Tuesday, Nov. 28, 2006
The House that Jill Built
This will be shorter than the average entry because I'm five minutes before time to get the heck out of here.
MC and I came to the library today. I spent the morning taking care of miscellaneous small chores that had been put off for a while, wandering through a couple of stores just because it was sheer bliss to take the time to DO so, and so on.
Then this afternoon I've been reading an intriguing book called, "The Man Who Tasted Shapes."
It's not a metaphor; it's a genuine medical condition known as synesthesia. These are in general perfectly sane, otherwise normal and/or exceptionally intelligent people whose senses blend from one to another. A sound, for some of these folks, has its associative color. A taste may generate a specific feel. Hence, a "sharp" cheese for someone with that form of synesthesia genuinely feels something SHARP when they taste the cheese.
The book also, however, delves into the way the human mind works in sorting out our physical and emotional senses. And I think one of the more profound aspects of the book is a non-clinical observation on the too-clinical nature of the medical community in the era of "fix everything or insurance won't pay for it."
It really puts into concrete terms why medical insurance won't pay for a mental illness, something that can't be quantified by a physical test or physical symptoms. And the writer, himself a neurologist, bemoans the fact throughout. His cherished memory as a medical student wasn't the gosh-darn machinery he encountered, but the person he hoped to emulate, an elderly physician who took the time to talk to his patients and treat them like human beings.
Ironically the other medical students found him "boring" because his patients weren't as sick. I guess it never occurred to him that his patients' convalescences and recoveries were impacted by the fact of being treated as individual, living persona rather than as "test subjects."
I suspect that's also why some of us can never function in a world of big business. If you're okay with being treated as a piece of furniture as long as that treatment accompanies a paycheck, you can manage. I'm okay with being ignored altogether, but not with being treated like a gumby doll to be manipulated at will and without regard to rationality.
It's been a nice, serene birthday. I didn't either call or email ex-boss back. I haven't decided whether to attempt enlightening him with the meaning of "I Quit" or not. I'm inclined to think it's an impossible task, as it's also never worked with a couple of ex-bosses back, the radio station owner in Globe.
However, like happened with MC, I hope that taking a step back and removing myself from the ongoing daily grind - focusing on other things instead - I'll have a better perspective before jumping into another cannibals' pot.
I also sent out some more resumes today, as well as some inquiries on other web jobs that may or may not materialize. But that's all right. This was the right time to walk away, despite some very real financial concerns. I am still hurting a little today but nowhere near on the scale of yesterday.
And Dr. Wildrosie and I concur that part of my problem is likely a hiatal hernia. Fun, huh? It pokes up its nasty head now and again, but only gets REALLY bad when I'm in extreme stress. Like, oh, working for an idiot newspaper empire wannabe or for a clueless boss with a Napoleon complex.
And of course, there's really not much they can do for it, except surgery in extreme cases. So I guess I just suck it up and oh well.
I told MC that this is my best birthday ever because I got the best gift ever - him! Speaking of that, though, MC insists we get a birthday cake, complete with candles, so I guess I need to sign off and get out of here.
Before - After
In the grander scheme of things, no soul can truly be replaced. Each one of us has a place in the universal tapestry. We each contribute our own color and texture. When one thread is snipped too soon, it distorts all the threads around it. Other lives can unravel and tear. If the wrong thread is ripped away, the whole fabric of life becomes dangerously fragile.
- LeiLani, aka Radiogurl aka Bright Opal (1957 - )