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Tuesday, March 17, 2020
LaGuardia and Bus Ride into Manhattan
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Shelter in Place
This kind of seems pointless to write down, since everyone is going through the same thing, but since doing so is enjoyable for the author if for no one else, here goes. Odd to be outdoors and know that every person you see is thinking about the same thing, generally speaking. Kind of like when Michael Jackson died!
I went off to Rainbow Sunday afternoon, the day Hammett’s cat sitter had come over to administer his medication, after concluding I couldn’t sit at home staring at Hammett hour after hour. Even if I might enjoy that, he wouldn’t. Rainbow was crowded, though I have seen it just as crowded once or twice in the past. Certain things had been cleaned out, such as every loaf of bread except for two bricklike loaves probably from Germany that likely were snatched 10 seconds after I saw them. Many people’s carts were piled extremely high. For myself, I bought two extra bottles of olive oil, extra beans, and six rolls of (bamboo) toilet paper where I would normally have bought three.
Hand sanitizer was back, but you had to go to a counter to get it, and there was a limit, and it was not any recognizable brand. It looked like some enterprising operation had made a batch of glop, poured it into containers, and hand labeled it. Was there rubbing alcohol? Gone. Aloe vera gel? Gone. Glycerin? Yes! I have some strong rubbing alcohol at home, and bought some glycerin at Rainbow, so that should hold me for a while after my four tiny containers of hand sanitizer are gone.
Swathes of the bulk sections were covered in brown paper, and there were gloves available for customers to wear while accessing the bulk items that were still available. There were plenty of beans, and walnuts were available. Alas, no olives, which I eat a lot of. I could have bought them in cans or jars, but decided just to go without. The produce section was fully stocked, except not one single centimeter of fresh ginger, which I also eat a lot of.
Customers were approaching the cash registers one at a time, with others asked to queue starting 10 or so feet away, with three feet of space left between customers; giant overhead signs gave these instructions. When two people came and stood right behind me, I said, “Can you please follow those instructions?” and pointed to the signs. When I was able to move up, they hung back, opening up some space.
Back at home, I washed and chopped veggies, and was able to give Hammett his 9 p.m. medication without too much difficulty. The hissing that scared me in the morning I now recognized as just a noise—also, when the cat is making this noise, its mouth is open, as Hammett’s cat sitter had pointed out in the morning. An open mouth is a good place to insert medication (with a pill shooter, not with one's fingers). And I concluded that what I thought was moaning in pain might well have been growling intended to indicate very strong disapproval.
However, clearly he was not having fun, and he had not eaten anything, so I decided to take him in for euthanasia first thing Monday morning. I dragged myself out of bed on Monday, got dressed, put him in his carrier—and then changed my mind. I don’t want his last day to be lousy, but when he’s not actually receiving medication, he seems content enough.
Merely and cruelly prolonging death, or hours that are of decent quality? Hard to say.
I went back to bed for a while, and when I got up, I talked to my father on the phone, and started cooking a pot of beans. I called Hammett’s vet to report that he had eaten no more than a tablespoon of food in five days, if that. His vet said that if Hammett’s quality of life seems good enough today, then fine. He doesn’t think Hammett is in pain and thinks there is no point in giving pain medication. He also thinks there is no point in giving an appetite stimulant to a creature whose body no longer wants food. I agree. I wish cats could talk, and that all vets thought the same thing. There was pretty much direct disagreement between the two animal hospitals.
In the early afternoon, I saw a text message from ALERTSF saying that everyone in San Francisco was ordered to stay home except for essential activities, starting March 17. I looked at the related document, which had a big long title explaining what had been ordered. Below that, the order was summarized by three words in parentheses: Shelter in Place. I called Lisa at her home near Seattle and we agreed that that has an ominous ring. We had a good chat. I am very grateful for friends and sanghas available via phone, text, email.
I went off to Rainbow Sunday afternoon, the day Hammett’s cat sitter had come over to administer his medication, after concluding I couldn’t sit at home staring at Hammett hour after hour. Even if I might enjoy that, he wouldn’t. Rainbow was crowded, though I have seen it just as crowded once or twice in the past. Certain things had been cleaned out, such as every loaf of bread except for two bricklike loaves probably from Germany that likely were snatched 10 seconds after I saw them. Many people’s carts were piled extremely high. For myself, I bought two extra bottles of olive oil, extra beans, and six rolls of (bamboo) toilet paper where I would normally have bought three.
Hand sanitizer was back, but you had to go to a counter to get it, and there was a limit, and it was not any recognizable brand. It looked like some enterprising operation had made a batch of glop, poured it into containers, and hand labeled it. Was there rubbing alcohol? Gone. Aloe vera gel? Gone. Glycerin? Yes! I have some strong rubbing alcohol at home, and bought some glycerin at Rainbow, so that should hold me for a while after my four tiny containers of hand sanitizer are gone.
Swathes of the bulk sections were covered in brown paper, and there were gloves available for customers to wear while accessing the bulk items that were still available. There were plenty of beans, and walnuts were available. Alas, no olives, which I eat a lot of. I could have bought them in cans or jars, but decided just to go without. The produce section was fully stocked, except not one single centimeter of fresh ginger, which I also eat a lot of.
Customers were approaching the cash registers one at a time, with others asked to queue starting 10 or so feet away, with three feet of space left between customers; giant overhead signs gave these instructions. When two people came and stood right behind me, I said, “Can you please follow those instructions?” and pointed to the signs. When I was able to move up, they hung back, opening up some space.
Back at home, I washed and chopped veggies, and was able to give Hammett his 9 p.m. medication without too much difficulty. The hissing that scared me in the morning I now recognized as just a noise—also, when the cat is making this noise, its mouth is open, as Hammett’s cat sitter had pointed out in the morning. An open mouth is a good place to insert medication (with a pill shooter, not with one's fingers). And I concluded that what I thought was moaning in pain might well have been growling intended to indicate very strong disapproval.
However, clearly he was not having fun, and he had not eaten anything, so I decided to take him in for euthanasia first thing Monday morning. I dragged myself out of bed on Monday, got dressed, put him in his carrier—and then changed my mind. I don’t want his last day to be lousy, but when he’s not actually receiving medication, he seems content enough.
Merely and cruelly prolonging death, or hours that are of decent quality? Hard to say.
I went back to bed for a while, and when I got up, I talked to my father on the phone, and started cooking a pot of beans. I called Hammett’s vet to report that he had eaten no more than a tablespoon of food in five days, if that. His vet said that if Hammett’s quality of life seems good enough today, then fine. He doesn’t think Hammett is in pain and thinks there is no point in giving pain medication. He also thinks there is no point in giving an appetite stimulant to a creature whose body no longer wants food. I agree. I wish cats could talk, and that all vets thought the same thing. There was pretty much direct disagreement between the two animal hospitals.
In the early afternoon, I saw a text message from ALERTSF saying that everyone in San Francisco was ordered to stay home except for essential activities, starting March 17. I looked at the related document, which had a big long title explaining what had been ordered. Below that, the order was summarized by three words in parentheses: Shelter in Place. I called Lisa at her home near Seattle and we agreed that that has an ominous ring. We had a good chat. I am very grateful for friends and sanghas available via phone, text, email.
NYC
These were
taken when I was in NYC for my street retreat in September. The first
was taken on Ninth Avenue, and the second on W. 23rd St.
(Click photos to enlarge. If problems, try clicking the photo again.)
(Click photos to enlarge. If problems, try clicking the photo again.)
Buprenex
A Saturday in mid-March was a gloomy rainy day. Hammett’s hind end was wobbling as he walked, he consumed virtually no food or drink, and his pupils were strangely large, but he seemed perfectly at ease and was able to hop up on top of the dresser in the closet to get to one of his beds that is in a darker, more secluded area. (Cats near death may hide, as they know they can no longer protect themselves from predators.)
In the afternoon, I checked online to see what the enlarged pupils might mean, and found it is not a good sign. I emailed back and forth with some school friends and began to feel that I was prolonging Hammett’s misery out of my dread of saying goodbye to him. I called his cat sitter, who is a vet tech, who advised me to try the after-hours line at the hospital; I didn’t know there was one. When I called, his own doctor answered, and when I described the symptoms, he said, “This is concerning. He is uncomfortable.” I concluded that the time had come to take Hammett to be euthanized. No fewer than three people—all chaplains—had offered to accompany me when this moment arrived, so I called one of them and she immediately said she would help, and asked when she should come over. I asked her to come in 30 minutes.
She was just wonderful. She took excellent care of us. She drove us over to the emergency vet, where Hammett was examined. I spoke with a vet who said that Hammett appeared to be pretty “lively” still, and how would I feel about trying pain medication and an appetite stimulant? I agreed to this. Hammett was indeed more energetic than he had been at home, nosing around the exam room.
The total for the exam and pain medication was $198. I was astounded. I said to the front desk, “I demand to pay more!” One of the workers said, “Usually people say the opposite.” Someone brought the pain medication over to us: to be given every 8-12 hours, as needed. I asked how I would know if there was a need. The young woman said I should give it if Hammett appeared to be uncomfortable. I asked what the signs of discomfort are, and she said enlarged pupils and rapid breathing. Grrr. That’s exactly what I took him over there to put a permanent end to.
I did learn a few useful things from the vet at the emergency animal hospital: that Hammett probably was not feeling panicked about his breathing—that when a cat really feels like it can’t breathe, it opens its mouth to breathe, which cats don't like to do.
Nevada drove us home again, and I gave Hammett a dose of the Buprenex and went to sleep.
When I got up the next day, I had a long chat on the phone with my father, as I do every morning lately and most evenings. Dad is my coronavirus buddy; he watches MSNBC and I scour the New York Times and SF Gate online, with periodic excursions to the Fox News website, to see what is being said there, and we exchange bits of news. After that, I had a long chat with one of my school friends who lives in Santa Fe. I had missed part of her presentation on Friday because Hammett began to vomit. She repeated the whole thing for me on the phone.
Then I arose—it was now probably nearing noon—to give Hammett his prednisone, appetite stuff, and pain medication, with water after the pills. The appetite stuff is a tiny little crumbly pill, so I tucked it into the pill shooter along with the prednisone. Hammett spat out the prednisone—I largely attribute that to my own amateur skill level—and then I saw that he was foaming at the mouth due to the appetite stuff, which he also spit out. The prednisone remained intact and I got it down him, but the appetite pill crumbled into mush.
Hammett began to moan in a way I’d never heard before, and to hiss, also an extreme rarity. I’m not sure if I had ever heard him hiss before. It was scary. I gave up and let him hop down. I was now angry at the emergency vet for encouraging me to prolong this terrible situation. I called them and expressed myself very directly, and they said they would respect my decision if I wanted to bring him in for euthanasia.
I saw a text from his cat sitter and summarized the situation for her. She offered to come over and administer Hammett’s pain medication, and refused her normal payment. I sort of didn’t see the point: what would happen that evening when I needed to give the medication again? But she pointed out that for him to cease being in pain would be a good thing, no matter what happened later, so she rode her motorcycle over and gave him the pain medication and appetite stimulant. It was very instructive to watch her technique for various things. She said that if he ceased to be in pain, he might feel like eating.
When she left, I offered her a squirt of hand sanitizer, which she accepted.
She texted an hour later to see how he was doing. I reported that his pupils were still huge and his breathing still rapid; she said the medication itself can cause both of those, and that behavior changes might be the only way to discern discomfort. In that regard, he seemed the same before and after the medication: low energy, but able to get around, including hopping on top of the dresser. His sitter also warned that the painkillers can cause dysphoria: a profound state of unease or dissatisfaction.
My father said what convinced him it was time to take Jack in to be euthanized was that he lost a lot of weight in one week and he made an alarming sound he had never made before. Even then, my father said, he could still hop up to high places, and he looked basically the same as always. I think the consensus in my family is that it’s better to let a cat go sooner rather than later. I wanted Hammett’s last day to be good, not crappy. The vet at the emergency place seemed to think that if a cat is still a bit lively, it’s too soon, but is the idea to wait until the cat cannot stagger to its feet?
In the afternoon, I checked online to see what the enlarged pupils might mean, and found it is not a good sign. I emailed back and forth with some school friends and began to feel that I was prolonging Hammett’s misery out of my dread of saying goodbye to him. I called his cat sitter, who is a vet tech, who advised me to try the after-hours line at the hospital; I didn’t know there was one. When I called, his own doctor answered, and when I described the symptoms, he said, “This is concerning. He is uncomfortable.” I concluded that the time had come to take Hammett to be euthanized. No fewer than three people—all chaplains—had offered to accompany me when this moment arrived, so I called one of them and she immediately said she would help, and asked when she should come over. I asked her to come in 30 minutes.
She was just wonderful. She took excellent care of us. She drove us over to the emergency vet, where Hammett was examined. I spoke with a vet who said that Hammett appeared to be pretty “lively” still, and how would I feel about trying pain medication and an appetite stimulant? I agreed to this. Hammett was indeed more energetic than he had been at home, nosing around the exam room.
The total for the exam and pain medication was $198. I was astounded. I said to the front desk, “I demand to pay more!” One of the workers said, “Usually people say the opposite.” Someone brought the pain medication over to us: to be given every 8-12 hours, as needed. I asked how I would know if there was a need. The young woman said I should give it if Hammett appeared to be uncomfortable. I asked what the signs of discomfort are, and she said enlarged pupils and rapid breathing. Grrr. That’s exactly what I took him over there to put a permanent end to.
I did learn a few useful things from the vet at the emergency animal hospital: that Hammett probably was not feeling panicked about his breathing—that when a cat really feels like it can’t breathe, it opens its mouth to breathe, which cats don't like to do.
Nevada drove us home again, and I gave Hammett a dose of the Buprenex and went to sleep.
When I got up the next day, I had a long chat on the phone with my father, as I do every morning lately and most evenings. Dad is my coronavirus buddy; he watches MSNBC and I scour the New York Times and SF Gate online, with periodic excursions to the Fox News website, to see what is being said there, and we exchange bits of news. After that, I had a long chat with one of my school friends who lives in Santa Fe. I had missed part of her presentation on Friday because Hammett began to vomit. She repeated the whole thing for me on the phone.
Then I arose—it was now probably nearing noon—to give Hammett his prednisone, appetite stuff, and pain medication, with water after the pills. The appetite stuff is a tiny little crumbly pill, so I tucked it into the pill shooter along with the prednisone. Hammett spat out the prednisone—I largely attribute that to my own amateur skill level—and then I saw that he was foaming at the mouth due to the appetite stuff, which he also spit out. The prednisone remained intact and I got it down him, but the appetite pill crumbled into mush.
Hammett began to moan in a way I’d never heard before, and to hiss, also an extreme rarity. I’m not sure if I had ever heard him hiss before. It was scary. I gave up and let him hop down. I was now angry at the emergency vet for encouraging me to prolong this terrible situation. I called them and expressed myself very directly, and they said they would respect my decision if I wanted to bring him in for euthanasia.
I saw a text from his cat sitter and summarized the situation for her. She offered to come over and administer Hammett’s pain medication, and refused her normal payment. I sort of didn’t see the point: what would happen that evening when I needed to give the medication again? But she pointed out that for him to cease being in pain would be a good thing, no matter what happened later, so she rode her motorcycle over and gave him the pain medication and appetite stimulant. It was very instructive to watch her technique for various things. She said that if he ceased to be in pain, he might feel like eating.
When she left, I offered her a squirt of hand sanitizer, which she accepted.
She texted an hour later to see how he was doing. I reported that his pupils were still huge and his breathing still rapid; she said the medication itself can cause both of those, and that behavior changes might be the only way to discern discomfort. In that regard, he seemed the same before and after the medication: low energy, but able to get around, including hopping on top of the dresser. His sitter also warned that the painkillers can cause dysphoria: a profound state of unease or dissatisfaction.
My father said what convinced him it was time to take Jack in to be euthanized was that he lost a lot of weight in one week and he made an alarming sound he had never made before. Even then, my father said, he could still hop up to high places, and he looked basically the same as always. I think the consensus in my family is that it’s better to let a cat go sooner rather than later. I wanted Hammett’s last day to be good, not crappy. The vet at the emergency place seemed to think that if a cat is still a bit lively, it’s too soon, but is the idea to wait until the cat cannot stagger to its feet?
Bamboo Toilet Paper
At the end of February, at the laundromat, when several choice top dryers finished around the same time, I removed the clothes from a couple of them and heaped the clothes on the table. Less than 60 seconds later, their owner walked in. I apologized immediately and said, “I hate to take people’s clothes out of the dryer, but you never know whether the person is coming right away or never.”
He said evenly, “There are dryers available.”
I said, “Bottom ones.” Yes, that was lame. I should have used the bottom ones. I compounded my error by mumbling, “That’s the nature of the urban laundromat.” Something about this person’s feet made me think he was a tech bro, and tech bros are of course always in need of having their balloon of self-entitlement punctured a little. (If there is such a thing as puncturing a balloon just a little.)
A cool silence fell, and then I noticed that among the items this person was folding were nurses’ uniforms from the very hospital system I work for. Oops. I said, “It looks like we work for the same hospital. Now I feel a little bit worse.”
It turned out that he is an ICU nurse at the exact same hospital I report to. We ended up having a good chat. As he left, I apologized again, and he said, “I could have come a little sooner.” I said, “The dryers had finished just moments before. I could have waited for a few minutes.”
A few days later, I went to Rainbow thinking I would buy some extra garbanzo beans—the coronavirus was upon us—but found they were sold out, along with much else.
Early in March, the spiritual care department at my paying job had a staff retreat in Burlingame, which was really fantastic. I won’t recount all the touchy-feely things we did, but it was a wonderful day shared by all of us chaplains, plus our harpist, our administrative person, and our boss. At lunch, I took a long walk and enjoyed looking at the houses, trees and gardens. It was a gorgeous day.
A couple of days later, the San Francisco public school where Tom teaches closed immediately upon learning that the relative of a student was being treated for COVID-19.
I was due to travel to school for graduation on March 10. I had pushed it back two days because of Hammett, and was dreading being away from him for three days. I also was not looking forward to flying because of the virus, but I was prepared to do it. Fortunately, at the last minute, they canceled the in-person program and made it virtual instead. This was extremely lucky, because it was just then that Hammett fell apart. His sitter had warned me not to leave her with an obviously ailing cat. I would have had to not go to school, which would have meant graduating a year later, which would have been a giant problem when it comes to my board certification application. (As it is, they are scrambling to figure out how to get me my certificate of completion, since the teachers who sign these are scattered all over the country, and the office staff of the school aren’t coming in.)
One evening along in there, a friend from CPE asked if I’d like to have dinner, and we went to Udupi Palace for vegetarian Indian food. We had a great time and were howling with laughter as we walked back to her car. The next day, I went to Publico to have lunch with one of the people writing a recommendation letter for me. We arranged to meet right at noon, when normally the place is packed, but there was no one in line at all and just a few other patrons standing inside.
On my next trip to Rainbow, I found not one single roll of the toilet paper I usually use. They had other kinds, including an expensive one made out of bamboo, but I wasn’t desperate enough to buy any of that.
On March 10, we had a brief meeting for school to confirm that each of us would be able to use Zoom to share his or her final presentation, and over the following two days, most of us did our final presentations. I took a walk each of those days and was relieved to find the corner store full of toilet paper, as some uneasiness about this had set in. I said to Joe, the owner, “I feel kind of stupid doing this, but I’m going to do it, anyway,” as I paid for four packages of four rolls apiece. There was much, much remaining.
We did the last of our presentations on Friday morning, and in the afternoon, we had council via Zoom. That afternoon, I bought 15 more rolls of toilet paper from the corner store, where there was noticeably less of this product than a day or two earlier. There was no strong rubbing alcohol in any of the few stores I checked. When I went into Walgreens, two security guards were telling a young woman to leave and never come back. She was yelling and swearing at them; her arms were full of stuff. Apparently she had come in and just started grabbing things from the shelves. A few minutes later, I heard the guards say to a young man, “You can’t cut in line.” As the young man went to the back of the line I was in, he said loudly, “I’ll just snatch it, then,” meaning that he would just steal the item.
By then, we knew to leave some space between people (three feet), but most people in line weren’t doing that. I left three feet between me and the person in front of me, but the person behind me was inches away. I didn’t say anything about it.
That evening, as I sat reading, Hammett walked over to me and stared intensely into my eyes for about ten seconds. He has never shied away from eye contact, as his predecessor did, but this was unusual.
He said evenly, “There are dryers available.”
I said, “Bottom ones.” Yes, that was lame. I should have used the bottom ones. I compounded my error by mumbling, “That’s the nature of the urban laundromat.” Something about this person’s feet made me think he was a tech bro, and tech bros are of course always in need of having their balloon of self-entitlement punctured a little. (If there is such a thing as puncturing a balloon just a little.)
A cool silence fell, and then I noticed that among the items this person was folding were nurses’ uniforms from the very hospital system I work for. Oops. I said, “It looks like we work for the same hospital. Now I feel a little bit worse.”
It turned out that he is an ICU nurse at the exact same hospital I report to. We ended up having a good chat. As he left, I apologized again, and he said, “I could have come a little sooner.” I said, “The dryers had finished just moments before. I could have waited for a few minutes.”
A few days later, I went to Rainbow thinking I would buy some extra garbanzo beans—the coronavirus was upon us—but found they were sold out, along with much else.
Early in March, the spiritual care department at my paying job had a staff retreat in Burlingame, which was really fantastic. I won’t recount all the touchy-feely things we did, but it was a wonderful day shared by all of us chaplains, plus our harpist, our administrative person, and our boss. At lunch, I took a long walk and enjoyed looking at the houses, trees and gardens. It was a gorgeous day.
A couple of days later, the San Francisco public school where Tom teaches closed immediately upon learning that the relative of a student was being treated for COVID-19.
I was due to travel to school for graduation on March 10. I had pushed it back two days because of Hammett, and was dreading being away from him for three days. I also was not looking forward to flying because of the virus, but I was prepared to do it. Fortunately, at the last minute, they canceled the in-person program and made it virtual instead. This was extremely lucky, because it was just then that Hammett fell apart. His sitter had warned me not to leave her with an obviously ailing cat. I would have had to not go to school, which would have meant graduating a year later, which would have been a giant problem when it comes to my board certification application. (As it is, they are scrambling to figure out how to get me my certificate of completion, since the teachers who sign these are scattered all over the country, and the office staff of the school aren’t coming in.)
One evening along in there, a friend from CPE asked if I’d like to have dinner, and we went to Udupi Palace for vegetarian Indian food. We had a great time and were howling with laughter as we walked back to her car. The next day, I went to Publico to have lunch with one of the people writing a recommendation letter for me. We arranged to meet right at noon, when normally the place is packed, but there was no one in line at all and just a few other patrons standing inside.
On my next trip to Rainbow, I found not one single roll of the toilet paper I usually use. They had other kinds, including an expensive one made out of bamboo, but I wasn’t desperate enough to buy any of that.
On March 10, we had a brief meeting for school to confirm that each of us would be able to use Zoom to share his or her final presentation, and over the following two days, most of us did our final presentations. I took a walk each of those days and was relieved to find the corner store full of toilet paper, as some uneasiness about this had set in. I said to Joe, the owner, “I feel kind of stupid doing this, but I’m going to do it, anyway,” as I paid for four packages of four rolls apiece. There was much, much remaining.
We did the last of our presentations on Friday morning, and in the afternoon, we had council via Zoom. That afternoon, I bought 15 more rolls of toilet paper from the corner store, where there was noticeably less of this product than a day or two earlier. There was no strong rubbing alcohol in any of the few stores I checked. When I went into Walgreens, two security guards were telling a young woman to leave and never come back. She was yelling and swearing at them; her arms were full of stuff. Apparently she had come in and just started grabbing things from the shelves. A few minutes later, I heard the guards say to a young man, “You can’t cut in line.” As the young man went to the back of the line I was in, he said loudly, “I’ll just snatch it, then,” meaning that he would just steal the item.
By then, we knew to leave some space between people (three feet), but most people in line weren’t doing that. I left three feet between me and the person in front of me, but the person behind me was inches away. I didn’t say anything about it.
That evening, as I sat reading, Hammett walked over to me and stared intensely into my eyes for about ten seconds. He has never shied away from eye contact, as his predecessor did, but this was unusual.
Monday, March 16, 2020
Small Moments, Many Times
I have been rereading Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: Informal talks on Zen meditation and practice, by Shunryu Suzuki, the founder of the San Francisco Zen Center. It looks like I read this book formerly in May, 2010. I remember finding it largely incomprehensible. This time around, after having studied at a Zen center for the past two years, it makes considerably more sense.
This was particularly helpful: “When you are sitting in the middle of your own problem, which is more real to you: your problem or you yourself? The awareness that you are here, right now, is the ultimate fact.”
He also points out that there is no Nirvana outside our practice, our practice being to not be lost in thought. He likens it to traveling along a set of train tracks with no beginning and no end. We will never arrive anywhere. The whole point is simply to keep rolling along the tracks.
I thought about Howie periodically saying, perhaps quoting someone else, “Small moments, many times.” It would be great to be constantly aware of one of the six sense doors (in Buddhism, the mind counts as one of the senses), but impossible. Feeling one’s foot on the ground for one second: entirely doable, and a little but real break from whatever the problem is.
It also made me think of Paul Haller of the San Francisco Zen Center advocating taking a pause as often as possible. I don’t mean to sound dimwitted, but for the longest, I was like, “Pause what?” What is it that ceases during a pause? Life doesn’t. Breathing doesn’t. Input at the six sense doors doesn’t. What is it that we are trying to stop? Well, duh, of course it is being lost in thought.
So my practice these days is to feel my feet on the floor, count to three, and really appreciate how my problem fades away. I can do this as many times a day as I want! I do feel an uptick in general equanimity.
I have five chaplain colleagues who are also applying for board certification this year, all at my same hospital. We had a meeting to check in about how it’s going. I vented thoroughly. I would like to have one person who is in charge of listening to all my complaints, but there isn’t one, so everyone everywhere has to listen to my complaints. My colleagues graciously did, and empathized, as well. I pointed out that the backdrop to all this stress is the giant fact of Hammett having cancer.
Within minutes of making my whole team listen to every detail of my problems, I got an email saying an issue with my undergraduate college transcripts had been cleared up and that they were in the mail, and another from HR saying per diems are not paid for jury duty, which was good news (I incorrectly assumed at the time). This seemed to prove that it pays to complain.
A couple of days later, I got one of the hours signoff letters mentioned in the previous post, and one of the recommendation letters, so it was all in fact falling into place. I also met with my boss about the two verbatims I am going to submit with my application, and she thought one was excellent and that the other would also be fine. She pointed out several aspects of both that would never have occurred to me, so it was a very helpful meeting.
On Ash Wednesday, a fun day for chaplains, I was requested to return to all three of our campuses at night to impose ashes for patients. However, this was per three voice mails that had come in much earlier, which I normally check constantly. Either I blew it on this chaotic day, or there was some sort of glitch. I called one of the campuses to ask the nurse to ask the patient if she really, really wanted me to come in, given that I’d be coming from home. (I know. I am a bad chaplain.) The patient kindly said it would be perfectly fine if I did not, which made me feel so guilty that I went. I also went to one of the other hospitals, and it turned out my boss was working late at the third, and she went and imposed the ashes herself, which she said she enjoyed.
One of my cab drivers that evening said, “Your hair is very short! It looks nice! Maybe I’ll see you later!”
This was particularly helpful: “When you are sitting in the middle of your own problem, which is more real to you: your problem or you yourself? The awareness that you are here, right now, is the ultimate fact.”
He also points out that there is no Nirvana outside our practice, our practice being to not be lost in thought. He likens it to traveling along a set of train tracks with no beginning and no end. We will never arrive anywhere. The whole point is simply to keep rolling along the tracks.
I thought about Howie periodically saying, perhaps quoting someone else, “Small moments, many times.” It would be great to be constantly aware of one of the six sense doors (in Buddhism, the mind counts as one of the senses), but impossible. Feeling one’s foot on the ground for one second: entirely doable, and a little but real break from whatever the problem is.
It also made me think of Paul Haller of the San Francisco Zen Center advocating taking a pause as often as possible. I don’t mean to sound dimwitted, but for the longest, I was like, “Pause what?” What is it that ceases during a pause? Life doesn’t. Breathing doesn’t. Input at the six sense doors doesn’t. What is it that we are trying to stop? Well, duh, of course it is being lost in thought.
So my practice these days is to feel my feet on the floor, count to three, and really appreciate how my problem fades away. I can do this as many times a day as I want! I do feel an uptick in general equanimity.
I have five chaplain colleagues who are also applying for board certification this year, all at my same hospital. We had a meeting to check in about how it’s going. I vented thoroughly. I would like to have one person who is in charge of listening to all my complaints, but there isn’t one, so everyone everywhere has to listen to my complaints. My colleagues graciously did, and empathized, as well. I pointed out that the backdrop to all this stress is the giant fact of Hammett having cancer.
Within minutes of making my whole team listen to every detail of my problems, I got an email saying an issue with my undergraduate college transcripts had been cleared up and that they were in the mail, and another from HR saying per diems are not paid for jury duty, which was good news (I incorrectly assumed at the time). This seemed to prove that it pays to complain.
A couple of days later, I got one of the hours signoff letters mentioned in the previous post, and one of the recommendation letters, so it was all in fact falling into place. I also met with my boss about the two verbatims I am going to submit with my application, and she thought one was excellent and that the other would also be fine. She pointed out several aspects of both that would never have occurred to me, so it was a very helpful meeting.
On Ash Wednesday, a fun day for chaplains, I was requested to return to all three of our campuses at night to impose ashes for patients. However, this was per three voice mails that had come in much earlier, which I normally check constantly. Either I blew it on this chaotic day, or there was some sort of glitch. I called one of the campuses to ask the nurse to ask the patient if she really, really wanted me to come in, given that I’d be coming from home. (I know. I am a bad chaplain.) The patient kindly said it would be perfectly fine if I did not, which made me feel so guilty that I went. I also went to one of the other hospitals, and it turned out my boss was working late at the third, and she went and imposed the ashes herself, which she said she enjoyed.
One of my cab drivers that evening said, “Your hair is very short! It looks nice! Maybe I’ll see you later!”
Santa Fe
This is what it looked like the very first day I arrived for school, in March of 2018. It was snowing!
(Click photo to enlarge.)
(Click photo to enlarge.)
The Pizza Problem
Some interesting things that happened in mid-February, so, so long ago. I was busy collecting three letters of recommendation for my application for board certification as a chaplain, along with university transcripts, sign-off on my clinical hours from two different people, proof of my Clinical Pastoral Education units, and an updated letter of endorsement from my spiritual community. The latter took two and a half years to get, what with one thing and another, including a series of last-minute complications in February, but now has been received by the certifying body. Good thing I started that well in advance.
Carol-Joy and I went one day to Berkeley Rep to see Gatz, in which every word of The Great Gatsby is read aloud, which takes many hours. It was fantastic. We had lunch beforehand at Au Coquelet and went to Angeline’s Louisiana Kitchen during the dinner break. Getting to go out to eat twice in day was an aspect of this outing that was attractive to both of us when we were making the arrangements. At the latter restaurant, I freely confess that I had fried catfish, potato salad, hush puppies with butter, and also mac and cheese with parmesan crust and bacon. All were excellent.
One day I walked over to a physical therapy appointment and then to Whole Foods to see about pizza. It is now self serve, and looks thin, dry and yucky. I stopped at the customer service counter to express my feelings about this. The young person there asked if I would like to communicate my concerns to management. I said I would leave it up to him to decide what to do, up to and including doing nothing. He said Whole Foods is aware they have problems with their pizza, so maybe things will improve soon.
I remembered earlier seeing a sign outside a café regarding croissants, and went over to get two. The young fellow there looked right into my eyes and smiled pleasantly. It was a little bit creepy: why is this person smiling at me? Years ago, I smiled pleasantly at an old lady on her lawn as I passed by and she said accusingly, “You looked at me like you know me!” That’s exactly how the croissant man looked at me, and is probably the way I often look at patients and family members. Maybe this needs an adjustment. If everyone did it, it would probably be very nice, but since people perhaps rarely smile at people they don’t know, maybe it’s more alarming than comforting.
I stood at the corner of Church and Market eating the croissants, which were superb, and heard a familiar voice say, “Hi, Bugwalk!” Tom, on his way home from work. He went off to Safeway, and I slowly made my way home. As I neared our building and finished the last of my second slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza—the croissants were just to tide me over until I could get to the pizza place half a block from the croissant place—I again heard, “Hi, Bugwalk!” Tom again!
Back at home, I finally had the chance to review several explanation of benefits forms that had piled up. This is always worth doing. I discovered that I had been billed $150 for utilizing an out-of-network provider, and was outraged. The service was an ultrasound ordered by one of my doctors. I used my ABC insurance to go to ABC’s radiology department: how much more in network can you get? But for reasons so far known only to themselves, the radiology department asked an out-of-network physician to interpret the results (which were fine). I myself did not seek out an out-of-network provider, would have declined the offer of such, and had no control whatsoever over this being done. I filed an appeal.
This spooked me. What if someday I need surgery and end up with a bill for fifty thousand dollars because ABC decides to call in an out-of-network surgeon and out-of-network anesthesiologist?
I got a very nice card regarding Hammett from my friend Lesley. It features a thick piece of cloth sewn to the front of the card, with an image of a rabbit hopping out of a fancily decorated enclosure. Lesley wrote something about cats having nine lives, so at first I thought—I was preoccupied by a jury duty notice that arrived in the same batch of mail—she was saying maybe Hammett won’t die, after all. I liked the idea, however fantastic, that maybe a cat could spend three or four lives at once to banish cancer. It turned out she was saying something much more poetic: “Here’s a bunny hopping beyond the bounds of his pen. Kitties have nine lives, so Hammett has done hopping before. Just want you to know I’m thinking of you.” What a lovely idea: that Hammett, like all cats, is an expert at dying, and will be able to do it gracefully this time, too.
As for jury duty, I filed a request to be excused because I work as a per diem and have no paid time off. I explained that I make such-and-such amount of money per month. Since I’m always noticing articles about how people making $350K a year can barely scrape by in San Francisco, I thought that would take care of that, but you have to be actually below the federal poverty line. A person in the jury duty office kindly listened to me vent, and said that when I actually get there, I can explain the undesirable effects of missing more than a few paychecks.
As I meditated one morning, someone began to play the same two notes over and over and over on a piano or keyboard, so relentlessly that I began to think maybe those other ten tones in the Western scale had been a figment of my imagination and didn’t actually exist.
Carol-Joy and I went one day to Berkeley Rep to see Gatz, in which every word of The Great Gatsby is read aloud, which takes many hours. It was fantastic. We had lunch beforehand at Au Coquelet and went to Angeline’s Louisiana Kitchen during the dinner break. Getting to go out to eat twice in day was an aspect of this outing that was attractive to both of us when we were making the arrangements. At the latter restaurant, I freely confess that I had fried catfish, potato salad, hush puppies with butter, and also mac and cheese with parmesan crust and bacon. All were excellent.
One day I walked over to a physical therapy appointment and then to Whole Foods to see about pizza. It is now self serve, and looks thin, dry and yucky. I stopped at the customer service counter to express my feelings about this. The young person there asked if I would like to communicate my concerns to management. I said I would leave it up to him to decide what to do, up to and including doing nothing. He said Whole Foods is aware they have problems with their pizza, so maybe things will improve soon.
I remembered earlier seeing a sign outside a café regarding croissants, and went over to get two. The young fellow there looked right into my eyes and smiled pleasantly. It was a little bit creepy: why is this person smiling at me? Years ago, I smiled pleasantly at an old lady on her lawn as I passed by and she said accusingly, “You looked at me like you know me!” That’s exactly how the croissant man looked at me, and is probably the way I often look at patients and family members. Maybe this needs an adjustment. If everyone did it, it would probably be very nice, but since people perhaps rarely smile at people they don’t know, maybe it’s more alarming than comforting.
I stood at the corner of Church and Market eating the croissants, which were superb, and heard a familiar voice say, “Hi, Bugwalk!” Tom, on his way home from work. He went off to Safeway, and I slowly made my way home. As I neared our building and finished the last of my second slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza—the croissants were just to tide me over until I could get to the pizza place half a block from the croissant place—I again heard, “Hi, Bugwalk!” Tom again!
Back at home, I finally had the chance to review several explanation of benefits forms that had piled up. This is always worth doing. I discovered that I had been billed $150 for utilizing an out-of-network provider, and was outraged. The service was an ultrasound ordered by one of my doctors. I used my ABC insurance to go to ABC’s radiology department: how much more in network can you get? But for reasons so far known only to themselves, the radiology department asked an out-of-network physician to interpret the results (which were fine). I myself did not seek out an out-of-network provider, would have declined the offer of such, and had no control whatsoever over this being done. I filed an appeal.
This spooked me. What if someday I need surgery and end up with a bill for fifty thousand dollars because ABC decides to call in an out-of-network surgeon and out-of-network anesthesiologist?
I got a very nice card regarding Hammett from my friend Lesley. It features a thick piece of cloth sewn to the front of the card, with an image of a rabbit hopping out of a fancily decorated enclosure. Lesley wrote something about cats having nine lives, so at first I thought—I was preoccupied by a jury duty notice that arrived in the same batch of mail—she was saying maybe Hammett won’t die, after all. I liked the idea, however fantastic, that maybe a cat could spend three or four lives at once to banish cancer. It turned out she was saying something much more poetic: “Here’s a bunny hopping beyond the bounds of his pen. Kitties have nine lives, so Hammett has done hopping before. Just want you to know I’m thinking of you.” What a lovely idea: that Hammett, like all cats, is an expert at dying, and will be able to do it gracefully this time, too.
As for jury duty, I filed a request to be excused because I work as a per diem and have no paid time off. I explained that I make such-and-such amount of money per month. Since I’m always noticing articles about how people making $350K a year can barely scrape by in San Francisco, I thought that would take care of that, but you have to be actually below the federal poverty line. A person in the jury duty office kindly listened to me vent, and said that when I actually get there, I can explain the undesirable effects of missing more than a few paychecks.
As I meditated one morning, someone began to play the same two notes over and over and over on a piano or keyboard, so relentlessly that I began to think maybe those other ten tones in the Western scale had been a figment of my imagination and didn’t actually exist.
Monday, February 03, 2020
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