If this isn't a presidential look, I don't know what is. Look at all those limbs!
Aw, he was the cutest. Look at his little white goatee.
(Click photo to enlarge. If problems, please try clicking the photo again.)
Monday, March 30, 2020
Hammett Would Also Have Made a Great President
If this isn't a presidential look, I don't know what is. Look at all those limbs!
Aw, he was the cutest. Look at his little white goatee.
(Click photo to enlarge. If problems, please try clicking the photo again.)
Michigan for President!
While I was cycling to Rainbow over the weekend, I heard a loud shattering glass sound and turned my head, along with a few others in the vicinity, to see that the source was a second-story residential window. Accident? Boiling over of frustration? Domestic violence? A mystery.
At Rainbow, the wait outside, in the rain, was probably 45 minutes, noticeably longer than the week before, no doubt because there was a second line going off in another direction for Instacart shoppers, and they were alternating between the lines, trying to balance the needs of those who make a living from shopping (maybe) and those who make dinner from shopping.
I had brought an item to return, which was an unopened bottle of hand sanitizer which had cost $18, but they are not taking returns at the moment. I had used this product outside the store the previous week, then bought some, and later realized it was absolutely going to cause itching.
On my way home, I asked a homeless woman if she would like some hand sanitizer. She would not. I stopped at a collection of tents and said, “Does anyone want some hand sanitizer?” No one answered. The only sign of life I could see was the top of someone’s head; I think he was asleep. I tried again at another collection of tents—I was freely zigzagging back and forth across all lanes of Folsom St. on my bike, as there wasn’t much car traffic—and this time a voice said, “Yes!” and a fellow emerged and took the hand sanitizer.
I had brought empty containers to Rainbow to fill in the bulk section, as always. There are still many bulk items, but you have to use their containers, ranging from a biodegradable bag to a plastic container with a lid to a new glass bottle or jar.
One bright spot was running into a friend of mine, shopping with his partner.
Also, when I asked a worker a question about the bulk containers, she answered very pleasantly, and added, “There are also no returns right now—but you’re not a big returner.” How lovely to shop where a worker whose name I don’t know knows I don’t often return items (though I would have liked to return one that day). That was a nice feeling.
There was still no toilet paper. Everything desired in the produce section was easily had. As for the bulk olives they had packaged up, my first- and second-favorite kinds were not present, but my third-favorite was, so I got some of those, and also a small container of some olives I don’t like much at all, thinking that maybe it’s time to develop a taste for them. When I got home, I discovered that they actually were my very favorite olives, mislabeled. I will look more carefully next time. I’m glad to have any of them, and if I’d noticed they were my favorites, I would have gotten more.
My panic buying impulse expressed itself this time in the realm of small jars (about four and a half ounces) of artichoke spread from Italy. I had two unopened ones at home, plus half a jar in the refrigerator. I had planned to buy three, just in case, but I bought six. Serving suggestion: Toast a piece of Vital Vittles Real Bread, put a tablespoon of EVOO on it, sprinkle on some garlic granules, and finish with this artichoke spread. Yummy.
Trump has now made a federal disaster declaration in Michigan and is sending money. I guess the one company having been ordered by Trump not to sell supplies to Michigan was a blip. I got a text from a someone saying she is worried about my work in the hospital and that she is praying for me. If she were really concerned about my welfare or that of anyone else, she would have voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016, so that we’d have adult leadership right now rather than this grotesque game show: “The Michigan governor hurt my feelings! No medical supplies for Michigan! Fine with me if everyone in Michigan dies.” A bit later: “Now I like Michigan again! Lucky Michigan! Sending more money to Michigan than anyone ever sent in the entire history of the universe!” People ill and dying, people dying alone, funerals with no attendees, children not in school, college students going home, financial catastrophe, destroyed businesses—all this is as nothing compared to what Trump likes or doesn’t like moment to moment.
My entire immediate family is in one or the other of what are the top three hot spots at the moment.
Today I reached a significant milestone in my quest for board certification as a chaplain: I sent in all the materials to apply for an MDiv equivalency. Tom and I strolled to the Castro and I went to the post office—few people there; lines on the ground to keep customers six feet apart—and then we went to Walgreens and to Cliff’s. It was a beautiful afternoon and great to be outside.
At home, I talked to a co-worker who said that there seems to be a pattern where people get COVID-19, get better, and then six to nine days after becoming ill, get pneumonia and die. My plan, if I get the virus and become short of breath, which is a symptom I rather dread, is to boil water, put a few drops of eucalyptus oil in it, turn off the heat, put my head over the steam, and put a towel over my head and the pot to keep the steam in for a bit. Pursed-lip breathing may also help in this case. As for avoiding pneumonia later on, FWIW, my co-worker said that drinking lots of fluids while recuperating from the first wave is important, including hot fluids, like herbal tea. He said going outside and getting some fresh air is good, and he claimed that lying flat on one’s back is the worst position for the lungs.
At Rainbow, the wait outside, in the rain, was probably 45 minutes, noticeably longer than the week before, no doubt because there was a second line going off in another direction for Instacart shoppers, and they were alternating between the lines, trying to balance the needs of those who make a living from shopping (maybe) and those who make dinner from shopping.
I had brought an item to return, which was an unopened bottle of hand sanitizer which had cost $18, but they are not taking returns at the moment. I had used this product outside the store the previous week, then bought some, and later realized it was absolutely going to cause itching.
On my way home, I asked a homeless woman if she would like some hand sanitizer. She would not. I stopped at a collection of tents and said, “Does anyone want some hand sanitizer?” No one answered. The only sign of life I could see was the top of someone’s head; I think he was asleep. I tried again at another collection of tents—I was freely zigzagging back and forth across all lanes of Folsom St. on my bike, as there wasn’t much car traffic—and this time a voice said, “Yes!” and a fellow emerged and took the hand sanitizer.
I had brought empty containers to Rainbow to fill in the bulk section, as always. There are still many bulk items, but you have to use their containers, ranging from a biodegradable bag to a plastic container with a lid to a new glass bottle or jar.
One bright spot was running into a friend of mine, shopping with his partner.
Also, when I asked a worker a question about the bulk containers, she answered very pleasantly, and added, “There are also no returns right now—but you’re not a big returner.” How lovely to shop where a worker whose name I don’t know knows I don’t often return items (though I would have liked to return one that day). That was a nice feeling.
There was still no toilet paper. Everything desired in the produce section was easily had. As for the bulk olives they had packaged up, my first- and second-favorite kinds were not present, but my third-favorite was, so I got some of those, and also a small container of some olives I don’t like much at all, thinking that maybe it’s time to develop a taste for them. When I got home, I discovered that they actually were my very favorite olives, mislabeled. I will look more carefully next time. I’m glad to have any of them, and if I’d noticed they were my favorites, I would have gotten more.
My panic buying impulse expressed itself this time in the realm of small jars (about four and a half ounces) of artichoke spread from Italy. I had two unopened ones at home, plus half a jar in the refrigerator. I had planned to buy three, just in case, but I bought six. Serving suggestion: Toast a piece of Vital Vittles Real Bread, put a tablespoon of EVOO on it, sprinkle on some garlic granules, and finish with this artichoke spread. Yummy.
Trump has now made a federal disaster declaration in Michigan and is sending money. I guess the one company having been ordered by Trump not to sell supplies to Michigan was a blip. I got a text from a someone saying she is worried about my work in the hospital and that she is praying for me. If she were really concerned about my welfare or that of anyone else, she would have voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016, so that we’d have adult leadership right now rather than this grotesque game show: “The Michigan governor hurt my feelings! No medical supplies for Michigan! Fine with me if everyone in Michigan dies.” A bit later: “Now I like Michigan again! Lucky Michigan! Sending more money to Michigan than anyone ever sent in the entire history of the universe!” People ill and dying, people dying alone, funerals with no attendees, children not in school, college students going home, financial catastrophe, destroyed businesses—all this is as nothing compared to what Trump likes or doesn’t like moment to moment.
My entire immediate family is in one or the other of what are the top three hot spots at the moment.
Today I reached a significant milestone in my quest for board certification as a chaplain: I sent in all the materials to apply for an MDiv equivalency. Tom and I strolled to the Castro and I went to the post office—few people there; lines on the ground to keep customers six feet apart—and then we went to Walgreens and to Cliff’s. It was a beautiful afternoon and great to be outside.
At home, I talked to a co-worker who said that there seems to be a pattern where people get COVID-19, get better, and then six to nine days after becoming ill, get pneumonia and die. My plan, if I get the virus and become short of breath, which is a symptom I rather dread, is to boil water, put a few drops of eucalyptus oil in it, turn off the heat, put my head over the steam, and put a towel over my head and the pot to keep the steam in for a bit. Pursed-lip breathing may also help in this case. As for avoiding pneumonia later on, FWIW, my co-worker said that drinking lots of fluids while recuperating from the first wave is important, including hot fluids, like herbal tea. He said going outside and getting some fresh air is good, and he claimed that lying flat on one’s back is the worst position for the lungs.
Sunday, March 29, 2020
United States Governors, All Clumped Together, for President!
Plus Gavin Newsom. Also Cuomo.
Reducing the amount of sauerkraut I put atop my morning salad has eliminated the sharp chest pain lately mentioned here. Maybe next time it happens, I will remember right away that it is gastric, not cardiac.
There has been constant new information at work about PPE. At first, chaplains were asked not to use any—not to go in any room where it is required—so as to save it for physicians and nurses. Last week, the recommendation changed: every staff member is now required to wear a procedure (surgical) mask for every moment of patient contact. The next time I passed through a temperature-taking station, I was issued a standard procedure mask, and soon discovered its annoyingly persistent tendency to slide down my face.
Assuming, as one should, that someone coughed COVID-19 all over the outside of this mask right after I put it on, was having to touch it constantly to put it on, take it off, or try again to keep it on my face not merely increasing my risk? I sent my boss an email saying that if this measure was exclusively to protect patients, then it seemed like a great idea, but if it was supposed to protect staff members, I wasn’t so sure.
The next time I went to work, I found there were two types of procedure masks available at the temperature-taking station: the standard yellow one, and a blue one I had never seen before that looked a little smaller. I tried the latter, and it was much better. It threatened to slide down only once the entire day, whereas the yellow one did that about 30 times. I don’t know if the blue one will always be available.
I also waded through a whole bunch of COVID-19 updates and read that extending the use of a mask is preferable to re-using it: Once it’s on your face, just leave it there. And I saw a recommendation to perform hand hygiene before and after touching the mask, every time. So that problem was solved. I sent my boss a follow-up email saying never mind.
I am keeping my fingernails particularly short, to reduce places for the virus to hide. Staff members at work have been asked not to wear makeup so that masks can more easily be cleaned for re-use. There are special containers for putting used masks in at the end of the day.
Each morning, my colleagues have been wiping down the surfaces that people touch in our office and the adjoining meditation room, so I, there alone, did the same. It is now my habit, every time I touch anything outside my apartment or just after I re-enter my apartment, and most particularly at work, to think “COVID,” reminding myself that my hands may now have the virus on them.
I wiped down all the obvious things in the office and meditation room, and then, as I went about my day, became very aware of all the things that I touch that I was not formerly aware of: Oh, when I enter the office, I touch this spot on the door! When I need to move a chair, I touch this spot on its armrest! Every time I became aware of a new spot that gets touched, I wiped it with a sanitizing wipe. Normally I avoid those things because of the chemicals and possibility of getting an itchy rash, but now I am glad they are so abundantly supplied at work, by our safety person.
There is now a security guard sitting right outside the chaplain office all day, because it is right near one of the couple entrances to the hospital that is in use. When I approached in the morning, the security guard said, “I’m glad you’re here. I appreciate you.” It made me feel good that he was happy to see a chaplain.
After I read all the COVID news, I worked for a couple of hours on my board certification application, which our boss has given us permission to do, and in the afternoon, I strolled through every unit in the hospital saying hello to staff members and checking for referrals. I saw three patients. One was under the impression that her husband has invited a lady of ill repute to move into their house; this designing woman stays out of sight all day, but the patient can hear her at night.
When I got home, I talked to Dad on the phone. We discussed Trump’s ordering one company not to sell needed medical supplies to Michigan because Michigan’s up-and-coming Democratic governor, Gretchen Whitmer, dared to make the factually correct observation that the federal government is not doing a very good job of responding to the pandemic. We both felt enraged: The President of the United States is trying to kill my parents and my sister, not to mention my sister’s two fuzzy cats.
I would like to think this would piss off Michigan voters, but I soon saw something from Trump reminding them to blame Whitmer, which I’m sure most of them will.
This was also the day Trump threatened to quarantine people in NY, NJ and CT—not because he gives a crap about any of those people, but so they wouldn’t drive down to Florida and infect Republican voters there. Later, he changed his mind. In other words, we’re back to normal life in one sense: that every day is about Trump’s selfish, juvenile, ignorant, hateful behavior and the chaos, confusion and misery it creates.
I’m thinking that maybe the governors of other states will help Michigan—that they could act together to do what the federal government has declined to do: identify resources and get them to where they are needed at the moment, instead of having states compete for them.
In addition to governors for president, beans for dinner! My routine now is to hurl several cups of beans into the pressure cooker before I make my breakfast. By the time I’m done eating breakfast, I have a lovely pot of beans to have for dinner all week. It takes about ten minutes to reheat the beans; I toss in a handful of fresh kale (washed and chopped on Sunday afternoon) and a fistful of sliced frozen shiitake. I add three grinds of black pepper after the beans are reheated. The beans always have toasted sesame oil, olive oil, and a bit of hot pepper oil in them, along with a crapload of fresh garlic. In addition, they have either two vegetarian bouillon cubes plus tamari, or porcini powder plus tamari, or rosemary salt. Because there are so many kinds of beans and because the other ingredients differ from week to week, there is sufficient variety, though I am a person who can easily eat the exact same or nearly the same thing every day, such as my morning salad, which varies only in that I rotate four kinds of vinegar in the dressing, and the olives change week to week.
On NPR this morning, there was a short piece about how necessary hospital chaplains are right now, to provide care for patients who may be forbidden to have visitors, and to support other hospital staff. I texted my boss and she texted back instantly to say she’d tune it in. My newish boss is truly fantastic. Becoming a chaplain has caused “new boss” to cease to be a worrying phrase.
Finally, I am sure it is unseemly to mention it, so begging pardon in advance, but in some ways, this pandemic has improved my life. First, it hasn’t changed it that much: I still go to work two days a week and sit around my apartment the other days. One change is that I don’t go to County Hospital to volunteer one day a week, but that had been on hiatus, anyway, while I work on my board certification application.
And some things are actually better: Zero eating out—in particular, no pepperoni and sausage pizza—has made me feel physically very well. I talk to my father on the phone every day, which is very nice. And I’m connecting with a lot of other people and groups via a variety of not-in-person means. I’m getting phone calls from friends, colleagues and ex-colleagues that I might not have gotten before, as people heed the advice to reach out more. And I make a point of taking a walk on most non-work days, which I didn’t necessarily do formerly.
If the federal government does send me a check, I plan to donate it. I know many people are in terrible situations, which might not have been quite as bad had Trump not wasted several weeks putting his head in the sand.
Reducing the amount of sauerkraut I put atop my morning salad has eliminated the sharp chest pain lately mentioned here. Maybe next time it happens, I will remember right away that it is gastric, not cardiac.
There has been constant new information at work about PPE. At first, chaplains were asked not to use any—not to go in any room where it is required—so as to save it for physicians and nurses. Last week, the recommendation changed: every staff member is now required to wear a procedure (surgical) mask for every moment of patient contact. The next time I passed through a temperature-taking station, I was issued a standard procedure mask, and soon discovered its annoyingly persistent tendency to slide down my face.
Assuming, as one should, that someone coughed COVID-19 all over the outside of this mask right after I put it on, was having to touch it constantly to put it on, take it off, or try again to keep it on my face not merely increasing my risk? I sent my boss an email saying that if this measure was exclusively to protect patients, then it seemed like a great idea, but if it was supposed to protect staff members, I wasn’t so sure.
The next time I went to work, I found there were two types of procedure masks available at the temperature-taking station: the standard yellow one, and a blue one I had never seen before that looked a little smaller. I tried the latter, and it was much better. It threatened to slide down only once the entire day, whereas the yellow one did that about 30 times. I don’t know if the blue one will always be available.
I also waded through a whole bunch of COVID-19 updates and read that extending the use of a mask is preferable to re-using it: Once it’s on your face, just leave it there. And I saw a recommendation to perform hand hygiene before and after touching the mask, every time. So that problem was solved. I sent my boss a follow-up email saying never mind.
I am keeping my fingernails particularly short, to reduce places for the virus to hide. Staff members at work have been asked not to wear makeup so that masks can more easily be cleaned for re-use. There are special containers for putting used masks in at the end of the day.
Each morning, my colleagues have been wiping down the surfaces that people touch in our office and the adjoining meditation room, so I, there alone, did the same. It is now my habit, every time I touch anything outside my apartment or just after I re-enter my apartment, and most particularly at work, to think “COVID,” reminding myself that my hands may now have the virus on them.
I wiped down all the obvious things in the office and meditation room, and then, as I went about my day, became very aware of all the things that I touch that I was not formerly aware of: Oh, when I enter the office, I touch this spot on the door! When I need to move a chair, I touch this spot on its armrest! Every time I became aware of a new spot that gets touched, I wiped it with a sanitizing wipe. Normally I avoid those things because of the chemicals and possibility of getting an itchy rash, but now I am glad they are so abundantly supplied at work, by our safety person.
There is now a security guard sitting right outside the chaplain office all day, because it is right near one of the couple entrances to the hospital that is in use. When I approached in the morning, the security guard said, “I’m glad you’re here. I appreciate you.” It made me feel good that he was happy to see a chaplain.
After I read all the COVID news, I worked for a couple of hours on my board certification application, which our boss has given us permission to do, and in the afternoon, I strolled through every unit in the hospital saying hello to staff members and checking for referrals. I saw three patients. One was under the impression that her husband has invited a lady of ill repute to move into their house; this designing woman stays out of sight all day, but the patient can hear her at night.
When I got home, I talked to Dad on the phone. We discussed Trump’s ordering one company not to sell needed medical supplies to Michigan because Michigan’s up-and-coming Democratic governor, Gretchen Whitmer, dared to make the factually correct observation that the federal government is not doing a very good job of responding to the pandemic. We both felt enraged: The President of the United States is trying to kill my parents and my sister, not to mention my sister’s two fuzzy cats.
I would like to think this would piss off Michigan voters, but I soon saw something from Trump reminding them to blame Whitmer, which I’m sure most of them will.
This was also the day Trump threatened to quarantine people in NY, NJ and CT—not because he gives a crap about any of those people, but so they wouldn’t drive down to Florida and infect Republican voters there. Later, he changed his mind. In other words, we’re back to normal life in one sense: that every day is about Trump’s selfish, juvenile, ignorant, hateful behavior and the chaos, confusion and misery it creates.
I’m thinking that maybe the governors of other states will help Michigan—that they could act together to do what the federal government has declined to do: identify resources and get them to where they are needed at the moment, instead of having states compete for them.
In addition to governors for president, beans for dinner! My routine now is to hurl several cups of beans into the pressure cooker before I make my breakfast. By the time I’m done eating breakfast, I have a lovely pot of beans to have for dinner all week. It takes about ten minutes to reheat the beans; I toss in a handful of fresh kale (washed and chopped on Sunday afternoon) and a fistful of sliced frozen shiitake. I add three grinds of black pepper after the beans are reheated. The beans always have toasted sesame oil, olive oil, and a bit of hot pepper oil in them, along with a crapload of fresh garlic. In addition, they have either two vegetarian bouillon cubes plus tamari, or porcini powder plus tamari, or rosemary salt. Because there are so many kinds of beans and because the other ingredients differ from week to week, there is sufficient variety, though I am a person who can easily eat the exact same or nearly the same thing every day, such as my morning salad, which varies only in that I rotate four kinds of vinegar in the dressing, and the olives change week to week.
On NPR this morning, there was a short piece about how necessary hospital chaplains are right now, to provide care for patients who may be forbidden to have visitors, and to support other hospital staff. I texted my boss and she texted back instantly to say she’d tune it in. My newish boss is truly fantastic. Becoming a chaplain has caused “new boss” to cease to be a worrying phrase.
Finally, I am sure it is unseemly to mention it, so begging pardon in advance, but in some ways, this pandemic has improved my life. First, it hasn’t changed it that much: I still go to work two days a week and sit around my apartment the other days. One change is that I don’t go to County Hospital to volunteer one day a week, but that had been on hiatus, anyway, while I work on my board certification application.
And some things are actually better: Zero eating out—in particular, no pepperoni and sausage pizza—has made me feel physically very well. I talk to my father on the phone every day, which is very nice. And I’m connecting with a lot of other people and groups via a variety of not-in-person means. I’m getting phone calls from friends, colleagues and ex-colleagues that I might not have gotten before, as people heed the advice to reach out more. And I make a point of taking a walk on most non-work days, which I didn’t necessarily do formerly.
If the federal government does send me a check, I plan to donate it. I know many people are in terrible situations, which might not have been quite as bad had Trump not wasted several weeks putting his head in the sand.
Thursday, March 26, 2020
More Than Anything
One of my co-workers said that when she got on the normally packed bus to come to work from the North Bay, she found not only that she was the only rider, she was the first person to ride that bus in four days, according to the driver.
I was positive that I would be devastated forever over Hammett, so it was rather remarkable to find myself mostly feeling peaceful and accepting after just a couple of days. Perhaps COVID-19 has overwhelmed everything else, but my theory is that the essential has not been lost. His body and personality are gone and are very much missed, but the love remains. When I see a photo of him, of which there are many around, I am happy to see how relaxed and contented he looks.
This week I returned to work after being out for two weeks, a period in which much has happened. The night beforehand, I emailed my father and one of my sisters an impromptu last will and testament, explaining where my assets are to be found. (It had occurred to me that maybe Hammett died when he did so he won’t be left parentless when I die.) Then I sent an addendum saying, “But most of all, remember that I had a really great life, and that I loved you all more than anything.”
The next morning, instead of being in a crowd of frenzied cyclists and people riding scooters and electric bikes on Valencia, I had blocks and blocks of the bike lane on this normally bustling street basically to myself. I saw maybe two other cyclists as I passed one boarded-up business after another. Number of Lyfts and Ubers sitting in the bike lane: zero, rather than about one per block.
At the hospital, there is now one entrance for staff and another for visitors, of which there are very few. A patient can have only one, and I think that is only if the patient is approaching death. I saw only about three visitors the whole day, so the hospital was actually very quiet and serene. It is much more complicated now to get from the bike parking room into the hospital; trying to do it in reverse at the end of the day was genuinely confusing, but next time it will be easier.
Because the chaplain office is near the periphery of the building, we have to pass through a checkpoint to go to any unit, so my temperature was taken about seven times and was always fine.
It was great to see my colleagues again. We are not seeing very many patients because instead of rounding, we are asking the charge nurse for referrals, and there are few. Our boss advised keeping visits to 15 minutes or less. I spent time on three different units with COVID-19 patients, but didn’t go in the room of any such patient.
At the end of the day, I was asked to visit a patient in the ICU who was soon to be extubated. His daughter was sitting alone in the room, distraught. She said she had wanted to be here for these final moments, but had felt afraid of being there alone. I assured her that I would not leave her, and thus the visit ended up being five hours and 25 minutes long. About four hours into it, I got a crushing pain in the chest, which persisted until I went to sleep. I imagined having to tell my boss that I’d gotten COVID-19 thanks to staying in a patient room five hours and ten minutes longer than she said to.
At 10:30 p.m., I found my bicycle and set off for the ride home. Eerie. Virtually no one on the streets, and those who were appeared to be exclusively the homeless mentally ill, except for one intrepid fellow walking his little dog. I normally never run a red light, but last night I went through many of them, out of eagerness to be home and also, what’s the point of sitting there when the nearest cars in any direction are blocks away?
At home, I called the advice nurse, who concluded that I was not having a heart attack and said to call back if it got worse or anything changed. This morning the pain was largely gone. I talked to my father on the phone, and with four friends, one after the other, while I ate breakfast. After a bit, the pain returned, so I called the office of my primary care provider and a doctor there performed triage. I started out by letting her know that I am a total hypochondriac, and also that twice over the past fifteen years, I have gone to the emergency room with chest pain only to find in both cases that it was basically some heartburn-type thing.
This probably is, too. It may have started yesterday evening due to going so many hours past my normal dinnertime, and may have recurred today due to the acid in my morning salad. In fact, salad dressing was precisely the culprit in one of those two ER visits, after which I greatly reduced the amount of vinegar I use. There’s just a trace now, but maybe that combined with the forkful of sauerkraut that tops every salad has gotten to be too much.
This afternoon, I went for a walk and enjoyed looking at the astonishing variety of beautiful plants, flowers and trees along my route.
I was positive that I would be devastated forever over Hammett, so it was rather remarkable to find myself mostly feeling peaceful and accepting after just a couple of days. Perhaps COVID-19 has overwhelmed everything else, but my theory is that the essential has not been lost. His body and personality are gone and are very much missed, but the love remains. When I see a photo of him, of which there are many around, I am happy to see how relaxed and contented he looks.
This week I returned to work after being out for two weeks, a period in which much has happened. The night beforehand, I emailed my father and one of my sisters an impromptu last will and testament, explaining where my assets are to be found. (It had occurred to me that maybe Hammett died when he did so he won’t be left parentless when I die.) Then I sent an addendum saying, “But most of all, remember that I had a really great life, and that I loved you all more than anything.”
The next morning, instead of being in a crowd of frenzied cyclists and people riding scooters and electric bikes on Valencia, I had blocks and blocks of the bike lane on this normally bustling street basically to myself. I saw maybe two other cyclists as I passed one boarded-up business after another. Number of Lyfts and Ubers sitting in the bike lane: zero, rather than about one per block.
At the hospital, there is now one entrance for staff and another for visitors, of which there are very few. A patient can have only one, and I think that is only if the patient is approaching death. I saw only about three visitors the whole day, so the hospital was actually very quiet and serene. It is much more complicated now to get from the bike parking room into the hospital; trying to do it in reverse at the end of the day was genuinely confusing, but next time it will be easier.
Because the chaplain office is near the periphery of the building, we have to pass through a checkpoint to go to any unit, so my temperature was taken about seven times and was always fine.
It was great to see my colleagues again. We are not seeing very many patients because instead of rounding, we are asking the charge nurse for referrals, and there are few. Our boss advised keeping visits to 15 minutes or less. I spent time on three different units with COVID-19 patients, but didn’t go in the room of any such patient.
At the end of the day, I was asked to visit a patient in the ICU who was soon to be extubated. His daughter was sitting alone in the room, distraught. She said she had wanted to be here for these final moments, but had felt afraid of being there alone. I assured her that I would not leave her, and thus the visit ended up being five hours and 25 minutes long. About four hours into it, I got a crushing pain in the chest, which persisted until I went to sleep. I imagined having to tell my boss that I’d gotten COVID-19 thanks to staying in a patient room five hours and ten minutes longer than she said to.
At 10:30 p.m., I found my bicycle and set off for the ride home. Eerie. Virtually no one on the streets, and those who were appeared to be exclusively the homeless mentally ill, except for one intrepid fellow walking his little dog. I normally never run a red light, but last night I went through many of them, out of eagerness to be home and also, what’s the point of sitting there when the nearest cars in any direction are blocks away?
At home, I called the advice nurse, who concluded that I was not having a heart attack and said to call back if it got worse or anything changed. This morning the pain was largely gone. I talked to my father on the phone, and with four friends, one after the other, while I ate breakfast. After a bit, the pain returned, so I called the office of my primary care provider and a doctor there performed triage. I started out by letting her know that I am a total hypochondriac, and also that twice over the past fifteen years, I have gone to the emergency room with chest pain only to find in both cases that it was basically some heartburn-type thing.
This probably is, too. It may have started yesterday evening due to going so many hours past my normal dinnertime, and may have recurred today due to the acid in my morning salad. In fact, salad dressing was precisely the culprit in one of those two ER visits, after which I greatly reduced the amount of vinegar I use. There’s just a trace now, but maybe that combined with the forkful of sauerkraut that tops every salad has gotten to be too much.
This afternoon, I went for a walk and enjoyed looking at the astonishing variety of beautiful plants, flowers and trees along my route.
Monday, March 23, 2020
Also!
Because Rainbow’s customers were helped to feel safe and relaxed, there was much less evidence of panic buying, though admittedly also many fewer customers to observe. I saw just one cart piled with a mountain of food, where the previous frenzied week, many carts had been like that. I saw one fellow carefully place about three cassoulet beans into a tiny paper bag, and hoped it wasn’t because that’s all he could afford.
After I returned from Rainbow, I spent the rest of the afternoon chopping vegetables and listening to music. As the sky darkened, I felt a bit of fear, reminiscent of the night before, but it was soon washed away by sorrow, which was very welcome, particularly in contrast with the fear. There were many tears.
My working belief regarding what happens when we die is that the little allotment of consciousness somehow assigned to a particular body, personality and set of habits dissipates into a universal consciousness. I don’t believe that anything is created when a living being is born, nor destroyed when it dies. I think there is what there is, reconfigured over and over.
However, the moment Hammett died, this belief about the end of life suddenly seemed wholly unsatisfactory. I thought about theology, or dharmalogy, a bit: Is the point of one’s dharmalogy to afford comfort, or is the point that it is true? I think the most important thing is the latter, which of course is the part we can never know, at least as regards what happens after death. I wish I could believe that Hammett is sitting on the lap of a kindly grandmother in heaven, but I cannot. I cannot comprehend the mystery of life and death, but as I remind myself to have as many mindful moments as possible, I feel that this—at the moment, the death of Hammett—is workable. I feel peaceful at many moments. I remember that nothing has gone wrong.
As Fleet Maull said at school a year and half ago, “The more mindfulness practices we can do, the better, because our conceptual mind is continually working to replace our actual experience with concepts.”
Also: “To the extent we’re able to relax into the present moment, things are pretty simple and joy is pretty accessible.”
Also that when we practice (mindfulness) in the presence of another person, that person is also practicing, because we are connected.
(Also: “Let’s have one person talking at a time, which at the moment would be me.”)
I won’t bore you with the details, but I bumped into a problem with my beloved Logitech Squeezebox Boom, and after searching the web and doing various resets and tinkering with various settings, got it working again, which was profoundly satisfying.
Thinking about Hammett at moments when he was enjoying something has brought pleasure, and it has also helped to reflect on how great his life was. He was fostered during his first six months by someone who must have done a great job, because he came to me a sweet, relaxed kitten who did not mind being cradled like a baby, on his back. I imagine he was often lonely when I was away, particularly in these past two years when I had to go to school 26 days per year, in addition to the trips I usually take, and he had quite a number of health problems, all manageable until he got renal lymphoma. Those were the hard parts.
But every possible need was met, and he was treated with affection and care every day of his life with me, including when I was away, because of his excellent cat sitter. He had lots of comfortable places to nap, and I think that he really enjoyed his life, on the whole. Reflecting on these things does bring some peace of mind, as does the recent reminder from one of my peers from school that all things are subject to dispersal.
After I returned from Rainbow, I spent the rest of the afternoon chopping vegetables and listening to music. As the sky darkened, I felt a bit of fear, reminiscent of the night before, but it was soon washed away by sorrow, which was very welcome, particularly in contrast with the fear. There were many tears.
My working belief regarding what happens when we die is that the little allotment of consciousness somehow assigned to a particular body, personality and set of habits dissipates into a universal consciousness. I don’t believe that anything is created when a living being is born, nor destroyed when it dies. I think there is what there is, reconfigured over and over.
However, the moment Hammett died, this belief about the end of life suddenly seemed wholly unsatisfactory. I thought about theology, or dharmalogy, a bit: Is the point of one’s dharmalogy to afford comfort, or is the point that it is true? I think the most important thing is the latter, which of course is the part we can never know, at least as regards what happens after death. I wish I could believe that Hammett is sitting on the lap of a kindly grandmother in heaven, but I cannot. I cannot comprehend the mystery of life and death, but as I remind myself to have as many mindful moments as possible, I feel that this—at the moment, the death of Hammett—is workable. I feel peaceful at many moments. I remember that nothing has gone wrong.
As Fleet Maull said at school a year and half ago, “The more mindfulness practices we can do, the better, because our conceptual mind is continually working to replace our actual experience with concepts.”
Also: “To the extent we’re able to relax into the present moment, things are pretty simple and joy is pretty accessible.”
Also that when we practice (mindfulness) in the presence of another person, that person is also practicing, because we are connected.
(Also: “Let’s have one person talking at a time, which at the moment would be me.”)
I won’t bore you with the details, but I bumped into a problem with my beloved Logitech Squeezebox Boom, and after searching the web and doing various resets and tinkering with various settings, got it working again, which was profoundly satisfying.
Thinking about Hammett at moments when he was enjoying something has brought pleasure, and it has also helped to reflect on how great his life was. He was fostered during his first six months by someone who must have done a great job, because he came to me a sweet, relaxed kitten who did not mind being cradled like a baby, on his back. I imagine he was often lonely when I was away, particularly in these past two years when I had to go to school 26 days per year, in addition to the trips I usually take, and he had quite a number of health problems, all manageable until he got renal lymphoma. Those were the hard parts.
But every possible need was met, and he was treated with affection and care every day of his life with me, including when I was away, because of his excellent cat sitter. He had lots of comfortable places to nap, and I think that he really enjoyed his life, on the whole. Reflecting on these things does bring some peace of mind, as does the recent reminder from one of my peers from school that all things are subject to dispersal.
Hammett When He was a Baby
(Click photo to enlarge. If problems, please try clicking the photo again.)
Sunday, March 22, 2020
If Line Not Long
On Friday morning, Hammett was still alive—drinking water, peeing a little, hissing at medication time. I figured he was too weak to inflict any real damage, which he disproved when he bloodied both of my hands, which pleased me. I was glad he still had so much oomph. Maybe self-defense is the last thing to go.
It has been an emotional rollercoaster regarding COVID-19 and Hammett. There have been a few moments of genuine fear regarding the former, but when I took the first sip of green tea on Friday morning, the joy of being alive coursed through me.
The afternoon walk outdoors is the best and also the worst part of the day. It’s great to be out in the fresh air and see the green and trees and flowers, but annoying to encounter people strolling or standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. It occurred to me that maybe it would be nicer for now to take a bike ride instead of a walk. It should be easier to maintain biological distance on a bike.
Saturday was Hammett’s last day, and I think it was a good one from his perspective. We spent two hours or more just sitting together on my bed. I stroked his soft fur, and he purred steadily, which he had not done in days. It was also far more contact with me than he had wanted in days. The people at the animal hospital were extremely kind, and Hammett didn’t ever seem unduly alarmed.
In the weeks before he died, I often felt perfectly at peace. In some moments, I felt engulfed in sorrow, which is not an unpleasant feeling, and shed many tears. The strongest feelings since he has been gone are fear and a sort of confusion: how can he be gone? Where is he? At such moments, I wish I did believe in an afterlife, but I don’t, nor in reincarnation. My boss texted, “I’m so sorry for you. Hammett was a beautiful companion. May his soul rest and carry your love and care on to his next life.” I did find that comforting. (Oh! I just realized she assumes I have typical Buddhist beliefs, and was trying to be consonant with those beliefs.)
So many others have been there over these past couple of months, on Saturday before we walked over the vet, and since then. My father has been wonderful. Lisa and David have been wonderful.
Saturday night, I woke up feeling afraid. Not terrified, but just enough to trigger that downward spiral that starts with, “I feel afraid. What if it gets worse?”, which it then immediately does. I tried two things. One was “box breathing,” where you breathe in, hold your breath, breathe out and hold your breath, each for a count of four. I also tried noticing the sensations briefly in my left foot, right foot, left hand, right hand … . The latter seemed more helpful. I also have various words I speak to myself at such moments, including Howie’s reminder that every person has to learn to navigate fear.
As I did when Thelonious died, I have to keep reminding myself out loud what has happened: Hammett is not here because he is dead. He had cancer, and he had not eaten in eight or ten days. His last day was good.
The vet said I could probably take him home if I wanted and have Sunday with him, but that by Monday, he would probably be “recumbent” — unable to get up. She said that at that point, the only options would be euthanasia or intensive care. She said she thought I was doing the right thing, and that she thinks it’s better to euthanize a day too early rather than a day too late.
Late Saturday night, after having talked to my mother, and David and Lisa, and two of my friends from CPE, and Hammett’s cat sitter, and having exchanged texts or emails with various other people, I talked to Dad, whose response was empathic, as always. I told him I was planning to bake whole wheat bread if I couldn't buy bread at Rainbow, but that it seemed like kind of a project to figure out what equipment I would need, as I got rid of all that stuff years ago. He mentioned that maybe making flatbread would be easier. Brilliant idea! Online, I immediately found a complicated recipe that would be nearly as much work as making yeast bread and also had an ingredient that I don’t usually eat, but within a minute or two, I found a very simple recipe that looked great, with like three ingredients.
So strange to wake up and see Hammett nowhere, yet immediately obvious that so many pleasures remained: my breakfast salad and two cups of green tea; brief, fun chats on the phone with Lisa and David; the people on Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me saying funny things; getting to listen to heavy metal again, which Hammett certainly was used to but probably never came to enjoy. Actually, he probably tuned it out years ago, but in his final days, I listened to no music and I kept the main room dim to spare his enlarged pupils.
There was a good new weekly hour-long show about COVID-19 on NPR. It was informative and the calm voices were soothing. Someone mentioned just having enough groceries for an extra week on hand. Deciding that I would set a good example in the grocery store, I crossed a whole lot of things off my shopping list. Also—huge sacrifice here—in the spirit of not wasting food, I peeled and used even the tiniest little cloves of garlic in my weekly beans. Usually I just put cloves below a certain size straight into the compost because it seems like too much work for such a small amount of garlic.
Off to Rainbow I went on my bike. The day was lovely, the streets empty, the air fresh smelling. I felt happy. I counseled myself to relax, and to be prepared to adjust to unexpected conditions. Last week’s shopping trip was quite stressful. The cashier whose line I went through seemed rigid with fear. Today, I found a line outside the store extending around the corner, leading up to the one entrance that was open. People in the line were calm and pleasant and leaving each other plenty of space. The fellow behind me initially came too close. I politely asked if he would back up, and he immediately did and never closed the gap again. When we got the front of the line, I thanked him and he offered a beautiful smile in return.
Near the entrance, there was hand sanitizer, paper towels (though if you’re using hand sanitizer correctly, there isn’t anything to wipe off; rub your hands together until they are dry), and gloves for each customer to put on. I had brought my own to save Rainbow’s. A worker outside the door asked which of two kinds of shopping carts was desired, and a worker inside the store rolled the cart up to the door.
Inside the store, life could hardly have been better. It was nearly empty due to the metering. The cashiers were relaxed and happy, chatting with each other. They were about the only workers in sight. There was one directing traffic, and one or two at the front desk, but nearly all of the workers who are usually seen throughout the store were absent. The produce section still had three workers; usually there might be four or five. One of them happened to be the same person who had been standing outside the entrance. I said, “You’re everywhere! This store could not operate without you,” and she beamed and thanked me. Pickings were slim when it came to spinach. I got a packaged mixture which has spinach, chard and kale in it. Every other thing I wanted in the produce section was available.
Because of the lack of workers, if one could not figure out by oneself where the whole wheat flour was, one was out of luck. The flour section was rather depleted, but they had whole wheat flour in bulk. I got some to have on hand, but I don’t need it yet because the bread section was fully stocked. Here is where my only hoarding impulse arose: I bought three loaves, which I sometimes do, anyway, because my shopping schedule doesn’t always match the Vital Vittles delivery schedule.
There was not a single roll of toilet paper, but I have plenty. (There was a cheery sign there saying, “We’re working on it!”) Last week, bulk olives were unavailable. This week, they had packaged up a whole bunch in clear plastic containers, which I would normally avoid, but I bought a container of kalamatas. Fewer than I would normally buy, but each salad will have olives.
Periodically there was a friendly, low-key announcement asking people to give each other six feet of space.
Last week, the lines for the cash registers were very long, so I had noted on my shopping list to buy a couple of packages of frozen fruit “ILNL.” If line not long. This week, they were directing everyone to line up in just one aisle. On the floor were pieces of tape showing how far apart to stand, and a worker was directing the person at the front of the line to the next open cashier. There were two people in line when I got there. It was about 30 seconds before I was directed to a cashier; I was able to buy the frozen things.
I was absolutely delighted with the whole experience. Rainbow is doing a remarkable job! And they are a collective, probably operating on the consensus model. There is not one person who gets to decide what will be done. Really outstanding.
Back at home, I discovered there was still no sign of Hammett. We did not interact every minute we were both in the apartment; far from it. There are many minutes now when I am not conscious of his absence, as I go about the current task, which is often very pleasant and absorbing. But in the moments when he is missed, it is acute. I buried my face in his bed by the radiator just to get a hint of his lovely cat smell, and gave the bed a little kiss.
It has been an emotional rollercoaster regarding COVID-19 and Hammett. There have been a few moments of genuine fear regarding the former, but when I took the first sip of green tea on Friday morning, the joy of being alive coursed through me.
The afternoon walk outdoors is the best and also the worst part of the day. It’s great to be out in the fresh air and see the green and trees and flowers, but annoying to encounter people strolling or standing right in the middle of the sidewalk. It occurred to me that maybe it would be nicer for now to take a bike ride instead of a walk. It should be easier to maintain biological distance on a bike.
Saturday was Hammett’s last day, and I think it was a good one from his perspective. We spent two hours or more just sitting together on my bed. I stroked his soft fur, and he purred steadily, which he had not done in days. It was also far more contact with me than he had wanted in days. The people at the animal hospital were extremely kind, and Hammett didn’t ever seem unduly alarmed.
In the weeks before he died, I often felt perfectly at peace. In some moments, I felt engulfed in sorrow, which is not an unpleasant feeling, and shed many tears. The strongest feelings since he has been gone are fear and a sort of confusion: how can he be gone? Where is he? At such moments, I wish I did believe in an afterlife, but I don’t, nor in reincarnation. My boss texted, “I’m so sorry for you. Hammett was a beautiful companion. May his soul rest and carry your love and care on to his next life.” I did find that comforting. (Oh! I just realized she assumes I have typical Buddhist beliefs, and was trying to be consonant with those beliefs.)
So many others have been there over these past couple of months, on Saturday before we walked over the vet, and since then. My father has been wonderful. Lisa and David have been wonderful.
Saturday night, I woke up feeling afraid. Not terrified, but just enough to trigger that downward spiral that starts with, “I feel afraid. What if it gets worse?”, which it then immediately does. I tried two things. One was “box breathing,” where you breathe in, hold your breath, breathe out and hold your breath, each for a count of four. I also tried noticing the sensations briefly in my left foot, right foot, left hand, right hand … . The latter seemed more helpful. I also have various words I speak to myself at such moments, including Howie’s reminder that every person has to learn to navigate fear.
As I did when Thelonious died, I have to keep reminding myself out loud what has happened: Hammett is not here because he is dead. He had cancer, and he had not eaten in eight or ten days. His last day was good.
The vet said I could probably take him home if I wanted and have Sunday with him, but that by Monday, he would probably be “recumbent” — unable to get up. She said that at that point, the only options would be euthanasia or intensive care. She said she thought I was doing the right thing, and that she thinks it’s better to euthanize a day too early rather than a day too late.
Late Saturday night, after having talked to my mother, and David and Lisa, and two of my friends from CPE, and Hammett’s cat sitter, and having exchanged texts or emails with various other people, I talked to Dad, whose response was empathic, as always. I told him I was planning to bake whole wheat bread if I couldn't buy bread at Rainbow, but that it seemed like kind of a project to figure out what equipment I would need, as I got rid of all that stuff years ago. He mentioned that maybe making flatbread would be easier. Brilliant idea! Online, I immediately found a complicated recipe that would be nearly as much work as making yeast bread and also had an ingredient that I don’t usually eat, but within a minute or two, I found a very simple recipe that looked great, with like three ingredients.
So strange to wake up and see Hammett nowhere, yet immediately obvious that so many pleasures remained: my breakfast salad and two cups of green tea; brief, fun chats on the phone with Lisa and David; the people on Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me saying funny things; getting to listen to heavy metal again, which Hammett certainly was used to but probably never came to enjoy. Actually, he probably tuned it out years ago, but in his final days, I listened to no music and I kept the main room dim to spare his enlarged pupils.
There was a good new weekly hour-long show about COVID-19 on NPR. It was informative and the calm voices were soothing. Someone mentioned just having enough groceries for an extra week on hand. Deciding that I would set a good example in the grocery store, I crossed a whole lot of things off my shopping list. Also—huge sacrifice here—in the spirit of not wasting food, I peeled and used even the tiniest little cloves of garlic in my weekly beans. Usually I just put cloves below a certain size straight into the compost because it seems like too much work for such a small amount of garlic.
Off to Rainbow I went on my bike. The day was lovely, the streets empty, the air fresh smelling. I felt happy. I counseled myself to relax, and to be prepared to adjust to unexpected conditions. Last week’s shopping trip was quite stressful. The cashier whose line I went through seemed rigid with fear. Today, I found a line outside the store extending around the corner, leading up to the one entrance that was open. People in the line were calm and pleasant and leaving each other plenty of space. The fellow behind me initially came too close. I politely asked if he would back up, and he immediately did and never closed the gap again. When we got the front of the line, I thanked him and he offered a beautiful smile in return.
Near the entrance, there was hand sanitizer, paper towels (though if you’re using hand sanitizer correctly, there isn’t anything to wipe off; rub your hands together until they are dry), and gloves for each customer to put on. I had brought my own to save Rainbow’s. A worker outside the door asked which of two kinds of shopping carts was desired, and a worker inside the store rolled the cart up to the door.
Inside the store, life could hardly have been better. It was nearly empty due to the metering. The cashiers were relaxed and happy, chatting with each other. They were about the only workers in sight. There was one directing traffic, and one or two at the front desk, but nearly all of the workers who are usually seen throughout the store were absent. The produce section still had three workers; usually there might be four or five. One of them happened to be the same person who had been standing outside the entrance. I said, “You’re everywhere! This store could not operate without you,” and she beamed and thanked me. Pickings were slim when it came to spinach. I got a packaged mixture which has spinach, chard and kale in it. Every other thing I wanted in the produce section was available.
Because of the lack of workers, if one could not figure out by oneself where the whole wheat flour was, one was out of luck. The flour section was rather depleted, but they had whole wheat flour in bulk. I got some to have on hand, but I don’t need it yet because the bread section was fully stocked. Here is where my only hoarding impulse arose: I bought three loaves, which I sometimes do, anyway, because my shopping schedule doesn’t always match the Vital Vittles delivery schedule.
There was not a single roll of toilet paper, but I have plenty. (There was a cheery sign there saying, “We’re working on it!”) Last week, bulk olives were unavailable. This week, they had packaged up a whole bunch in clear plastic containers, which I would normally avoid, but I bought a container of kalamatas. Fewer than I would normally buy, but each salad will have olives.
Periodically there was a friendly, low-key announcement asking people to give each other six feet of space.
Last week, the lines for the cash registers were very long, so I had noted on my shopping list to buy a couple of packages of frozen fruit “ILNL.” If line not long. This week, they were directing everyone to line up in just one aisle. On the floor were pieces of tape showing how far apart to stand, and a worker was directing the person at the front of the line to the next open cashier. There were two people in line when I got there. It was about 30 seconds before I was directed to a cashier; I was able to buy the frozen things.
I was absolutely delighted with the whole experience. Rainbow is doing a remarkable job! And they are a collective, probably operating on the consensus model. There is not one person who gets to decide what will be done. Really outstanding.
Back at home, I discovered there was still no sign of Hammett. We did not interact every minute we were both in the apartment; far from it. There are many minutes now when I am not conscious of his absence, as I go about the current task, which is often very pleasant and absorbing. But in the moments when he is missed, it is acute. I buried my face in his bed by the radiator just to get a hint of his lovely cat smell, and gave the bed a little kiss.
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