Darnly Darn It

For a minute there (in November, 2020, this was), I thought Duckworth might have learned his name, but it turns out that he answers to any name, including Marvin’s, whereas Marvin answers to no name, including his own.

The Duckle also does not discriminate when it comes to food. Marvin is picky, but Duckworth eats anything that appears in his bowl, plus whatever Marvin doesn’t finish, though I now put the latter into the compost, because I don’t want Duckworth to look like a basketball with four stubby legs protruding from the bottom of it, though as of this writing, that's exactly how he continues to look.

On cooking day, they are strongly enjoined not to advance onto the area near the sink and stove where the floor is linoleum. They are welcome to linger in the other half of the kitchen, where the floor is hardwood. Sometimes one slinks by me, heading under the sink, and I can practically see the thought bubble forming over his head: “I’m going to my water bowl. I think I’m allowed to go to my water bowl, aren’t I?”

One morning as I had breakfast, Duckworth hopped onto the table. (Both cats earlier had jumped onto the table together, sloshing an inch of liquid out of my tea cup.) He sweetly put his face near mine and then tried to tear some of my hair out with his teeth. I don’t think it was malicious. I think he (correctly) perceived something unkempt about my coiffure and just wanted to help me achieve better grooming, as he and his brother do for each other. “That’s not lying flat! I think I can fix this.”

If the neighbors listen carefully, they can probably hear me merrily singing out from time to time, “Gosh darnly darn it!” or even, “Dang you dangheads!”, or something like that.

One day I found a pushpin in the cats’ water bowl. It had formerly been in use, several feet off the ground, to keep a couple of wires out of their reach. They must have sat on top of the bookcase just inside the next room and worried the pushpin until it fell to the ground, and then the conversation likely went something like this:

“Ooh, wow—nice! Where should we put this?”

“In the pool!”

In November, 2020, at my second job I participated in a training on trauma-sensitive crisis prevention, which included instruction on several ways to break free from someone who has seized your wrist, neck, clothes, or hair, or grabbed you around the waist or chest from behind. We practiced the latter with a partner. There were only six students, including two friends of mine, and two trainers. We were in a large room that allowed for plenty of distancing, and of course we all wore masks all day. Several of us got fish and chips burritos from Publico for lunch, which was a treat.

I thanked our boss for including us per diems in this training; that seemed pretty generous. She explained that because we are all on-call chaplains, we will often be the only chaplain in the hospital, and so we will be part of a crisis response task force.

Thanksgiving last year was via FaceTime with my parents and sister.

After an extremely busy night shift at my second job (in December of 2020; we’re almost to 2021, just in time for 2022!), I got an email saying that patients had transmitted COVID to staff members on two particular units. Those known to have had contact with the patients had already been contacted, but anyone who had been on either of those units was strongly encouraged to get a COVID test. My boss said there was probably little to worry about unless I had hung out in a breakroom with other staff members with my mask off, which I had not. I faithfully wear my mask, and goggles over my glasses. (I still do that now, in October of 2021.) I wasn’t worried about COVID, just slightly disgruntled about having to free up several hours the next day for this task, which required going back to work. It turned out to be the most pleasant of the three COVID tests I’ve had so far. I was handed a cotton swab and told to run it around the inside of my nostril. (As for the people who had to deal with a bin full of cotton swabs that had been in other people’s nostrils: less pleasant, I suspect.)

In mid-December, there was a Code Blue in the ICU at my first job. As I stood outside the patient’s room, I felt goosebumps go up the front of my legs, the third time this has happened. The patient did indeed die. Do the goosebumps come at the moment the person’s life force emanates into the cosmos? Don’t know.

Christmas was also via FaceTime with my family. It was fun, and also sad: there they were, such perfect little images, so familiar in every detail and so beloved, but the actual people so far away, perhaps not to be seen for another entire year.