Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Canoe Dream

         This is a dream I had last night. I like to keep track of my dreams. Dreams are the only purely random thing my mind will ever think up. As creative as I try to be, I do my best randomness in my sleep. Dreams might not be as fun or exciting as something I could concoct deliberately, but I like the rawness.
         It was a very dark night. My wife and I put a small canoe in the ocean and I got in it. The water was only about four feet deep, because we were near the shore. Actually, there wasn’t a shore. There was a huge wall where the shore would have been. The dark waves of the ocean lapped against the side of a huge industrial building.
         The only colors were black and dark green. My wife wadded in the water, next to the huge industrial building, and steadied the canoe as I tried to maneuver it. The canoe was much too small for me, almost like a toy instead of a real canoe, and it filled with water; although it didn’t totally sink. The ores were too small as well and there wasn’t anywhere to balance them or hook them on the canoe. I was quite frustrated.
         I think my wife may have used the canoe too, but it didn’t sink when she used it because she is not as heavy as I am. After we were done in the water, I wanted to have sex on the beach, but she refused. Each of us took one end of the canoe and carried it up a small, dark, sandy beach to where we had parked the car. Two German Shepard dogs appeared and started to snip at me while I carried the canoe. One of the dogs latched onto my forearm and stayed there, but didn’t really bite down. I dropped the canoe and picked up a 2x4 piece of wood and threatened to smash the dog with it. My wife was scared and told me to do it, but I couldn’t for some reason.
         Somehow we got back to the car, which was a red 1980s four-door BMW. The two big dogs were still barking at us, but stayed a few feet away. My wife and I hooked the canoe to the top of the car and I noticed my infant son was in his car seat in the backseat. It became very windy. I opened the driver’s door and a small dog jumped out of the car onto my chest and started to bite my face. I tore him from my face and flung him into the darkness. I heard him land on the ground and immediately start running back to the car. I quickly got in the car… and then I woke up.




UPDATE: I briefly researched this dream and according to http://www.essortment.com/lifestyle/dreaminterpreta_sdnj.htm, “green most often symbolizes a need for healing, balance and harmony” and “black may indicate anxiety, anger, guilt or resentment.” and red “is one of the most intense hues and in dreams represents passion, anger, aggression and heat.”

Friday, September 21, 2007

psychiatric emergency

Names and facts have been altered to ensure confidentiality. Excerpt from a term paper.

The following is a narrative of my first stat call (client behavioral). There is an odd frustration that comes with being a staff member. I am never able to truly convey what a bad day at work really means. Somehow, “client behavioral” just doesn’t cover it.
        “Stat call,” a voice sounded over the intercom. My heart began to pound in my throat. I’d seen a few stat calls during orientation and helped defuse situations on my ward, but I had yet to actually participate in one.
        My fist time witnessing a stat call had been in the admitting office a week prior. By the time I’d arrived, a dozen people stood between me and the 300 pound women. She had cut her arms and throat hundreds of times with a razor blade. Blood flung from her arms as she stomped wildly around the admitting area. She shoved on the exit door and pounded her bloody fists on the safety glass, swearing and trashing. My adrenaline was pumping. I tried to hide my fear, but my face must have shown it anyhow. A coworker stepped forward and began to speak to the women in a soft, non-threatening tone. Much to my surprise, the woman eventually calmed enough to speak coherently. She was given options and, after some negotiation, chose to walk to her ward with only female staff. My coworker had spoken softly, used five words or less, and given options. I reviewed these methods in my head as I jogged to the stat call. Would I be called upon to use these skills? Would I be successful?
        Two staff members stood down the hall in the doorway of a client’s room. A staff member suggested I put on gloves. I snatched a couple from the box, put them on, and joined the two other staff members at the client’s door. The door was closed. I could hear a young girl trashing around, throwing chairs and other objects. Through the crack between the door and the frame, I could see a bed in front of the door. The doors swing out as well as in, so clients can not barricade themselves. We waited a moment for more staff to show up. I was given a synopsis of the situation and assigned a leg.
        More staff joined us and the stat leader swung the door open. A small girl, no more than 90 pounds, sat crouched in the far corner, growling and swearing at us from behind dirty-blonde hair. We crept toward her slowly. As we approached, the stat leader gave her one last chance to walk to the seclusion room on her own. She responded by violently banging the back of her head on the wall. The stat leader gave a count, and on three we lunged toward her. The staff member assigned to her right arm missed and received a slash across the face from her fingernails. My nervousness subsided and I concentrated on holding her ankle. She was unnaturally strong. We carefully flipped her on her stomach and held her to the floor. I felt uncomfortable holding a little girl to the floor. She slammed her face on the floor and continued to struggle. She squirmed hard and jackknifed her body in an attempt to bite my hand. We straightened her out and a fifth staff member pressed her waist to the floor while a sixth staff member placed a pillow under her head so she couldn’t bang her head on the floor. She bit the pillow and began to repeatedly scream, “Fuck you! You fucking (things I can’t bring myself to type)!”
        A seventh staff member rolled a blanket and slid it along the side of her body. Sweat began to drop from my face. We quickly tilted her on her side and attempted to slide the blanket under her. She clutched it with her fingers and refused to let go. A second blanket proved more useful and we eventually got her wrapped tightly. Another count to three and we hefted her gently onto a stretcher and rolled her into the seclusion room. She cursed vehemently and began to accuse us, in graphic detail, of raping her.
        We unrolled the blanket and returned to holding her on the floor, only this time, I ended up holding her waist. She was amazingly strong and it took all I had to hold her waist down. She struggled so violently that her pants began to rip at the seams. According to her personal care plan, mechanical restraints were not an option. A staff member entered the room and plunged a needle into the girl’s buttocks. I looked away, trying to salvage some dignity for the girl. We held her for approximately twenty minutes more, in which time she defecated, spit on my shoes, and threatened to kill each one of us. Eventually she calmed and we released her. Back on my ward, ears still ringing, clients were playing scrabble and watching television. I got a drink of water.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Pay at the pump

September 9, 2007

For the past year or so, I’ve been buying my gas at the only remaining gas station in town which doesn’t require pre-payment or pay at the pump. Now, because of drive-offs, they too have switched to pre-payment or pay at the pump. I was pissed. I took a half hour drive after work to the neighboring town, to the only gas station that trusts people to pay after pumping. For starters, I’m being totally raped by the gas station, oil companies, and everyone else in the world who undeservingly demands my hard-earned money. Almost everything I buy turns out to be a complete piece of shit. I can't be the only one who’s noticing this. And what recourse do I have? None! I’m fucked and that’s it, period. My solution to this is to simply stop being a consumer and only buy things I really need. Anyway, back to the pump. Paying at the pump encourages people to use credit cards. The average American already has over $8,000 in credit card debt. I don’t think we need any more encouragement. Credit cards are being marketed and supported as a necessity, much like your stupid cell phone you have glued to your ear while you almost crash into me while driving that car you owe an outrageous amount of money on- but I digress. Let’s say I use my debit card instead of my credit card, which I do, I don’t want to run my card twice! I’ll have to run it at the pump and then go inside and run it again. I don’t get charged more from my bank or anything like that, but it’s just stupid! Why make my bank statements and checkbook more complicated? Why do I have to be inconvenienced? My other option is to go in and pre pay. I have to walk in, guess how much my car will hold, and either put too little in or end up going back in the store and waiting in line AGAIN to get my change. All because some people are driving off without paying. I can’t say I blame’em. Have you seen the price of gas?! They probably can’t afford it. I can barely afford it! In 1997 gas was around a dollar a gallon. Since then it has tripled. The toll booth where I work used to be 30 cents and now it’s 60. Heating costs are through the roof, houses are practically unattainable for most people, and debt is out of control, individually and globally. Has your pay doubled or tripled lately? Mine certainly hasn’t! We are being suffocated by the very structure we created. The rich continue to get richer and the poor… well ya know. America has only been around for a short time. China has had hiccups that have lasted longer than our entire history to date. If things don’t change now, America will fail. It’s textbook civilization failure. We are Rome. Hundreds of years from now, the entire United States experience could turn out to be just a footnote in time. Some highly intelligent Somali kid will read this in his history book and laugh at our stupidity and arrogance. So what can I do? In the end, all I can do is write things like this, because all gas stations will become pre pay, all items will be marked up, and most Americans don’t care enough to do anything about it and even if they do, they are practically powerless. It’s a fragile existence we’ve dreamed up. I’m sorry to say, The American Dream seems more like the American myth to me. How long should I allow myself to be exploited and abused by a system, a government, and a society that doesn’t care, before I put up some sort of resistance, even if only a futile resistance? We must become proactive if we are to survive.