So this week was reader response week. I’m sure you’d like to hear all about that. But you’re not going to—at least not here. I have lots of hand-written notes. But all I can do right now is try to get the rant over with…In the spectacular words of Mr. Bean, “Brace yourself.”
This week we were also to turn in our bibliography assignment. Well, let me just tell you, I learned things that cannot be unlearned or unread. Who ever thought that researching galvanism would lead to such disturbing revelations? I knew a little about electro-shock therapy, and that it was used to “treat” mental patients back in the day. But I was not aware that when galvanism was first introduced in the scientific and medical communities, applications to various body parts for treatments from everything from poor eyesight to hemorrhaged uterus to resuscitation after drowning (which, by the way, you are not supposed to submerge someone in a warm bath after you shock them back to life when you have fished them out of a river after being under water for approximately 20 minutes—they will die; just a little something that I learned during my research). I guess part of the reason that I had a slow start in my bibliographical assignment was that when I began to search for papers that related galvanism to Shelley’s Frankenstein the searches did not yield as many results as I’d hoped. Upon refining my searches within the databases, taking a broader approach, I obtained many reports from medical journals that discussed the matters that I previously mentioned both here and also in the “Notes as I read” section.
Saturday I invited my family over for a cook out. My sister said, “I’m glad we came over to watch you play on your computer!”
“I’m not playing, I’m doing homework,” I said. I got up from my desk, though they should have been used to me doing homework while hanging out with them. When we were all together on Labor Day weekend I was doing the same thing—no complaints then (or at least none that I remember).
I spent every spare minute this weekend working diligently on my bibliography, all the while fending Addison off while she climbed up my chair and onto my back repeatedly. Prying a two year old off of you every five minutes while they think that it’s a game is not conducive to research and writing. So, to make things a little easier on myself (ha!), I waited until all the children were asleep to really buckle down and continue my research.
By Monday morning I was running out of sources. I tried refining my search, being both broad and specific and trying different databases. I didn’t (and still don’t) know if I was using the wrong approach in my research methods. Should I have done things differently? I don’t know. I had about twenty sources so far, it was too late to turn back. What was I to do? Tuesday afternoon I had to finish up a report for another class that, thank goodness, was mostly done except for some editing. For most of the morning on Tuesday I researched sources for my bibliography, finished editing my report for Tuesday night’s class, and upon my return from class that evening ended up in the ER….[Here is where ENG 601: The Blog's post ends]
Now, before you get too excited, it wasn’t me or the children. It was only Jamie, my husband, having continuous chest pain and shortness of breath. After about half an hour of pleading and yelling I convinced him to let me drive him to the hospital. Which was a bad idea, but if I wasn’t afraid that he was having a heart attack I would have made him drive his ass to the hospital himself. But I dragged us all to the hospital sans dinner and baby wipes—which I might have survived without except that as soon as Arabella had her bottle she pooped. Yay. Instead of returning to the hospital to wait and see the results of Jamie’s EKG and chest x-ray I took the girls home. By the time we arrived they were all asleep. After an hour spent getting the baby back to sleep after changing her and eating some dinner myself, I called the hospital. He was still in the waiting room. Sometime after 1 AM I dozed off. When I woke up I was drenched in sweat and the light on the phone was flashing. Jamie had called about 2:30. It was almost 3. I called the hospital.
“Your husband was discharged already,” the lady who answered the phone had hit a few keys and explained matter-of-factly before hanging up.
Hmm…apparently not a heart attack. He arrived home via one of our good friends just as I had loaded all the girls back into the car and was backing out of the driveway. The paperwork he showed me said, “Diagnosis: chest pain.” The recommendations were to see a specialist (they suspected pleurisy), quit smoking, and take aleve for the pain. With Jamie safely at home—and not suffering a heart attack, I spent a little while working on my bibliography research before going to bed.
Wednesday was spent working on my homework and fending off Addison, once again, and making a trip to an appointment. Let me just say that getting to an appointment lately has consisted of a lot of rescheduling and making arrangements with kind family and friends for child care. Going anywhere that I can’t take all the children means that I have to leave at least an hour early to factor in drive time to drop the kids off with my oh-so-generous sister-in-law, get to an appointment (or class) and account for the drive time back. Needless to say, it takes me several hours to do anything that requires having someone else take care of the kids. Well, actually, it takes a while to do anything that involves me dragging all three girls along with me, too. At bed time Addison would not lay down by herself, insisting that I had to lay down with her. I fell asleep almost immediately and when Arabella woke up hungry at 12 and 3 AM I got back up. At 3 I stayed up until about five trying frantically to finish my bibliography assignment. I was back up at 7 for another feeding and to get Anna-Lee up for school.
I ran out of steam, coffee, and printer ink. Today was not the greatest day. It wasn’t the worst day of my life, but it could have been better. Everyone and their dog was on 265 this afternoon and I was running late. By the time I dropped the girls off I had about ten minutes to make it down to campus. I was late for class, had to pee (as always), and was slick with sweat by the time I stepped inside the ______ building. It is too hot. It’s officially fall and it’s way too fucking hot.
Today wasn’t a good day. This hasn’t been the best of years for me. I feel like I am being pushed to my absolute limits. That’s fine. It’s going to be OK. Because, cosmos man, I can take whatever it is that you dish out. What other choice do I have?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
"Moonlight Sonata"--Beethoven
8 17 2010
My love for music was transferred to my daughter, not surprisingly, and she is napping now to classical music. But any music is enjoyable for her, I suppose. She likes it when we listen to the radio, or when I sing along to my favorite CDs. The classical CD I put on for her now begins with Moonlight Sonata, and for some reason it reminded me of the strange dreams I have been having the past few nights. That, and Interview with the Vampire. Either way, for me it creates a haunting feeling that is both disturbing and beautiful.
In my dreams Mom is always alive. It is as if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, the truths that we hold to be our reality had all been shattered and death did not separate us. In the first dream she was seated on a beautiful turquoise sofa, wearing a shirt of a similar shade. She told me that she loved me more than anything in the whole world. I hugged her and she was real and solid and the fabric of the shirt on my face felt like the turquoise sweatshirt that she had once given me. But I knew these things had to be impossible, and yet, seated before me was my mother, telling me that she loved me. And I screamed. I was terrified suddenly, for reasons not apparent to my dream self. All around us was mist, like my imagination of the heavens, fluffy clouds and things appearing seemingly out of nothingness. Rather than feeling blissful, thankful, or hopeful at seeing my mother, hugging her, and hearing her voice, I felt only terror. Now I don’t know a lot about dream interpretation, but maybe I was afraid that she was still dead and that I was dead too, coming to heaven to finally see her again. That was what terrified me.
Last night my dreams were confusing. First I dreamed that we were at home—at my parent’s house, and that all my clothes were spread out on the sofa bed in the living room and I was flitting around in only my underwear, which was fine until someone who wasn’t family came in suddenly. So I ended up digging for my favorite pair of jeans and a shirt, any shirt, while modestly covering my breasts with one arm. And then the scene changed, we were having dinner—Thanksgiving or some other such holiday in which lots of relatives are present—at what appeared to be an apartment, rented by one sibling or another. The table was low and narrow, I remarked that the place made me feel like a giant (and a 5’2”, that’s saying something), but there seemed to be enough room for everyone. We were circling the kitchen, which was sunny and yellow, and my aunts were there. We were missing my mother, but she was there, too. A line had formed along the counter and we filled our plates. And suddenly Mom was saying something, something I didn’t like or appreciate and I was arguing with her. I was telling her that they would think I was crazy. And they did. Everyone had stopped to look at me from their seats at the table, and I was standing, plate in hand, arguing with my dead mother, whom they could not see or hear. She wanted me to tell them something, and the refusal that had started the argument had revealed my greatest fear. That they would think I was crazy for seeing and talking to my dead mother.
When that terrifying scene ended as suddenly as it had begun I was whisked away to some beach. It was a lake rather than an ocean, and though the beach was sand, it was a muddy dirty sort of sandy substance that in no way resembled the white sand beaches of my childhood vacations. And Mom was gone again. No feeling of her, no apprehension of her ghostly presence. But things were going very wrong. The water was rising, there was some sort of flood and Hugh Laurie, as House, was floating face down in the water. I was close, and helped some men fish him out, only to be completely submerged in a never before televised scene of House. His colleagues were arguing about his brushes with death, whether they should be concerned with losing him, especially after this latest near drowning incident. From behind his desk, one hand clutching his cane as he was about to rise, he said, “Don’t worry about it, this is only season three. If I die now, there won’t be another season. We all know how this ends.”
I exploded into awareness from this last bizarre dreamscape and tried to shake off the feeling of dread that came with seeing and hugging my mother in the turquoise sweatshirt. I have often wondered what happens to people when they die. Is it nothingness, do you get a chance to hang around and haunt people or places, or is there really a heaven and hell? Now more than ever I would like to know the answer to these questions, and yet, finding out the answers for myself terrifies me. I want my mother back. I want her to be here with me. I don’t want her to be dead. I don’t want to die.
My love for music was transferred to my daughter, not surprisingly, and she is napping now to classical music. But any music is enjoyable for her, I suppose. She likes it when we listen to the radio, or when I sing along to my favorite CDs. The classical CD I put on for her now begins with Moonlight Sonata, and for some reason it reminded me of the strange dreams I have been having the past few nights. That, and Interview with the Vampire. Either way, for me it creates a haunting feeling that is both disturbing and beautiful.
In my dreams Mom is always alive. It is as if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, the truths that we hold to be our reality had all been shattered and death did not separate us. In the first dream she was seated on a beautiful turquoise sofa, wearing a shirt of a similar shade. She told me that she loved me more than anything in the whole world. I hugged her and she was real and solid and the fabric of the shirt on my face felt like the turquoise sweatshirt that she had once given me. But I knew these things had to be impossible, and yet, seated before me was my mother, telling me that she loved me. And I screamed. I was terrified suddenly, for reasons not apparent to my dream self. All around us was mist, like my imagination of the heavens, fluffy clouds and things appearing seemingly out of nothingness. Rather than feeling blissful, thankful, or hopeful at seeing my mother, hugging her, and hearing her voice, I felt only terror. Now I don’t know a lot about dream interpretation, but maybe I was afraid that she was still dead and that I was dead too, coming to heaven to finally see her again. That was what terrified me.
Last night my dreams were confusing. First I dreamed that we were at home—at my parent’s house, and that all my clothes were spread out on the sofa bed in the living room and I was flitting around in only my underwear, which was fine until someone who wasn’t family came in suddenly. So I ended up digging for my favorite pair of jeans and a shirt, any shirt, while modestly covering my breasts with one arm. And then the scene changed, we were having dinner—Thanksgiving or some other such holiday in which lots of relatives are present—at what appeared to be an apartment, rented by one sibling or another. The table was low and narrow, I remarked that the place made me feel like a giant (and a 5’2”, that’s saying something), but there seemed to be enough room for everyone. We were circling the kitchen, which was sunny and yellow, and my aunts were there. We were missing my mother, but she was there, too. A line had formed along the counter and we filled our plates. And suddenly Mom was saying something, something I didn’t like or appreciate and I was arguing with her. I was telling her that they would think I was crazy. And they did. Everyone had stopped to look at me from their seats at the table, and I was standing, plate in hand, arguing with my dead mother, whom they could not see or hear. She wanted me to tell them something, and the refusal that had started the argument had revealed my greatest fear. That they would think I was crazy for seeing and talking to my dead mother.
When that terrifying scene ended as suddenly as it had begun I was whisked away to some beach. It was a lake rather than an ocean, and though the beach was sand, it was a muddy dirty sort of sandy substance that in no way resembled the white sand beaches of my childhood vacations. And Mom was gone again. No feeling of her, no apprehension of her ghostly presence. But things were going very wrong. The water was rising, there was some sort of flood and Hugh Laurie, as House, was floating face down in the water. I was close, and helped some men fish him out, only to be completely submerged in a never before televised scene of House. His colleagues were arguing about his brushes with death, whether they should be concerned with losing him, especially after this latest near drowning incident. From behind his desk, one hand clutching his cane as he was about to rise, he said, “Don’t worry about it, this is only season three. If I die now, there won’t be another season. We all know how this ends.”
I exploded into awareness from this last bizarre dreamscape and tried to shake off the feeling of dread that came with seeing and hugging my mother in the turquoise sweatshirt. I have often wondered what happens to people when they die. Is it nothingness, do you get a chance to hang around and haunt people or places, or is there really a heaven and hell? Now more than ever I would like to know the answer to these questions, and yet, finding out the answers for myself terrifies me. I want my mother back. I want her to be here with me. I don’t want her to be dead. I don’t want to die.
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