There's a hole in my back,
dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in my back,
Dear Liza, a hole.
With what should I mend it,
Dear Henry, dear Henry,
With what should I mend it,
Dear Henry, with what?
With expensive silver stuff,
Dear Liza, dear Liza,
With expensive silver stuff,
Dear Liza, that's what.
There really is a hole in my back, a rather deep one, too. There's currently stuff stuffed in it that costs $150 a sheet in order to try to get it to heal. The hole in my back is worth more than I am. Maybe it's the pain medicine, but I find that really funny.
So, here is the continuing saga of Sheryl's Abscess (coming soon to daytime TV near you). I went to the doctor of Monday afternoon to follow up. She was appalled. The emergency room nurse never gave me a wound care sheet, so I had no idea what I should have been doing over the weekend. Sunday night, the incision started to ooze something fierce. I was afraid to take the original guaze dressing off because I was afraid of the packing the doctor put in. It was drenched with pus.
When my doctor took the dressing off and the packing out, it just gushed pus. She said that they first of all prescribed an antibiotic that was nowhere near strong enough. Second, since I didn't know that I could change the dressing, the pus sitting on my skin caused a secondary cellulitus, which can be serious. Then when I told her that the ER nurse told me to take the packing out in the shower on Monday morning, she was livid (glad I didn't listen - being a chicken pays off sometimes). She got me some samples of a serious, serious antibiotic, and sent me down to a surgeon's office to have it looked at and repacked. I went and got packed by the surgeon's nurses every day last week.
Well, my manager offered to pack it this weekend, and she looked at it Friday to see what she was dealing with. I told her how they were packing it (cleaning the exterior with betadine, swabbing the interior with peroxide, packing it with a 2 by 2 soaked in betadine). She didn't like the look of the hole, and she didn't like how they were packing it, so she called one of our wound care consultants. She told her to pack it with a strip of the expensive stuff (it has silver, which is an antimicrobial agent, enbedded in it), so that's what she's doing.
There's still a lot of hard area around the hole, which isn't a good thing, but I suppose it's healing. At least I hope so.
Oh, yeah. I'm officially not a temp anymore. Yay! And my manager isn't that bad. I guess she just doesn't like being lied to, which is what L did (she told her she had to have surgery because one of her implants was displaced).
I'll write more tomorrow. Really. Honest
Saturday, February 26, 2005
There's a hole in my back,
Sunday, February 20, 2005
So, you know that cyst on my back? Well, turns out it was an abcsess. Yeah. No idea where it came from, but there it was. But you want to know the story (OK, probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyhow)
Well, I spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince myself that I was sick enough to go to the emergency room. And when I finally decided that I was, I drove around for another hour trying to convince myself again (I'm stubborn like that). When I finally got there and they took me in for triage, My temperature was 102.7, and my blood pressure and pulse were both really high (the doctor thought because of the fever and infection, plus the fact that I was scared to death). They took me right back, and I knew I was sick. They never take you right in unless you come in in an ambulance or you are in bad shape.
So the doctor finally came in (actually I was probably only waiting about 20 minutes) looked at my thing (that sounds vaguely naughty) and promptly said that he had to get the attending because it was right on the border between being able to be drained in the ER and having to be done in the OR. So that sent me into a minor panic.
The attending came in and decided that they could drain it. Great. So the resident comes back with all this stuff and tells me what he's going to do. He said he's going to inject some "numbing medicine" (lidocaine I would guess - they aren't real used to educated people at this hospital), cut an incision in the abscess, and drain the gook out. Yee Haw. So I survive the injections, (I wish he wouldn't have told me when he was sticking me, though, that made me more tense), and the incision. Then came the draining. When it started to drain on it's own. some of it ran down my side and burned like mad. When it stopped draining by itself, he started to squeeze it. WORST PAIN EVER!!! I was run over by a 15 passenger van and it didn't hurt that bad. And I have a really high threshold for pain. I have a newfound respect for those women among you who have given birth. This couldn't have been that bad, but it was agony. The doctor kept apologizing because he was hurting me and I was crying, and I kept apologizing for crying and making him feel bad (yeah, I'm silly like that). Then he took an instrument, stuck in in the space left by the gook, and moved it around to make sure all the gook was gone. He had to use more of the numbing stuff, cause it hurt like bloody hell when he did it. Finally, he stuck about three feet of antibiotic soaked packing in the cavity to make sure the bacteria doesn't come back. Then he gave me perscription for antibiotics, a pain killer (codeine is good, even if I did sleep all day), told me to see my doctor on Monday, and sent me on my merry way.
The medicine wasn't that expensive (only about $40), but the doctor's visit tomorrow is going to be twice that. I've decided that I just have to pay part of my rent late. I've only been late once in almost three years, and that time and this time I have good excuses.
So today, I went almost the whole day without a fever. I didn't realize how bad I felt until I didn't feel that bad. I was fever free until I decided I had to go to the grocery store. That was probably a bad idea, but I didn't have any food I didn't have to cook, and frankly, all I wanted was yogurt, and I was out. I probably isn't a good idea to be doing laundry, either, but I don't have anything to wear to work tomorrow.
So that's my story. Tomorrow I get the packing out (joy - the doctor told me to be sure to take a pain pill before that). If any of you are still reading (and I know some of you are - thanks for sticking with me!), I'll keep you updated, with less gory details - I promise!
Posted by Sheryl at 10:56 PM
Friday, February 18, 2005
Huh. Not even a song title or a lyric or anything...
Well, the manager of the department I work in (the one I'm afraid of) called as I was leaving to pick up my paycheck and asked what my conversion fee was (the fee to convert me from a temp to an employee of the company). That's a good thing. An even better thing is that the business manager at the agency said that she doesn't think there is one since I have been here so long.
I'm not getting my hopes up, but maybe, just maybe...
Posted by Sheryl at 2:20 PM
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Apologies to whoever wrote and/or sang "Signs."
Well, first of all, I'm honestly, sincerely not well. I have this cyst thing that popped up on my back, and is now approximately the size of a plum. I've also had a fever and chills for the past three days. Fun. Especially since I have no health insurance, no paid time off, and no money. An office visit to my doctor would cost the same as my electric bill, and the metering company won't accept late payments or make payment arrangements. My friend Amy (thanks Amy!) offered to pay my electric bill, but I just can't accept that (Sorry). Call it pride, call it whatever you want, but I've always been a fairly self-reliant person, mostly because I've had to be. Yeah, that's probably my fault, but it is who I am and I don't think I can change.
I don't like the fact that I can't seem to accept help from people. I guess I've just been rebuffed so much when I have asked for help that I've somehow taught myself to turn down help even when it is offered. It is my major weakness, I suppose, but I don't know how to fix it.
Well, if I still don't feel good tomorrow, I guess I'll go to the emergency room. Web MD said that's what I should do anyhow when I checked my symptoms. They are obliged to treat everyone, even without insurance. I just hate the idea of horribly expensive ER bills for what is probably an in-office procedure. The way things are going right now, it'll take me forever to pay them off.
Things at work are...weird. I think I'll share the whole story with you.
L, one of the women I work with (she is...or was...the manager of telephone nurse consultants), decided to have breast augmentation surgery. Now I know, from her very loud phone call, that she was already a D cup. I'm not accustomed to looking at other women't chests, but she seemed pretty...ample... to me. But she decided she wanted to go larger and have 750 cc implants put in. Her previous implants (did I mention that this was her second enlargement?) were 375 cc's, so these were twice as big. Yeah. She had a week of vacation time, so she took that to have the surgery.
Well, she had complications. The surgeon had to stretch her skin so tight to accomodate the implant that she had trouble closing the incision. One of her incisions keeps opening. She's been out additional days on bedrest twice, and is most likely going out again starting today.
Well G, the big boss isn't happy about that at all. She wasn't happy she took time off to have the surgery, and she isn't happy about all this time she's had to take subsequently. L is out of PTO, and since this was a cosmetic procedure, it isn't covered under short term disability, even though these are complications.
Well (I seem to have a thing for starting sentences like that tonight - forgive me. It's hard to be creative when you are shaking), G called L into her office on Tuesday. She stripped her of her title, and L now reports to one of the people she previously managed. L asked me that day if G had said anything to me about hiring me as a regular employee. I told her know, then she went and talked with K, my immediate supervisor (sorta) in whispers for a while. I didn't know about the whole title thing then, so I started to get paranoid.
L is really upset, and thinks that if she has to go on bed rest again, she won't have a job to come back to, which is probably true. I feel really bad for her, but it's really hard for me to have sympathy when, to an extent, she brought this on herself and I'm sitting there shivering and hurting. I'm trying, though.
This whole thing has made me really paranoid, though. If that can happen to her, I'm actually afraid to miss work since I'm just a temp. It's what kept me from going to the ER last night when my temp hit 103 and I couldn't stop shaking.
I'll write more about that manager another time, and the rest of the stuff I wanted to write about. I need to lay down now. My temp is back up to 101.
Posted by Sheryl at 10:18 PM
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Before I get to the subject of this post, I have to offer a thank you to Chevy Rose for the advice the other day when I was particularly down. Well, my bathroom only has a shower, so a bath is out; I'm out of tea, but even if I wasn't, I'm trying to cut back on caffeine (trying is the key word - I sometimes need it to stay awake at work...spreadsheets are boring!); and I have horrible writer's block. But I took a nap and then I felt better...or at least less tired.
The good news is that the year old, expired antibiotic ear drops are working, and I don't seem to be dying (though I did have a fever today). I can touch the side of my face without screaming in agony - I count that as a victory. If the nurses I work with knew what I was doing I would probably never hear the end of it. Of course, if the DEM (who is a nurse) would just hire me, pay me more than $9 an hour, and let me have benefits, it would be a moot point.
If you've been reading my blog regularly, you know that a while back (too lazy to search and link) I said that I was going to send a letter to teh director of pastoral ministries at the church I worked for so that I could finally find closure. Well, I never sent it, and in fact thought I lost it until today. I was looking for a floppy today to save a couple writing samples to (for a job I'm applying for) and I came across the floppy I saved the letter on. I've decided to post it here, and let all of you tell me if I should send it or not. No names are included here, but they are in the letter.
I’ve been struggling with whether or not I should write this letter for some time now. I couldn’t decide if it would give me the freedom to move on or if it would be picking at wounds that are starting to scab over. If you are reading this, you know what decision I made.
I haven’t been able to leave behind my experiences there because I was really hurt by a lot that happened in my 18 months there. I have been hurt by things that have happened since I left. I expressed some of what I felt to Fr. B back in January, but I find that I have been holding a lot of anger toward and frustration with you, and I don’t think I can let it go without expressing it.
First let me say that the reason it has taken me so long to get to this point is because I am so conflicted over my feelings toward you. You have to know that at one point in time I respected you like I have respected few other women in the Catholic Church. I viewed you as intelligent, compassionate, and spirit-filled. I thought you were passionate about your work, and was impressed by your ability to achieve balance between work and home. I thought you were everything a professional lay minister in the 21st century Catholic Church should be.
As time went on, however, I saw another side of you. I saw someone who needed to be in control of everything you were even remotely involved in. I saw that even though you professed to care more about a person’s gifts and their, “piece of the wisdom,” you were far more impressed with a person if they had money, power, or influence. And I discovered that, because the adults I worked with had all three, I matted far less to you than they did.
I don’t even know if you are aware of your need to be in control and to have everything done your way. But I became aware of a pattern in my conversations with you. I would come to you with a problem, or an idea, or a suggestion, and you would subtly manipulate the conversation so that I ended up agreeing with whatever it was you wanted, whether I thought it was a good thing or not. How did that happen? Because I knew of your reputation and I respected it. That’s what makes me think you are not even consciously aware of what you are doing. I’ve seen it happen in staff meetings as well, and I am not the only person to make this observation. What makes it even worse is that your opinion (and occasionally MB’s or K’s) is the only one Fr. B pays any attention to.
Now, I want you to know that I think your longevity has earned you the right to have more weight placed on your opinions and ideas than on those of someone with less seniority. But C, you have to know that sometimes other people have good or even great ideas that differ from your own. Listen to them. Don’t dismiss what they have to say out of hand. Be aware of manipulating them to your ideas, and avoid doing it.
I really want to believe you are also unaware of the value you place on money, power, and influence. I want to believe that it’s just coincidence that you seem to pay attention primarily to people who give a lot of money to the parish, or who hold or have held powerful or influential positions in the parish or community. I want to think that it’s just because there are so many people in the parish who fit that description. But I have seen you dismiss people who don’t have as much money, or who don’t have powerful jobs, or who are unwilling to play the parish politics game. I myself have been victim of that.
Now, I don’t blame you solely for that. There is a prevailing attitude within the parish that unless you have money or, preferably, come from money, you have no value as a human being. You can argue against that all you want, and hold up the parish’s supposed charitable endeavors all you want, but the fact of the matter is that it is a very real problem.
Do you want some proof that money, power, and influence are all that matters? I came to you several times because of the problems I was having with PC last year. I told you about the fact that she bypassed my authority on several occasions, and that we just seemed to have a personality conflict that I couldn’t seem to get around. I was looking for advice since she managed to involve herself in every ministry that fell under me, and I felt like I couldn’t work with her effectively. I never got any real advice from you; the closest you came to making a suggestion was essentially telling me to grin and bear it because of the amount of influence she had. Now I see in the bulletin that she is coordinator for high school PSR. This woman, who once told me that I pray wrong, who told me that I was an inferior person because I was an “I” and a “P”, who tried to rally other adults against me, and who regularly humiliated me in front of not only other adults but young people as well is coordinating high school religious education. I have to tell you that I take that as a personal affront.
What I wrote about above was not just an isolated incident. I can’t tell you the number of times I was made to feel inferior, by both parishioners and staff. I may not have grown up with all the advantages all of you did. We never had money for vacations, or dances, or sororities, or whatever. Heck, there were times when things were so tight that we were on public assistance. But the fact of the matter is that it didn’t stop my parents from raising me well. They may not have been able to afford to send me on trips or to special programs, or to pay for sorority dues, or whatever, but they went out of their way to expose me to museums, and libraries, and other cultural experiences. They knew I had been blessed with intelligence and a gift for writing (I’m not bragging, just stating a fact), and they sacrificed to nurture it. Yet there were times when you (both you singularly and you collectively, as a parish and/or staff) made me feel like I didn’t posses the intelligence God gave gnats. I may not have the best organization skills in the world, and I may not have a type-A personality, but I know I have gifts and skills that I was never given the opportunity to use.
That’s really what has hurt most about this whole experience. Do you know that at one point during the time since I left there, I felt so worthless that…well…some pretty dark thoughts crossed my mind? No, of course you don’t, but I’ll write about that later. If it weren’t for my friends reminding me that I am a fantastic writer (this letter not withstanding – I’m too emotionally keyed up to pay attention to conventions of standard written English), a terrific teacher, and a person who has intrinsic value as a child of God, I don’t know where I would be. Those thoughts still cross my mind sometimes. This letter is one of the ways of exorcising those figurative demons.
I have to tell you that I am bothered about the way I was dismissed. I felt like a common criminal. Neither you nor MB even looked me in the eye that day, and NW stood over my shoulder watching everything I did like I was going to try to walk away with the computer system in my back pocket. I resent the fact that I was not allowed to return the following day to collect the things that belonged to me. Of the stuff you people dumped on my doorstep that day, only one small box actually belonged to me, and it did not include about six pairs of good scissors, several books, and a DVD and several CD’s that did. If I had been allowed to return to get my things the following day, when I was more composed, that would not have happened, and you would not have had the extra work.
I also have to tell you how hurt I am that no one from that place has ever called to see how I am doing, except for T. You know I have no family and a weak support system, the entirety of which is 1200 miles away. Did it not occur to you, then the DPM and now the pastoral associate, that I just needed someone to acknowledge me? Did you know I spent all of February sick? I had a staph infection that it turns out I was probably suffering from since the middle of November. I was on five different antibiotics simultaneously which left me constantly exhausted and nauseated and barely able to get out of bed. But of course you didn’t know that – or you didn’t care.
Here are some of the things I wrote in my journal when I hit the nadir of my depression:
The only thing this whole mess has succeeded in doing is making me realize just how incompetant and worthless I really am.
I never should have left Pittsburgh. I'd give anything to go back, but I can't. I don't have anyone there. I don't have anyone here. I'm all alone and I hate it and I can't do anything about it. It's just not fair.
I have no doubt that God exists. I have no doubt that He's up there (or whatever) listening. I just have trouble believing right now that He offers any guidance. That he speaks to us. He just lets us fumble our way along down here and we suffer for it.
I don't know.
I'm just so freaking sad.
I hate having to pretend to be happy and content when I'm not. And I hate having to pretend that I think the Catholic church is the be all and end all of churches everywhere. It may claim apostolic succession, but it is anything but the church the apostles founded.
I Hate Myself
I really do. I can't seem to be happy. I have an interview in Houston on Monday, but probably won't take the job because I can't afford to move. A friend offered me a way to get back to Pittsburgh, complete with a job, and I can't take it. I'm sad when people don't care about me, I'm sad when they do. I thought I had a good chance at an awesome job in Connecticut, but the guy hasn't gotten back to me since he asked me for my resume, references, and transcripts, so I probably put him off, too. Then, people profess to give a damn about me, but desert me when I need someone. There must be something wrong with me that makes people humiliate me, hate me, abandon me. I would fix it if I knew what it was.
God, I sound like a damn cliche.
I didn’t share these things with you to garner your sympathy. But you need to know how utterly alone I felt. Unlike you, and everyone else there, I have no family to lean on for support, which you know. All it would have taken to make me feel less like a waste of skin was a simple phone call. I may not have spoken for long, or at all, but sometimes it’s the sentiment that matters more than the action. After all, I am still a parishioner (at least in name). Isn’t it part of your job (or Fr. B’s job) to reach out to people who are hurting?
Thanks to a few good friends and some total strangers I have regained some of the confidence I lost at the hands of that place. I got the job I mentioned above, the one in Connecticut (I got the one in Houston too, but had to turn it down). I had to turn it down because the director had to withdraw his offer of housing and I couldn’t afford to move, but he went out of his way to find a way to get me up there to interview and he told me that I was far and away the best candidate he interviewed, and that he wants me to keep in contact because he may be opening another school next year and he wants me on staff if he does. I submitted a short story / first chapterof a novel (I enclosed it for your reading pleasure) to an online writer’s workshop, and it was rated to be of publishable quality by professional writers and editors. I am recovering despite you (singularly and collectively) and despite that place.
I want you to know that I’m not sure I still consider myself to be Catholic. It took me a long time to find my way back to a mass (at other churches – not there), and the ones I have attended have left me feeling tense, angry, and disaffected. Oh, I haven’t lost my faith in God, or my appreciation for ritual and sacrament, or my baptismal call. But I have been on the inside of the institutional church now. I have seen and experienced hypocracy, disregard for the inherent value of human beings, and selfishness. At the moment, I can’t separate my love of the Church from my dislike of the church (capitalization is intentional). I can’t bring myself to be a part of a church that at best ignores these things when they happen and at worst advocates them with its policy and structures.
Maybe someday that will happen. Maybe someday those scabs will scar over and I’ll be able to return to the Church I was baptized in, the Church I grew up in, the Church I once loved despite its flaws. But for now, I’m just seeking and searching, like so many others who have found the Catholic Church wanting in some regard.
Now, having said all this, I want to make sure that you know that I accept that most of the blame for my lack of success there lies with me in one way or another. If I were less laid back, or more assertive, or more refined, or more organized, or less quiet, etc, etc., I might still be there. But the fact of the matter is that you (and this time I do mean you singular) set everything on the wrong path by telling me to defer to R and the other adults when I first got there. I was never able to work with the leadership to establish a vision for youth ministry from the get-go. I couldn’t implement some of the programs I wanted to implement, and I couldn’t set myself up as a leader as a result. I see that it looks like you aren’t making that same error with S. On one level, I’m glad for his sake. He will have a hard enough time separating himself from the students as it is due to his age. But on the other hand, I resent that I wasn’t given the same chance, and I wonder if it is because I was an outsider – not from the parish, not from Baton Rouge, not from a natinally known college, not from money.
I want to close by saying that I didn’t write this letter to hurt you, although I may have succeeded in doing just that. In fact, if I get up the nerve to actually send it, I will probably regret it later. But I think I need to say these things and have someone there read them in order to gain a sense of closure on that phase of my life.
I don’t expect a response to this letter. If you want to, fine, if not, that’s fine, too. It really doesn’t matter to me. I’m writing it as a catharsis, and I’m only sending it because the significance wouldn’t be as great if I just let it sit on my hard drive.
Despite everything I have said here, I want you to know that bygones are now bygones. I will harbor no ill will toward you in the future. Holding a grudge isn’t worth the energy it requires. Now that I have said what needs to be said I can let it go.
C, I truly wish you all the best in your changing position. I hope that you can provide the kind of compassionate, competent leadership I saw in you when I first arrived. I hope you have learned from the mistakes that were made during my tenure there and that you are able to mentor S more effectively than you did me. And I hope that you find a sense of peace within yourself.
I will be praying for you.
So, there you have it. Of course, I'd have to change the end part and tell her about the Lutheran Church I've been going to and why, but that's minor.
Should I send it, or should I settle for a private catharsis?
Posted by Sheryl at 1:00 AM
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Saturday, February 12, 2005
With apologies to Pink Floyd for the paraphrase (I think - I know songs but never who sings them).
I realized this week that I have hit the point where I really don't care about anything in terms of my career or lack there of. As I sat at my computer working on spreadsheets all blooming week, to the point that my wrist is actually bruised from mouse overusage, that I don't care if this company hires me, I don't car if I find another job, I don't care if I ever find career fulfillment. That scares me.
That's why I haven't posted anything of any significance of late. I just couldn't bring myself to care. I thought about posting a lot, but never quite got around to it. Why? Usually when I post I'm feeling something worth writing about. But I haven't felt anything at all this week. I haven't been happy or sad, frustrated, angry, elated, or anything else. I've just been tired. Really, amazingly tired.
I don't know what that means, if it means anything. I do know that tomorrow marks 11 months that I have been temping in the same place. I do know that they would never be able to get all the work that needs to be done done without me. I do know that they don't seem to have any inclination toward hiring me, despite the fact that they talk about it all the time. I do know that I, in all likelyhood have an ear infection, but since I don't have any insurance or money I am treating it with year old antibiotic drops and praying I don't die.
And I don't care if I do or don't.
Posted by Sheryl at 8:50 PM
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Saw this on Gillian's LiveJournal (she's Australian, FYI). Had to link it because I was just saying this very thing today as everyone in the office left early (again) to deal with family obligations, and there I was, sitting alone at my desk yet again. Well, I left early too, and I don't feel guilty about it now. I had family obiligations, too - I was tired.
Posted by Sheryl at 5:50 PM