I would do anything for the love of Tobias, my first fur baby!
Tobias, 13 yrs of age and plague with many illnesses. Some breed specific: dermatology issues with yeast, cataracts, possibly Cushing’s disease . Other illnesses linked to old age: arthritis, vestibular disease , and lipomas galore.
I would do anything…for Tobias.
Mulberry Model-who did double walk-way struts when Pi Patel grew bored of the scenery
The guardian of mom when she was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Tobias did not leave her side before the diagnosis, during the procedures following the diagnosis and the ensuing chemo treatments
Tobias, the therapy dog, who frequented Bishop Hulces Episcopal Nursing Home where he greeted all residents with long petting sessions.. Most especially, affecting the residents of the dementia floor who were non-verbal but spoke during a visit with Tobias
This stops here…lists are boring…but pictures, yes pictures, visually tell more.
The Puppy years. (L) First grooming (R) First day home. .
Toby being a good sport when mom is bored
Toby’s surgery-never again will I be in surgery with my fur babies…well maybe
Toby just being, The Tobes, Tobadiah, Mr T, Mr Tobes, Chunky monkey, Tobias, Tub of Lard (mom’s nickname, not mine)…
Toby and I say, “THANK YOU” to everyone who reached out to us during his bout with vestibular disease. Words of concern and encouragement are so dear when one feels alone going through this. Once again, “THANK YOU!”
No hair straightener No botox, silicone, tucks or lifts
Cutting MY own hair
Natural feet and hands- no polish
Natural tan No umbrella needed-rain caresses my skin No stress once the body hits the bed scented with lavender Natural high from endorphins after a great run ( gotta love those opioids) Natural ability to feel, internalize and be empathic
Greens and fruit are the bulk of nutrition
The black hair dye- whichever name brand’s on sale
Listerine -to freshen and decontaminate my mouth
Teeth whitener-because the past years of smoking have done their damage
Mascara-once used to make my tiny lashes longer, but now its sole purpose is the cover the grey on my lashes and eyebrows
Black eyeliner-because the 80’s refuse to dissipate just cause we’re in 2016
Lipstick-to cover MY pink lips which were once dark back in the day when I smoked
Deodorant-actually this should go under organic since it is a stone which lets the sweat come through but not the ordour
Sunscreen-not sure why I bother but hey…
Alcohol-although it is made from natural plants
Chicken nuggets-from Chinese take-out
Andy Capp’s Hot Fries
Mi alma (soul) Mi corazon (heart) Mi cuerpo Mi vida
Homemade soap and shampoo made from shea butter and coconut milk
Playing piano Writing Running Gardening Animal nursing
Always learning and not taking knowledge for granted
Walking the fur babies this morning led to a wonderful quote from a woman I greeted with, “How are you?”
“Too blessed to be stressed”, she replied and smiled a smile that competed with the brilliance of the sun’s rays on the sidewalk
What a positive way to begin one’s day. A new day, without the anger and disappointment carried over from yesterday or the worries and fretfulness of tomorrows ‘what’s to come’.
Too blessed to be stressed.
Those words remind me to heed and acknowledge the power of Gratitude.
Gratitude often ignored, often forgotten while one concentrates on the wants of what to have, and not of what one already has.
Life gets in the way and ruins all the good thoughts.
I don’t have a shower with cold water-at least I have a shower.
I don’t like the food I’m forced to buy due to finances-at least I have food.
I don’t like the apartment I live in as it’s overheated, too humid and needs new flooring and tiles-at least I have an apartment to call my own and it keeps me warm, with a floor to walk on.
I don’t have enough money-at least I have some money.
I don’t like having to make my own lotion and shampoo because I can’t afford to buy the ‘good stuff’-at least you have the ingredients and the stove and fridge to make the lotion and the shampoo.
I don’t like Fios or Time Warner service and can’t afford the full package deal-at least I got cable and a tv to watch it on.
I can bathe, cook, clean myself up, wake up from sleeping in a comfortable bed, have fur babies whom I love ( and where my salary goes to), a salary of some sort, food (okay it’s not all organic and vegan as I’d like it to be), once again FOOD, clothing (okay most of it’s from Sears)-so I need to shut up, get my butt back into volunteering and going to church to ease my mind and get the balance right in my head.
I returned to General Practice Veterinary Medicine after four months of working 12-14 overnight shifts in Veterinary Emergency care. Time spent in ER was incredible in terms of experience gained and processing death from trauma. I truly miss the doctors and eager vet students I was fortunate to work with. Their love of medicine and the desire to save all God’s creatures from injuries was unprecedented. I realize the privilege to work with this crew and although BP misplaced me in terms of job title and where I truly needed to be, which inevitably led to my failure-I forgive. Nothing can replace what I saw, did, treated, prayed over, held as the last breath was released, can ever measure up to the experiences gained in working overnight emergency.
BP will accept me back.
More time spent in GP.
Yes. I miss ER.
My body and emotional mindset is exhausted.
I no longer shed tears at PTS’s (put to sleep).
Not in front of clients.
Not in the bathroom.
Not on the train going home.
At night, when I stare at the ceiling at bedtime.
I guess it’s all good in some sick way for I can now concentrate on the owners and offer more support from mi alma which no longer feels.
My blog on transitioning to this career has ended. My thoughts on the continuance in this career as well as school is now questionable.
The other side of this business is still present and for that matter, will always be. As long as there are insecure, unstable nurses-the Mean Girls , in this field the drama will thrive.
Don’t want to end up on NY1 so I’ve grown thick skin, a thick heart an emotional void and most importantly the desire to have only working relationship with them.
No, you are not my friend or close confident.
No, I do not need your approval to validate how I do my job.
No, I will not gossip about other co-workers, maliciously or even constructively with you.
No. No. No.
Accusing me of not cleaning?
Please watch the video.
2016 is in full string and transitions seem to be lining up. I’ve thought about leaving the state in search of Tech Nursing work. My mind is working, talking to others who have relocated and gauging if this is a necessary transition to make.
Time will tell. Actually the Fall will tell.
I’m biting at the bit and I love an adventure.
Cali, Georgia, one of the Carolina’s. Florida? Virginia, Washington, Seattle?
Thought this New Year would be like any other New Year’s spent in the past: bed by 10pm New Year’s Eve and waking up to the same old same way on New Year’s Day.
I was wrong.
I made plans to go out on New Year’s Eve, to eat, drink and be merry. I did eat, drink and was merry by sipping on bourbon drinks, champagne, sparkling wine and eating at a restaurant in the hood with some special people who made socializing for an introvert comfortable.
Leading up to the New Year was not so good job wise. I left the job that hired me when no other would. Not going into specifics, it was a decision based on hurt. Hurtful in the way my boss handled a dispute with a co worker-by, doing, nothing. It seems as if climactic events in mi vida spur up at this time of year.
“When the path you walk always leads back to yourself, you never get anywhere” Oogway
The time had come to move on and although I’ve known this for a while, pushing myself to do so was another thing. Comfort/Familiarity at times can stifle growth. Why take a chance, throwing your back to wind, and riding on a gust when it’s easier to slip into flannel pajamas and watch a marathon of SVU on the tube?
By leaving this job, I’ve placed my school in jeopardy as I no longer have a preceptor. My fur babies no longer have a doctor. My discounts from working there are no longer available which puts me on high alert in regards to providing pet care and meds for the fur babies.
“One often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it” Oogway
I am working in a Specialty Hospital in Emergency Room and Internal Medicine. I am WAY OVER my head and up to now don’t understand why I was hired as a Tech. I enjoy what I do although it is hard to deal with some of the ER cases or dealing with emergency mode when techs and doctors are trying to resuscitate an animal to no avail. I have trouble calculating meds and I’m not familiar with some of the meds or lab machines used in this specialty. At times, I feel like an idiot and question why I was not hired as an assistant when it seemed this was the direction the interview process was leading to.
I was told I qualify under “License Eligible” due to my enrollment in a vet tech program. I want to believe an accident was made but…
“There are no accidents” Oogway
So begins 2016 and I have no worries about the past because it is done. No worries about the future (at least let me believe I don’t) and presently I am okay with where I’m at.
A tattoo drawing is now ready to be inked into my skin. Yes, another, and the design links the two, my cousin and his mother, both lives embedded in mí alma (soul).
Mom, my mom’s family and their cultures, emotionally and physically have graced many entries to this blog. Truth be known, I know more of mom’s side than of Dad’s which may be a good thing. Mom’s family were in the states, easily accessible, familiar and close by, although not necessarily close (the warmy and feely kinda close) to each other.
My aunt Peggy, mí Tía Peggy was my second mother during my early years at Berkeley Place, Park Slope, Brooklyn, when it was known as ‘the hood’ and hipsters did not exist. She lived on the third floor with my cousins.
When I came into the world, I was named after mí Tía. Her husband, my uncle, mí Tío drove mom to the Brooklyn Jewish Hospital , because, well, Dad was at work. Childbirth back then had the Dads pacing in the maternity waiting room while their wives hemmed and hawed through childbirth in the delivery room.
That, was, the protocol-back to the naming or my aunt.
Mí Tía Peggy went by her nickname of Peggy. Her real name is/was Amada E***a. Since my Dad was not present at my birth, my uncle, mí Tío named me after his wife-the E***a part of the name and not the Amada.
Why no name for the incoming or rather outgoing baby?
Need to ask mom about that one.
But, a name was given and the name became my own.
Names are peculiar on mom’s side of the family for nicknames can take the place of real names and what once was thought of as a name, a real name, becomes the nickname. At times, it’s hard to remember that the nicknames are not the real names.
I’m confusing myself right now and going way off topic. And, not everyone had a nickname and that includes me.
Tracing family roots was once an obsession for me, most especially during my studies toward the BA. Through searching, listening and relying on family oral stories, I was able to get the real names behind the nicknames as well as the towns in Honduras where aunts and uncles were born.
As far as tracing people and connections, I realized mom’s family tree is a broken one. The roots of her tree exist but the branches, stretching long and thick in some areas and dangerously thin in others often led to dead end ends.
Now onto the tree-the Mulberry tree.
The Mulberry tree is a peculiarity in the ‘hood. Back in the day, neighbours often complained of these trees and hired tree cutters to remove them for their yards. Mulberry trees produce berries, lots of berries from dark purple to ruby red. These berries stain everything it comes into contact with. From white sneakers, to clothing to concrete sidewalks-if the berry touched, it left its impossible to remove stain behind.
This tree and the berries hold a special place in mi alma because it reminds me of mi tia and my cousins.
When we were young and cooped up indoors, on the third floor, due to rain or too hot to venture outdoors we made jam. Jam from the berries of the Mulberry tree, set on a stove, mixed in with Domino sugar and spread warm and soothing on Wonderbread-white bread before whole wheat, before gluten free, before…the inability to be a kid hanging with your cousins gave way to playing video games in front of a computer.
Mí primos and myself would gather on the third floor fire escape and grab at the branches of the tree from the neighbouring yard plucking the berries bare from the limbs. We even devised a system of wrangling branches out of reach with a rope.
My aunt was amazing with us in that she kept us active and intrigued. Bicycle riding in Ppark when it was Prospect Park, the park one did not venture in at night, visiting the Botanical Gardens before it became “the” Botanical Gardens with its fancy horticultural courses and fine dining.
Anyway, the bottom line is I miss my cousin and the memories I have of his mother, my aunt, most especially in the house we were raised in, the house I am in now, which will always remind me that I come from not a broken family but a family that is strong, creative and alive.
It’s been a long time since my words made their way onto a page.
Transitions continue to subtly move within mi alma and guide me towards the shifts needed to move from a mind-numbing rut into a forward moving , thinking with anticipation, embracing the changes strut.
I enrolled in an online vet tech program, in the process of completing my first semester of full time classes, gave two week notice, verbal and written at the 40 hour a week MICA shelter, began a part-time Sunday only vet tech assisting job, sent out resumes too numerous to mention, went and hopefully will continue to go on interviews and it’s all good. Being in my late 40’s, going through the changes and no, not menopause, makes it all good.
There have been kill-joys who wrinkle their noses upon learning of yet another of my career changes and that’s all good too. At least, I am blessed to have had the opportunity to explore and indulge where my passions take me-blowing in the wind.
The wind may die down and you drop where it stops and fall into a hole. The hole can feel like a big soft blanket, safe and comforting of the most anesthetizing kind. Food, alcohol and e-books are easily delivered with a click from the keyboard or a cell phone call.
You realize the hole is just a hole with no forward or backward movement. It starts to become smaller and the big soft blanket now has scratchy fuzz which scrapes on your dry skin, waking you from the anesthesia you thought you had. Delivery food gets expensively boring and the alcohol makes you fat, while the unread e-books take up space on your Kindle.
I prayed and prayed, cursed, than prayed some more for guidance and HE gave it.
I slowly climbed from the hole and dusted the food crumbs off my body, got on the internet and researched on working with animals. My compassion and dedication to those who have difficulty defending themselves shifted from people to animals. This is now my forward motion and it’s all too good.
My two mini schnauzers have taught me many lessons : unconditional love, patience, understanding pain when it’s not expressed, getting rid of vomit stains, breaking up dog fights, cutting black nails, cleaning out ears, picking up feces , this can go on but it stops right now. I am grateful to them for their influence on my decision to embark on this career transition.
Thank you Tobias and Pi-Patel who incidentally, refused to get in the hole.
Compassion is that which makes the heart of the good move at the pain of others. It crushes and destroys the pain of others; thus, it is called compassion. It is called compassion because it shelters and embraces the distressed. – The Buddha.
Practicing compassion on a daily basis is not easy and at times I wonder if it will ever be. I would like the practice of compassion to be infused within my being so it becomes like breathing -done without much thought, except when I inhale someone’s disgusting cigarette smoke.
But, every day experiences or situations where compassion is most needed, at times, is almost impossible to produce.
1. Dealing with emotional bats, otherwise known as emotional vampires-those lovely people who literally suck the marrow outta ya then fill the crevices with their overbearing problems. I prefer to use the term emotional leeches for literary visual impact. Bats are pretty cute while leeches, (those crafty blood suckers) are flat-out UGLY!
2. Viewing yet another rape crime on the media and plotting with friends on how to introduce legislation that allows male castration as a form of punishment or better yet castration with a dose of Frank’s hot sauce after the procedure. Yes, compassion is not available at this time, only revenge on the p***s kind…now, what if the perp is a woman…?
Yes, the examples are not nice but that’s the irony of compassion-it’s not meant to be utilized solely for the feely good things, the charities, the Hurricane survivors, the down on their luck person, etc.
For me, compassion does come easy when the situations or events fall under the feely good things. It flows endlessly, no questions pondered or second thoughts. But, place in front of me a complainer, an agitator, a supervisor who uses me to do his work while he sits in his office and watches movies on his NOOK, neglected animals at the hands of neglected humans, verbal bullies who hurt emotionally with words…this can go, but it stops here, and my compassion which normally resides in mi alma has conveniently moved to my foot.
Yes, the complainer may have painful things going on inside, the agitator may be acting from pain, the supervisor…well…the supervisor may feel his work is inferior and therefore engages in movie viewing on the job (while raking in a big salary) to pacify his deflated ego and now my compassion has moved from my foot to my stomach.
My meditation practice of Tibetan Buddhism centers on compassion, which is essential towards enlightenment. In order to put forth compassion unto others, I must first have compassion towards myself. There are a few things about me that do not permit my compassion. I can be a complainer, an agitator but not one who watches movies at work or neglects animals or bullies with words. If I disdain those traits in others, how do I deal with them within myself?
Right now, I read, I try to practice and hopefully in due time a teacher will find me and gently lead me on the correct path towards compassion.
You talk too much, you worry me to death. You talk too much, you even worry my pet. You just talk, talk too much. —Joe Jones
You know who they are and avoid them whenever possible but most times, AVOIDANCE IS FUTILE. Imagine having one as a colleague who must be worked with in order to close that lucrative deal. Or worse yet, you live with one and the connection cannot be easily severed and frankly, you can’t complain about this because you knew about the talking too much beforehand.
A person who talks too much is self-absorbed and fixated upon expressing thoughts and viewpoints, listening only to their voices. At times their words are harmless fluffs of letters and vowels. Other times, their words, especially the words which begin with capital letters are fueled by hate, feed off unhealthy gossip and revel in criticisms of the MOST NASTY KIND. Attempting to get a word or two in is impossible because a person who talks too much has an overwhelming amount of words to expel. Overdosing on one’s own words is possible although I have yet to witness it.
After a hardy session in the company of a person who talks too much, when my ears are finally free and able to breathe, compassion sets in. I realize loneliness instigates the need to be heard. To be lonely and not heard is emotional damage. I make a thought promise to give more of my listening ears next time, knowing in truth, I will avoid that person at all costs. And I should know better.
As a KID, I was a person who talked too much.
Refusing to subscribe to the ‘children should be seen not heard’ train of thought, my mouth rambled on producing coherent and incoherent words which flowed from morning to night. Only sleep afforded my mouth rest. My demand to be heard was carried out regardless of feedback or television volume turned high.
Granted, I was annoying but my motivation for talking too much was the result of abrupt life changes: parents’ separation, siblings marrying and/or moving out, and cousins moving to Jersey. These changes left empty slots on my social calendar. Social verbal exchange was greatly reduced-in other words, no one to hang around with or annoy. No one to spy on to later retell the events to another with acute attention to details while munching on a bag of Wise potato chips.
As an ADULT, I do not talk much (I don’t) and maybe that is the reason I attract persons who talk too much.