Common But Not Boring

"It may be common, but you are not boring", he said, referring to her name and her. She had always been somewhat self-conscious about her name, felt that its commonness made her plain and ordinary. That her name somehow defined her character and confined her personality to the dull category. In an instant, he had undone all of that. She liked him, but she did not say anything. Instead, she just looked at him in the dark against the glow of the computer screen, and smiled on the inside.

All Alone

When he came to us, he had been living in a nursing home for 27 years. He was 55 years old with schizoaffective disorder and a dementia he had likely developed from his longstanding illness.

He arrived at the hospital with cancer that had spread to his bone and lungs. He had altered mental status and his speech was so garbled, it was mostly incoherent. The first time I met him, he was confused and irritable, refused to answer any questions and yelled at me to get out of his room. The first few days with him were not very pleasant, but we soon learned that he really liked orange juice. Thus, we began to trade orange juice for information. In exchange for some orange juice, he would reluctantly answer our questions about how he was feeling, if he had pain anywhere, etc. He was still confused, unable to state the date or where he was.

As some of his metabolic abnormalities from the cancer were corrected, he became more lucid, and a very gentle man appeared. He was soft spoken and polite. His speech became more coherent. He revealed that he did not have any siblings and that his parents were dead. He also did not have any friends. But, as I was getting to know him, he shared that, years ago, he would go joyriding in his car with his friends. In fact, he had enjoyed it so much that it had been his favorite pastime before he ended up in the nursing home. A big smile came to his face when he thought of the time when he and his friends had gone joyriding. Now, he was living in a nursing home with no family and no friends. At the hospital, he had no visitors, no one who called or came to see him.

One morning as I was making my rounds, I asked him how he was feeling and he began crying. He cried silently, tears streaming down his face, and he clumsily licked the tears off as they reached his lips. With his toothless mouth, he responded quietly "I'm alright", all the while the tears kept streaming down his gaunt cheeks. That was too much to bear. I grasped his hand, held it, and struggled to hold it together. It took everything I had not to start crying along with him.

Soon, his mental status deteriorated again, and he became incoherent and irritable once more. Randomly, he would have a day here and there when he would be more alert and communicative. One one such day when I sat with him, he again reminisced about how much he had enjoyed driving around with his friends in his car, and how he could no longer do that. A crazy idea struck me and I thought about sneaking him out of the hospital to take him for one last ride in my car, windows open, the warm summer air hitting his face. But, I realized that I would probably lose my job if I did that. Then, I noticed that he was crying again, silently, large tears were streaming down his face. I held his hand and cried with him.

The Box

Her fingers frantically dug through the earth. Desperate, she dug faster. "Where is it?", she thought in a panic. This was the third hole she had dug in a two yard perimeter, and she still couldn't find it. According to her recollection, she had buried the box exactly 10 heel-to-toe steps away from the tree. It should still be there. It had to be. Nobody knew to come looking for it, and the ground appeared untouched. Granted, she had buried the box there about twelve years ago. But, the tree certainly had not moved in that time, and the location was well deserted, and likely had not seen much, if any, traffic over the past twelve years.

She stopped digging for a moment. Caught her breath. She came to her senses and thought about the situation rationally. "Clearly, the box is still here, somewhere. The ground may have shifted somewhat, putting the box at a slightly deeper level, and perhaps I'm a little bit off as to the direction. It's been a long time. But, if I just relax, I will find it." That made her feel better.

Reassured by her rationale, she started reminiscing. She remembered the day when she had brought the box here. She had sat under the tree for hours that afternoon as the sun was setting in the distance in a fiery red and purple haze. She had clutched the box in her lap. At times overtaken with emotion, she had cried, then regained her composure, only to cry again some moments later. It had been an emotional afternoon, one that she would never forget as long as she lived. Inside the box were the remnants of a time, now long past. Yet, due to recent developments it had become crucial once again in her life. She had to find the box. It was her only salvation.

The Phone Call

He could hear the phone ringing inside his apartment and he ran up the last few stairs. He fumbled with the keys, and by the time he had managed to unlock the door, the caller had hung up. He quickly glanced at the phone to see whose call he had just missed.

It was her. Anxious, he waited to see if she had left a voice mail. He felt the seconds go by without any evidence of a new message. Relieved, yet disappointed, he sank to the floor where he remained and waited in the dark. After it became obvious that she had not left a message, he let out deep sigh of relief. He was exhausted. Since she had not left a voicemail, he could pretend as if the call had never registered on his phone. “Phew, that was close.”, he thought.

He stayed on the floor in the dark for a while and thought about things. He rather enjoyed reflecting quietly while surrounded by impenetrable darkness. It made him feel calm and at ease. He had just regained his composure, and was about to get up, turn on the lights, and get busy when the phone in his hand signaled a new voicemail. “Oh, crap”, he thought.

A Return To The Scene

At this point in the intern year, I find myself, well, hmm...exhausted. Frustrated. Cranky. Irritable. I whine. I complain. I bitch. And I moan. I even try to cover it all up with an annoyingly happy attitude to pretend that all is well. But, for those who really know me, it's all a charade, and on the inside I'm about as spent as I can be. A vacuous shell of my usual self. Empty and tired. Ready to pass out in a heap of exhaustion.

Thankfully, that is when an entire weekend off at the Door County lakehouse re-presents itself.

An oasis of relaxed tranquility. Again, we found ourselves here, back at the lake house. A little bit warmer this time. Good friends. A couple of dogs. One firepit lakeside, and a fireplace inside. A hot tub, and a porch with chaise lounges. It is just what the doctor ordered and what this doctor needed. A place to recharge my batteries. Ponder deep thoughts in solitude. Discuss profound topics over a glass of wine by the fire. A place to rediscover life and appreciate the joy and wonder of good friends, beauty of nature, and to be thankful for the too brief freedom from work.

Find Your Own Road

'Find your own road'. That was a 1995-96 Saab advertisement slogan featuring a series of different cartoon ads appealing to your secret desire to break out of the mold and proudly display your unique individuality (preferably by purchasing a Saab).

While I admit to being more of a Volvo girl myself (I have a certain affinity for the old 'they're-boxy-but-they're-good' station wagons as they hold some very dear childhood memories of being sandwiched in a wagon full of kids being driven to the beach in the summer time), there's something very catchy about the Saab cartoons with their fluid movement and that jazzy background music urging you to dare to be yourself, and...to dare to buy a Saab.

'Tis So Good...In Memoriam

It is like a large bag filled with my favorite Saturday candy. So delicious. I know, I'm a slow reader, but it's not like I have a lot of time on my hands. However, since I got into this book, it's kept me well entertained and intrigued. The book? 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo' by Stieg Larsson.

I find it somewhat ironic that I'm reading the translated into English version of a Swedish book. I love reading books in original Swedish. But, in this case, I made an exception as I was so excited that a contemporary Swedish author is sufficiently appreciated to be sold as an international best seller and found in pretty much any American bookstore.

Anyhow, the novel sucked me in right away and I was hooked! The story spins off into two separate tales...one about the girl with the dragon tattoo, whose character I find fascinating and deeply alluring...and one about an investigative journalist hired to research an old mysterious disappearance and simultaneously write a biography about a famous financier family. Each tale is sufficiently intriguing on its own, but I was so curious to figure out how the two would eventually connect...

...And, the pieces just fell into place! It is so exciting. I think I will pause here and go for a run to savior the moment.

In Memoriam: Stieg Larsson, 1954-2004. Thank you for sharing your gift. Your writing is amazing.