing the piano. I had been playing for more than a decade. It had become an important part of me. A beautiful voice of my own. Something that I was really proud of. At a time when there was not much about me that made me proud. Playing gave me this wonderous feeling of honest, innocent joy. Music would open up to me and allow me to delve into it, forgetting everything else in my life. And it felt so good. Freeing, novel, soothing. Powerful. Humbling. Good. I knew I could do this. I did not have long to go before finishing my education as a soloist at the music college. My teacher was happy with me. I had a good relationship with my instrument, my soul seemed to have a really good connection to my fingers. My technique was quite good. It was all good.

But not great.

And therein lay the problem. I was not great. I would never be able to concentrate on just performing. Playing what I felt like playing. For other people. That luxuray is reserved for only the truly great. Which I wasn't. I would have to take up teaching. Spend much of my time listening to other people maiming pieces of music, again and again and again. Music that I knew I could play way better than they ever could. I loathed the idea of it. Which is strange to think about now, when one of the most fun things to do for me is to teach at the university, or to tutor math or comp sci to high school kids. But then again, that is different. These are merely things of interest, not hardwired down into my feelings.

My other choice was to find something other to do. Something that wouldn't pain me, but I could still become interested in. They say that those who don't know what graduate school to go to, eventually go to law school. So I tried that. And, luckily enough, became somewhat interested in it. Eventually, I found myself a niche in which I am certain that I am more content than if I was teaching other people to play the piano. Every now and then I find myself in front of a piano again. And sometimes I try playing it. Understandably, each time I remember less than the year before. This once integral part of me has become a stranger. I have now lost this voice that I had. And all the things that I was able to say with it.

When I think back, it seems silly to me, that this turned out to be such a life-altering decision. That this was my first lose-lose decision of real consequence. Now that I am older, I have had to make other, even less pleasant decisions. And I also see my friends and family facing even harder choices. Like quitting college, because they can't justify to themselves running up more debt to pay for it. Or ending a marriage that they feel has taken a wrong turn, and thus facing the ire of a hurt child. Or staying tied to a place because that is where you can get work, even though your heart has moved over the border to a different country.

Maybe this is what choices do when you get older. First there becomes more of them. Then they get harder. Finally, you get to make decisions that hurt you. No matter what you choose.

Rain

Spending your days in literal silence, interposed with a series of short phone conversations, will slowly change your perception of your surroundings. You start noticing sounds you would otherwise not have paid attention to. Same thing with your visual perception. When your days are spent in solitude, any movement outside your window is augmented. Ditto your sense of smell.

Since my street is a quiet one, this has meant for me that the weather, and nature, plays a prominent role in my theater of life. During the Summer, I can hardly contain myself in the house. Keeping my mind on my work bacomes a venerable challenge, and just being indoors feels stuffy and confined. Since I discovered road biking, ecstacy is achieved daily with the wind rushing by, and myself zooming down the road at forty miles an hour. Autumn fills me with nostalgia, and I instinctly start preparing for my winter hibernation. This is the time of my feeble attempts to winterproof our cars and house, when I park my bike for the winter, and am finally able to say no to some work proposals, a feat that I am usually incapable of. Winter usually falls on me like a thick blanket. I sleep considerably longer, rarely venture outside voluntarily, except occasionally to go skiing, and I mostly spend my time working, cooking hearty meals, reading books, or trying my ten thumbs on some handy-man's project that is out of the realm of my capabilities.

But then, as soon as the days begin to get longer, and winter looks like it is about to let go, my heart starts beating faster. My work schedule intensifies, I invariably travel more, seek out the company of other people, spend my nights listening and talking, instead of reading or sleeping.

It has been unseasonably warm this winter. Which has given me a hard time falling into my hibernation. For months now, I have been in a quasi autumn/winter mode, never quite getting that cold winter calm into my soul.

Until today, that is.

My daughter and I have been under the spell of a series of colds, flus and the like for over a month now, with little relief. Last night, I thought she was coming down with something yet again. Sure enough, she had a fever. This morning, however, her temperature was back to normal. I still decided not to take her to the daycare, but keep her home instead. Predictably, the poor kid was miserable. Spending most of her days these last few weeks with nobody to play with except dad is definetely wearing thin. I can't blame her. So I relented, and took her temperature again when it got closer to noon. Still no fever. She didn't exhibit any other symptoms, either. Except that latent cough that she doesn't seem to be able to shake off. So I bundled her up and drove her to the day care. She was giddy. Actually squeeled with delight when we pulled up to the house. When I took off her layers of clothes, I noticed that she was sweating. My heart sank. I thought her fever might be back. As I mumbled something about taking her back home, I got a sideways glance from my friend, the head-nanny. "You did notice that it is over 40 degrees outside?", she asked me softly. Yes, I had, but it didn't register with me that it meant that bundling my daughter would practically poach her. I was relieved. I barely managed to kiss the little energizer bunny good-bye, before she ran in to meet the other kids.

While driving home, I realized that I was still in my winter-is-ascending-mode. It had simply not gotten cold enough for long enough for me to register that winter has peaked. As I drove into my driveway, it started to rain. Not snow, or slush, or freezing rain, or any of that stuff. No, it was raining real rain. I looked at the dashboard. The thermometer read 50 degrees. I stepped out of the car. Took off my glasses. Closed my eyes. And stood there. In the rain.

Suddenly, everything shifted. From melancholic autumn thoughts, to a fluttering feeling of spring. I could feel her. The blood rushed to my head. My cheeks turned red. It was she, Nature. Stirring, in her sleep. I felt a whiff of fresh dirt. That thick, earthy smell that your fingers get after you've spent a day weeding beds of flowers. As I stood there, I could hear the soft clicks of raindrops hitting puddles of unfrozen water all around me. The deafness of snow was lifted. A promise of spring eventual was given. Winter has not been beaten, but he knows he can not get much farther, and has thus sounded his retreat.

And I knew. I knew why my step is lighter. Why my pulse is quicker. I knew why I am again tearing through my work at a faster pace. I also realized that I have been pestering my friends incessantly for the last couple of weeks, besieging them with phonecalls, e-mails, and messages. It is literally because of Nature. Life is pumping through her veins once more. The Sun is turning warm again. The Earth is breaking of its icy shackles. Now I know, and now I can relax.

Rain is here again. Enveloping me, washing away all my sorrow.

The voice

I have this rather bland voice. It isn't squeeky, but it isn't deep and velvety, either. So when the persistant cold, which I have had the pleasure of enduring for a few weeks now, dropped my voice down to a smooth baritone, I was happy as a clam. My wife maintains there is nothing that can be done to make the change permanent, except taking up serious whisky-drinking and cigar smoking. Which actually doesn't sound that bad. Except I couldn't really do that to my little girl. So I am just enjoying this while it lasts.

What do you do with a temporary baritone? What use can I put The Voice to? Sure, I could record myself, singing a few songs. But the cold hasn't cured my terminal off-key singing, so that really isn't appealing. I could do some James Earl Jones impressions. If you're in the market for that, drop me a line. I'm cheap. But I thought of an even better use for The Voice. I have been calling people. On the phone. Not random people, mind you, but some of my people. People that are used to my rather featureless day-to-day voice. To treat them to a suave and silky-smooth colloquy. And the results? Well, I've talked to maybe a half a dozen of my friends, on the phone, over the last couple of days, and none of them picked up on The Voice thing. Except my wife. She says I can weaken her knees with that Voice. Which is fun. But the rest of them? Well, granted, some of them are guys. And they probably wouldn't admit to finding The Voice attractive, even if they did. And people generally were busy. Or had a lot to say. All good explanations for actually listening to what I was saying, instead of what I was saying it with.

Which leaves me here. With my bountiful baritone.

"Oooooold man river, that ooooooold man river..."

Fifth observation: Les negresses vertes

When you give up looking for a way to find music that somebody recommended to you, you can always just listen to Les negresses vertes.