Robin Williams is dead.
Peter Pan ran out of happy thoughts. There, it's said. Like any successful entertainer would want, I'd expect, he touched a lot of people with his work. It's OK, people, everyone will get a turn with the doll to show us where the bad man touched you.
HA! I'd like to think he'd have appreciated that. I've had the benefit of getting to see the full span of his career. I'd like to have seen him go longer, but I'm glad he didn't OD years earlier. I'm sorry he fell to depression sufficient drive him to suicide. With any luck, the story will end there and we won't find out he was murdered by a loved one like Phil Hartman, we won't have an unsolved homicide like George Reeves, or learn it was an autoerotic asphyxiation like David Carradine (which I totally knew was how Carradine must've died from the instant I heard of his "suicide"). Lots of comedians make claims to being driven by darker emotions. It's sad to see that pain consume them, especially when they've brought so much joy to their fans.
Well, that's not really telling anything special.
Really, I just wanted to note the date and the passing.
Mr. Williams stood out with his comedic creativity and acting talent. He was a rare brightness in a field where comics and actors are easily replaceable. Certainly, there's no telling when we may see someone approximating his unique spark again.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Friday, August 8, 2014
17502--New World
NEW WORLD
To promote continued interest in the project among children and bolster their sense of community, the town’s school included associated research assignments every year as part of the students’ curriculum. The only kid who had had the insight and testicular fortitude to call the site commander’s office directly since the project began had asked to meet him for an interview. Given the nature of his job--what he had come to see as the real nature of it--the commander didn’t see how he could refuse.
When the student arrived at the bookstore’s coffee shop, the commander had hot chocolate waiting for him.
“Order what you like,” the inspiring hero told him. “I tip big, but they refuse to charge me here.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy said, sniffing at the steaming liquid as he pulled the cup toward him.
“I know that look,” the man told his guest. “It’s the best they have, but it’s made with water. Sorry.”
The kid leaned back in his chair as he opened his notebook. He frowned thoughtfully as he looked up at the living legend across the table, trying not to seem intimidated.
“Go ahead,” the commander told him. “Ask what’s on your mind.”
“It’s just…you don’t seem like…in your book,” he said.
The commander glanced again at the copy of New World Brave the wide-eyed boy had dragged along, his own face staring back at him from the cover was less like a mirror and struck him as more akin to some other version from an alternate universe.
“If you’re planning to hold me up to some sort of chapter and verse scrutiny from that thing,” the commander said, “you should probably know…I didn’t write it.”
“What?” the youth asked, clearly dazed by the revelation. “You…but…”
“Something you read in there inspired you, didn’t it?” the commander asked.
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes drifting to the book on the table as though it had become some alien thing he had never seen before. “I want to be a pilot…like you, maybe even on one of the starships that comes out of here.”
The commander stared into the boy’s sincere eyes and reached out a hand as he said, “Give me your recorder.”
The boy surrendered the handheld device, sliding it across the table.
“And the pen and notebook,” the commander said, taking up the pen and starting to scribble in the notebook immediately. “I’m going to tell you some things, things you probably won’t get to repeat to anyone while I’m still alive. Think you can handle that?”
“I…Yes, sir.”
“Good,” the commander said, returning the notebook and pen, “that’s what I wanted to hear. You guard that. It’s top secret. When we’re done, if you think you still want to ride one of the big command chairs, we can probably get you there together.”
“Uh…OK,” the student said, puzzled as he deciphered the scribbles. “Like wingmen?”
“Yeah, like wingmen. Take these,” the commander told him, handing him the silver wings pin from his own uniform, “and we can talk pilot-to-pilot.”
As if the wings weren’t enough, even the suggestion that he was about to have a conversation with his hero on some level where they acted like equals was enough to make the young student’s mind reel. The best thing he could think to say in response was nothing because he was sure that anything he had to say would make him sound stupid.
“You’re what…twelve?”
“Thirteen.”
“So you’ve probably seen movies based on a true story,” the pepper-haired commander said, “when you’ve known the true story was way, way different.”
“You’re saying that’s what happened with your book?”
“That steaming crap pile they massaged into the shape of a book tells little of the life I remember going through,” he said. “They spelled my name right and I’m a pilot. Beyond that…Hell, they even messed with the picture on the cover. I think they used some kind of focus group to decide on changes.”
“You keep saying ‘they’,” the boy said. “Who did all this? Is that a secret, too?”
“Part of a government project,” the commander said. “Specifically, the damned politicians. They wanted to create a perfect PR hero.”
“What’s that?” the boy asked.
“Public relations,” came the answer. “A neat package, planned, manufactured and sold to the people like a boy band.”
“A what?” the boy asked, sounding even more confused by the obscure reference.
“Before your time,” the commander said. “The point is, New World Brave was just a piece of a larger plan. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. First truth: I love to fly more than almost anything. I fly in my dreams and if I could go without food or rest, I’d never stop flying. I started in private planes, which became military aircraft in an eye blink. Before long, people were calling me a war hero everywhere I went and expecting me to smile about it. The only way I saw to get real distance from it was to keep flying. By my third Mars mission, they were trying to talk me into this assignment. I, naturally, flew the first manned recon team to Titan instead. If I could’ve mustered up just a bit more selfishness, you’d be at this table with someone else.”
“The book never explained that part well,” the junior pilot said. “Why’d you give up flying? How could you when you love it so much?”
“Let me tell you, I’d have kept fighting it,” the commander replied, “if not for the Titan mission. After that, it was impossible for me to ignore any longer how important it was for us that we expand our presence beyond this planet as fast as possible. Politicians or not, even with most of this job being nothing like what it seems to be--”
“You really don’t like politicians, do you?”
“They lie as easily as breathing comes to most people,” the commander said, “and complicate absolutely every issue they touch. I’m supposed to be heading this project. Thanks to them, though, the work’s been scattered across half the country and it’s been turned into a PR job to keep everyone excited about having jobs.”
“My mom says we’d barely have enough to eat if not for coming here.”
“You and a lot of others,” the commander said. “Same for a lot of folks in the couple of dozen places that support this one. Most of my job ends up being coordinating parts shipments.”
“That’s a long way from flying,” the boy said sympathetically.
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, why couldn’t they have gotten…anybody else to come here and do this?”
“They needed the right name,” the commander said, “and the right face to be associated with the project.”
“Oh, a hero.”
“Still not comfortable with that,” he sighed, “but, yeah. They needed to make sure our big baby gets off the ground.”
“Our hope for the future,” the boy said. “You’ll get to go up with it, then, right?”
“At my age?” he laughed. “I’ll be dead before that ship ever flies, probably when my head explodes from screaming at some clown in Congress.”
“Why is it so important to them that we get the new ship out there?” the boy asked. “I mean, really?”
“Ah, you’re catching on,” the commander smiled slyly. “Yes, they’ve got a lot of great stories about all the wonderful benefits that justify us rushing off into space, but none of them are anything more than half-truths.”
“Because politicians lie.”
“Smart kid,” the commander said. “That Titan recon…”
“You found something out there. You did, didn’t you?”
“Hey, keep your voice down,” the commander said.
“You did.”
“Something, yes,” the commander confirmed quietly. “We’re still not sure what. All we do know is that it distorted our instrument readings and…that I was the only one to make it back alive. I cared more about flying circles around Titan than about going down to the surface. We lost comms during my second orbit. When I flew over, my cameras got pictures of…I don’t know what. It was nothing anyone could’ve been alive in.”
“So you broke orbit?”
“Mission orders,” the commander said. “Always keep flying, kid.”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, after I got back,” the living legend went on, “they made up a cover story and I realized there was no way they were going to let me take another team back out there. They watch me, study me. I think they’re waiting to see if I grow another eye.”
The boy laughed, till he realized the commander was not.
“OK, wait, sir,” the lieutenant commander insisted. “Stop there. Let’s say I believe you: you really knew him, were mentored by a legend, and his book that inspired a generation was a load of…*ahem* Why, sir, may I ask, do you have a metal cylinder strapped into my chair?”
“He liked the feel of that chair. He said he never wanted to get used to this one, since he wasn’t going to get to fly her. Don’t worry about it, though,” the captain said, taking the canister from the navigator’s seat. “The bottom’s magnetized. It’ll attach to the deck plate. Taking the commander along as ashes, though, is the only way I’m getting him back up there.”
“Since we’re sharing, captain,” the navigator said, “what was the secret he wrote in your notebook? Was it about the recon mission?”
“Secret hot chocolate recipe,” he said. “I’ll make us some before we get near Titan and open the sealed mission orders.”
“I’m not going to like what’s in there, am I?”
“Probably not as much as the hot chocolate,” the answer came, “but we’re going in with the best possible crew and a lot of great training. Whatever we find out there, the three of us will do our best to keep this beauty flying. Can we count on you?”
“I’m your wingman, sir.”
Monday, July 28, 2014
17491--Guesswork and Bloodletting
The assassins had failed again.
I was in ICU, enduring incorrect meal orders, bouts of tedious questioning about how I was feeling (often including the assurance that I had been in great health before whatever they'd done to me during my toe repair surgery), breathing exercises and blood draws.
"No, I came here to get my broken toes fixed," I said, "not for symptoms of respiratory problems that I didn't have before the anesthesia procedure I asked not to be done."
Let's see, broke toes Tuesday night, surgery Wednesday evening, awake again Thursday, so it was Thursday when the orthopedist showed up in my ICU room. I liked him. He was an entertaining mix and usually managed to find a smile.
"Hey, you were one hundred percent right," he told me. "I heard about what happened after the surgery. We should not have put you under."
Did he know how to bring an apology, or what? Granted, not so hard when you're not to blame, but still a great apology.
"I'm sorry you're having trouble," he said, "but on the bright side, our part went great. How do your toes feel?"
For the toes, hey, no problem. There was no pain, no tingling, no numbness, and no discoloration. There was (and at this writing remain) a long steel pin extending from beyond the tip through to the base of each toe (the little piggy that had roast beef and the little piggy that had none; weeweewee is fine), but no pain. Based on people's poorly hidden reactions, I'm going to assume it's supposed to hurt. I'm quite content with not having that part of the experience. I'm not sure If that costs me experience points in this game, but I'm sure I took that into consideration when I created the character and I'm not going to start second-guessing myself this far into things.
I really felt like most of my inability to take a deep breath was more connected to the irritated feeling in my throat. It was less like a sore throat and more akin to sprinting in cold weather. Trying to breathe deeply would set off coughing after a couple of seconds. If that was due to the double intubation, it should heal, right. Of course, I was also coughing up bloody phlegm. No, I hadn't been doing that before. Someone actually asked me about how I normally dealt with these symptoms I was--Hey! Stop. Wearing a white coat doesn't make you smart. I don't normally deal with any of these things or have a primary care provider because I normally feel freaking awesome. I pay attention to what I eat, drink more than a gallon of water a day, exercise daily, and don't have to listen to doctors who make me feel worse than when I came to see them for a simple mechanical fix.
This patient's humors are out of balance! Time for another bloodletting!
There were a few bright spots to my stay in the hospital, with doctors, nurses, nurse assistants and even volunteers among them. There were also idiots who, sadly, probably don't know who they are because they failed to register either my sarcasm or my blunt honesty.
Saturday, my oxygen saturation maintaining at an acceptable level with supplemental oxygen, I was moved from ICU to a normal patient room. I was still being given antibiotics, a blood thinner, and not enough food. The hospital's idea of a normal diet was something I really wanted to use some of my free time to discuss with whoever was in charge of nutrition for the place. It consisted of far too many carbohydrates and not enough protein and so many things that I just wasn't going to eat.
The attending anesthesiologist came for a visit a few hours after I'd gotten to my new room. She claimed to be sympathetic, but also maintained that she would make the same decisions again. She also expressed one theory that I might have experienced a negative pressure pulmonary embolism, something that was known to occur in higher mass patients. I failed to see the logic in insisting on a procedure that was a known risk for a patient because of his body type when another options was available and requested. We failed to reach a point of agreement.
Sunday, I stopped using the supplemental oxygen. My tongue was still half-numb, which I found as bizarre as the fact that over two weeks later it still hasn't fully recovered all sensation. Regardless, I was and remain very dedicated to deep breathing. Blame it on all the years of martial arts training. It meant enduring a lot of coughing, but I was forcing more breath after each coughing fit so I persisted. I think I mentioned lots of free time, so I was back to notebook scribblings interrupted by bouts of exercise. I received a visit from another orthopedic doctor. I'd seen different people from orthopedics every day. This one seemed nervous. His voice was shaky and so was his handshake. The nurse and I decided he must've been one of the eight men who'd had to wrestle me after surgery.
My vital sign readings had gotten back to normal, for me, and there were rumors I might be discharged. Hooray! There was also talk of a chest CT scan. Much of Sunday was spent waiting on word of which event was going to happen. The scan won out and happened late that afternoon. *sigh* Chest X-rays before and after I was awake hadn't shown them anything conclusive, the doctor claiming that there was too much muscle to see through well, but that he didn't see anything of concern.
From the CT scan, they decided that I'd been left with a pulmonary embolism, blood clotting in each lung. I'd progressed to exclusively dry coughs, no blood, but the next step in the plan then was to be blood thinning therapy, dissolving the clots over the course of several months. That was also going to mean ongoing doctor visits for monitoring to make sure that my blood to poison ratio was kept at an appropriate level. To begin the process, it was also going to mean keeping me in the hospital where they could monitor me until they managed to achieve the desired level before releasing me back into the wild. That resulted in another week in the hospital, feeling well but trapped, futile pokings by people hunting for blood vessels, and a doctor who learned to deliver updates with an apology and on the run.
Nice guy, but he liked to stay out of arm's reach.
Now, home again and being mindful of my skewered toes, I've begun dealing with the inefficiencies and stupid questions of a primary care physician and waiting on lab work. I've yet to encounter any part of all this that's made me unhappy about having as little interaction with the medical profession as possible over the years, nor to make me think I won't resume that practice ASAP. It always seems to come back to bloodletting, doesn't it? The trappings have gotten prettier over the last seven hundred years, but a hospital's still a gilded cage at best and there's still so much guessing going on in there. I'm waiting for somebody to come at me with stone knives and bear skins, realizing that my theory about a voodoo doll likeness of me out there somewhere with sharp pains in its foot may not be so far fetched.
There's no place like home.
I was in ICU, enduring incorrect meal orders, bouts of tedious questioning about how I was feeling (often including the assurance that I had been in great health before whatever they'd done to me during my toe repair surgery), breathing exercises and blood draws.
"No, I came here to get my broken toes fixed," I said, "not for symptoms of respiratory problems that I didn't have before the anesthesia procedure I asked not to be done."
Let's see, broke toes Tuesday night, surgery Wednesday evening, awake again Thursday, so it was Thursday when the orthopedist showed up in my ICU room. I liked him. He was an entertaining mix and usually managed to find a smile.
"Hey, you were one hundred percent right," he told me. "I heard about what happened after the surgery. We should not have put you under."
Did he know how to bring an apology, or what? Granted, not so hard when you're not to blame, but still a great apology.
"I'm sorry you're having trouble," he said, "but on the bright side, our part went great. How do your toes feel?"
For the toes, hey, no problem. There was no pain, no tingling, no numbness, and no discoloration. There was (and at this writing remain) a long steel pin extending from beyond the tip through to the base of each toe (the little piggy that had roast beef and the little piggy that had none; weeweewee is fine), but no pain. Based on people's poorly hidden reactions, I'm going to assume it's supposed to hurt. I'm quite content with not having that part of the experience. I'm not sure If that costs me experience points in this game, but I'm sure I took that into consideration when I created the character and I'm not going to start second-guessing myself this far into things.
I really felt like most of my inability to take a deep breath was more connected to the irritated feeling in my throat. It was less like a sore throat and more akin to sprinting in cold weather. Trying to breathe deeply would set off coughing after a couple of seconds. If that was due to the double intubation, it should heal, right. Of course, I was also coughing up bloody phlegm. No, I hadn't been doing that before. Someone actually asked me about how I normally dealt with these symptoms I was--Hey! Stop. Wearing a white coat doesn't make you smart. I don't normally deal with any of these things or have a primary care provider because I normally feel freaking awesome. I pay attention to what I eat, drink more than a gallon of water a day, exercise daily, and don't have to listen to doctors who make me feel worse than when I came to see them for a simple mechanical fix.
This patient's humors are out of balance! Time for another bloodletting!
There were a few bright spots to my stay in the hospital, with doctors, nurses, nurse assistants and even volunteers among them. There were also idiots who, sadly, probably don't know who they are because they failed to register either my sarcasm or my blunt honesty.
Saturday, my oxygen saturation maintaining at an acceptable level with supplemental oxygen, I was moved from ICU to a normal patient room. I was still being given antibiotics, a blood thinner, and not enough food. The hospital's idea of a normal diet was something I really wanted to use some of my free time to discuss with whoever was in charge of nutrition for the place. It consisted of far too many carbohydrates and not enough protein and so many things that I just wasn't going to eat.
The attending anesthesiologist came for a visit a few hours after I'd gotten to my new room. She claimed to be sympathetic, but also maintained that she would make the same decisions again. She also expressed one theory that I might have experienced a negative pressure pulmonary embolism, something that was known to occur in higher mass patients. I failed to see the logic in insisting on a procedure that was a known risk for a patient because of his body type when another options was available and requested. We failed to reach a point of agreement.
Sunday, I stopped using the supplemental oxygen. My tongue was still half-numb, which I found as bizarre as the fact that over two weeks later it still hasn't fully recovered all sensation. Regardless, I was and remain very dedicated to deep breathing. Blame it on all the years of martial arts training. It meant enduring a lot of coughing, but I was forcing more breath after each coughing fit so I persisted. I think I mentioned lots of free time, so I was back to notebook scribblings interrupted by bouts of exercise. I received a visit from another orthopedic doctor. I'd seen different people from orthopedics every day. This one seemed nervous. His voice was shaky and so was his handshake. The nurse and I decided he must've been one of the eight men who'd had to wrestle me after surgery.
My vital sign readings had gotten back to normal, for me, and there were rumors I might be discharged. Hooray! There was also talk of a chest CT scan. Much of Sunday was spent waiting on word of which event was going to happen. The scan won out and happened late that afternoon. *sigh* Chest X-rays before and after I was awake hadn't shown them anything conclusive, the doctor claiming that there was too much muscle to see through well, but that he didn't see anything of concern.
From the CT scan, they decided that I'd been left with a pulmonary embolism, blood clotting in each lung. I'd progressed to exclusively dry coughs, no blood, but the next step in the plan then was to be blood thinning therapy, dissolving the clots over the course of several months. That was also going to mean ongoing doctor visits for monitoring to make sure that my blood to poison ratio was kept at an appropriate level. To begin the process, it was also going to mean keeping me in the hospital where they could monitor me until they managed to achieve the desired level before releasing me back into the wild. That resulted in another week in the hospital, feeling well but trapped, futile pokings by people hunting for blood vessels, and a doctor who learned to deliver updates with an apology and on the run.
Nice guy, but he liked to stay out of arm's reach.
Now, home again and being mindful of my skewered toes, I've begun dealing with the inefficiencies and stupid questions of a primary care physician and waiting on lab work. I've yet to encounter any part of all this that's made me unhappy about having as little interaction with the medical profession as possible over the years, nor to make me think I won't resume that practice ASAP. It always seems to come back to bloodletting, doesn't it? The trappings have gotten prettier over the last seven hundred years, but a hospital's still a gilded cage at best and there's still so much guessing going on in there. I'm waiting for somebody to come at me with stone knives and bear skins, realizing that my theory about a voodoo doll likeness of me out there somewhere with sharp pains in its foot may not be so far fetched.
There's no place like home.
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