Six seconds of my life

The woman next to me has an answer - the answer.

Excitedly, she raises her arm and her high-pitched, Fran Drescher voice rings out: "Well, this is our brain expert right here. Go ahead, tell him what you told me." Her left hand made contact with my right shoulder in an effort of encouragement and her head nodded wildly, lightly curled hair bobbing in tandem against her forehead. Yes, I told her a little about basic brain structures. Yes, I revealed to her that I majored in psychology. Yes, I told her that I once held a research assistantship with the Idaho Neurological Institute. But this was during our peer time, during our group discussion time. This wasn't during the time that I was trying to show off or stand out. This wasn't information I intended to share with thirty other adults - thirty strangers - with whom I just wanted more than anything to belong, to fit in. I just wanted to be one of them - to be like them - not to be a wild individual capable of standing up to the teacher.

But the teacher, in response to the words "expert" and "go ahead" without a raised hand, but instead with a loud and excited voice, walked three steps in the direction of our table, eyebrows raised, nose pointed at my nose. He said nothing. He merely looked. He looked at me. He expected me to speak. He expected me to share wisdom with the rest of the class, perhaps wisdom he did not already contain or wisdom that would provide him with new information or a new perspective.

As the blood rushed to my head, warming my core and flushing my cheeks it brought a rush of thought to the forefront of my mind. None of it an answer. Nothing brilliant. All of it excuses for why I should not talk.

I don't know what she's talking about. I'm no expert. I was only a psychology major. My natural emphasis was in English - that's why I am here! My assistantship was only for a summer. And I never actually saw any brains. I was stuck in a lab the whole time reading old charts and stuffy medical books. I don't want to speak out. I don't want to speak up. I don't want to show off my knowledge. I just want to fit in, to be part of the crowd today. This is inappropriate. I don't even know what she is talking about. Wait, I can't say that. I can't give him an excuse. Look at him, his eyebrows are raised. He's waiting for something from me. Is he waiting for me to say something stupid? Is he waiting for me to correct him? Is he trying to check my arrogance? My creativity? My experience? My legitimacy? I have to say something. Say it like a student. Include her in the answer. If I include her in the answer, it isn't all about me and I stand out less.

I straightened up slightly in my chair, sweating in my tank top in the ice cold room, and opened my mouth to deliver what I hoped would sound like an eloquntly prepared response.

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I recently took a class that was far more like summer camp than a class. Sandra, who mentioned it in a comment below, was my only saving grace in this endeavor. It was three weeks of people crying, talking about their miracle children (who were just normal kids with nothing special to boast), musing about their miracle spouses (who were just normal spouses with nothing special to boast), making "Where are the tissues?" jokes, turning EVERYTHING into some sort of sexual innuendo, and extolling the rejuvenating, inspirational qualities of the class. It was wretched. On the final day of class, it took them two full hours to say good bye to each other. Everyone needed thanked, and hugged and then someone had to take a picture and then someone else had something touching to say and then the box of tissues needed to be found and another "Where are the tissues?" joke erupted among the masses. For so much time during this class, I was acutely aware of the minutes of my life I was wasting - the minutes that I would never, never see again. There was some learning - about three hours a day after the first three days - but even that was touch and go. I took the class because a professor I trust told me that I would absolutely love it and that it would be instrumental in my teaching career. I took it because he somehow had me fooled into thinking it was free - something I learned was contrary to the truth 90% of the way through the class. But alas, it is over and I will never have those three weeks or that $700 again. And if someone sees this "internship credit" on my transcript or resume when I apply for teaching positions, what will I say to them? I will tell them it was inspirational, one of the most influential classes of my college career that has truly shaped the way I instruct a classroom.

I can understand why people like morphine.

Saturday I came down with the worst case of the stomach flu known to man. Since then, my days have been filled with sleeping, Kelly catering to my every need, sleeping, and trying to choke down a 200-per-day calorie diet. Add to that abdominal pains and the gross effects of the stomach flu and you have a fairly accurate idea of my misery lately. Sunday night Kelly and I went to the hospital because I was getting worse and was in such agony with pain and the inability to maintain even the smallest amount of water. They gave me morphine...atop other things that helped. It took away the pain and placed me in a happy, hazy place where I slept in utter content. There were no worries. All I knew was that Kelly was next to me and I was comfortable for the first time in two days. It was bliss.

So the next time you get down on that old woman who lives three houses away because she can't live without her next morphine fix, just understand that she's in a far, far better place than you could ever offer her for that length of time and smile knowing that she's happy and sleepy and has too little energy or care to fret over you.

Radley's brush with the afterlife.

Friday, we went camping with some friends up in Stanley. Saturday afternoon we went mountain biking with said friends on a pretty easy trail. Since it was supposed to be an easy trail we took Radley with us because we always take him to do stuff like that with us. We're always taking him trail running or biking with us and when we play ball with him it's for sometimes more than an hour and sometimes in the direct sun. But Saturday was not a good day for the pup. When we got about a mile into the ten-mile trail, Radley went kaput. We had stopped for a drink so I poured him a drink too. But he was all off balance and his eyes weren't focusing on anything - not even me and Kelly, who were talking to him and telling him to drink water. I told Kelly we needed to get him out of there so Kelly left his bike, picked up Radley, and started running down the mountain. Through our own fear and the help of a friend we were able to get Radley to the bottom of the hill and into the airconditioned car in about ten minutes and both my bike and Kelly's bike into the back of another friend's pickup. Through a scary course of events that included more help from the awesome lady at the emergency clinic in Stanley, my nursing skills and Kelly's mad driving skills, we got Raddogg to a vet who said that he had recovered just fine. The vet said that Radley had heat exhaustion - borderline heat stroke - and that it sounded like he had had a seizure when we were carrying him down the hill. But he promised us that everything with Radley was back to normal and that he was again a healthy functioning dog. After we left the vet's office, Kelly and I realized just how scared we had been because we felt the release of the stress. Radley slept the hour-long drive back to the camp site and Kelly and I breathed for the first time since Rad fell. He's precious, our boy.