Kathydo’s Weblog

People often say they hate hospitals. They’re depressing, drab, sterile and that smell… You can’t shake that smell a hospital has. I spent a lot of time at Vancouver General while working at Cafe Ami, but it never really felt like I was at the hospital. Confined in the warm steamy brews and rich aromas, it wasn’t half bad. The only time I really felt uncomfortable working in that setting was when I saw the misery in some of the patients’ eyes as they made their way down for a coffee. Worse was the sadness in the visitors’ eyes.

Since my mom’s been in the hospital, I’ve come to experience the hospital in a whole different way. Walking the long corridors to the spine unit, I am overcome with so much emotion. I’m mostly concerned for my mother’s comfort and well-being but seeing other patients in the unit is really haunting. Since we’re in the spine unit, there are lots of people who are paralysed (or look to be) and I feel so overwhelmed by the pain. It doesn’t help that the poor gentlemen sharing my mom’s room is moaning for pain meds all day.

I’ve seen how such a major surgery can strip a person of their pride and dignity. My mom, the ever-giving caretaker she is, feels helpless and it breaks my heart. How is it such an independent woman whose raised 3 grown children can become so small and innocent so fast? To make matters worse, being a care aide herself, my mom refuses to over-burden the nurses by asking for help unless urgent and necessary. This means she’ll sit in the cold hoping someone will drop by to get her a blanket rather than asking for one. Or spending the entire night thirsty so not to bother for another cup of water. Even at the time she should lean on everyone the most, she still tries her best to bear her own burden.

I’ve come to see the dynamics of healthcare too. Just a small glimpse in this small ward. The amazing attentive nurses who truly care. And also, the nonchalant, ever-rushed nurses who leave you feeling empty and colder than before. I feel bad I can’t be with my mom at all times to ensure she’s getting the best of the best. I know for the most part it’s been ok but I also know as days wear on, they start counting her as another bedrester that can be used for a new patient. And that thought makes my mom fear to press the little red button for help.

I don’t hate hospitals. I am thankful for the care and attention my mom has received. But the reality is, the limitations of the hospital aren’t the fault of any of the staff; they are working so hard with the resources they have. And I know VGH is the best of the best and she’ll be fine when the healing is complete. But right now, I can’t help but feel lost turning every corridor, entering that 9th floor room, and knowing that I can’t alleviate any of my mom’s discomfort.

I hate the food though. Blech.

There are things that I know and things I imagine about her life. The one thing I know is that it is often filled with a deep sadness that has no reason to exist yet appears more frequently than not. I know that she is pushed to tears, triggered to remember unhappy memories and reduced to a self-pitying state that squeezes at her heart and seizes her throat in silent gulps. Watching her and witnessing such grief makes me want to jump and scream at the world for causing this pain. But most often, I am silent and offer nothing but a grim smile and a pat on the knee.

I know the source of her happiness is simple. She just wants to have reason to be proud. She wants the smiles to be genuine and the worries to be light, not heavy. She wants us to surround her with our warmth and she’ll be warmed. She wants love, affection and a laugh. But despite knowing all of this, we offer up solitude, lonely nights and a cold house as gifts. That’s all we are capable of.

I want to hold her but my arms won’t extend. I want to share my happiness but I selfishly cling to my own pleasure. I want to wipe her tears but don’t want my shirt to get wet.

I know she is sad but she thinks she’s not letting on. She thinks her happy facade has tricked us all these years. She thinks maybe everyone lives like this and it’s ok because at least it’s not always like this… right?

I want her to know that I love her and I imagine she knows it despite my inaction. I imagine somehow she knows how to extract this from me and everyone else and I hope that it’s enough.

I really wish I had a true passion for something. Riding bikes, papercraft, floor hockey, stocks… Something that I would be interested in really keeping updated with and be well-knowledged about. But I am finding sadly that I don’t have any hobbies or interests that can really hold my attention. I feel if I do enjoy something, its fleeting; I’ll find something to replace it later.

I can blame my short attention span on the Internet. That place where a world of facts, multimedia, breaking news, tricks, cute puppies, evolving dance men come together and compete for your attention. Where you start by clicking one link and within 5 minutes your browser is full of 10 other interesting topics that have caught your eye. I tried to organize my random clicking by subscribing to certain RSS feeds but my fav, Metafilter, is simply a place where people submit interesting, and unrelated articles and links. My favourite RSS is the one that has no common theme. Just like me.

I can blame this age of technology on my attention span of a gnat. But that’d be a cop out.

Stupid Internet.

I can never get used to not talking. It’s painful and I wish I didn’t always resort to such a destructive tactic.

I hold a secret very dear to my heart and though I don’t think about it everyday, there are times I draw upon this memory to make me laugh, smile, cry and reflect on. This secret is a combination of my peak of happiness and the worst feelings of my life.

I wish beyond all to be put through an exciting moment once again and a test for my heart’s capacity to feel and be squeezed. But the fear I now slowly creep towards advises me that the moment then was written to stay that moment and this, what I have now is all I have left.

I fear that I will spend my whole life looking to recreate that feeling that I had strolling on an arched bridge.

I cannot figure out how to listen to my heart or my head so I act in haste and let snap judgements and sentences guide me.

I am trying to remember the last time I felt awed.

I love that you cherish your friends and speak highly of them because they are dear to you. I want you to know you are beautiful too.

I can count the friends I truly want to keep on less than 1 hand.

i am beginning to lose my spirit and the passion that has brought me to where i am. i have not found a single moment to call a friend to make sure she is ok. i have not said hi to my mom and am annoyed at her mom-ness. i don’t want anyone to touch me, talk to me, or be with me when i am thinking about work. this job has consumed me and i put on a brave front and accept that i am not doing very well anymore.

it’s going to go by and i am not going to care anymore.

Girl douchebags? There must be.

Guy dbs just have flamboyant looking sunglasses, skinny pants and a cocky demeanour. Guy dbs know they are dbs.

Girl douchebags are usually very pretty and they know it. That’s not a reason to dislike them though. There are plenty of reasons for that.

Girl dbs think they are cultured and lament about how some ethnic foods are “authentic” enough and they’ve had the real thing in the real country somewhere or other. However, when you present them with something out of the norm sourced locally, all of a sudden “that’s disgusting.” Actually, Vancouver is so diverse you can get food here that is just as authentic as if you got it in its ethnic origin. And no, it’s not disgusting, it is food that people eat because 1) they have to 2) they have created a delicacy 3) you’re a jerk.

Girls dbs think they have the best taste in music and look at you weird when you reminisce about cheesy high school music. They also get pouty when you won’t listen to what they want you to test out and they think that something is extra cool because they know the guy that makes the music. Knowing someone who is a DJ doesn’t make the music good. It makes you look more douchey.

Girl dbs pretend they are all modest and quiet but when it is their turn to talk in a group, they say something that they hope will get the crowd talking. Like something random that sounds sort of educated but really isn’t because it was a major news story 50 years go. Or something that is tooting her own horn without being quite so blatant.

Girl dbs can talk for so long and not actually tell you anything new but they do it in a way where it vaguely sounds like they are saying something important. Politer people listen to the drivel and hope to extract some meaning. I just start zoning out.

Girl dbs think they are very busy and productive but typing fast doesn’t make you productive when you are FB chatting.

Girl dbs turn into crazy bitches when they are stressed and turn on the silent treatment in the most inappropriate setting. Yet, they get whiney when you are stressed and need to concentrate and can’t be bothered with their daily annoyances.

Girl dbs complain about EVERYTHING. Girl dbs have this unearned sense of privelege they they expect and have standards that always have to be met or else they will broodingly complain. Except, girl dbs insist they are “real” and “down to earth.”

There must be a word for girl douchebags… right?