 THE
HONEYCAKES DIARIES
(an Ellen Baker Blog)
Archives: May 2005-July 2005
July 2, 2005
On Being Addicted to
Work, Part 1
I already know this is
going to take more than one entry. . .
I was thinking about it
these past few months. "ER" is finally coming out on DVD, one
season at a time. I wasn't able to watch ER consistently over the
years--because, um, I was too busy working. . . anyway, when I watch it,
the employees' lives seem curiously familiar. They work really
hard, they are exhausted all the time, they are preoccupied with their
jobs, they miss family and social events, blah blah blah. They
complain a lot, but deep down you know their jobs are everything to
them.
I've felt that way since
I first set foot in a hospital psychiatric unit, back in 1991. I was 25
and a second year social work graduate student. No one
particularly had time to train me, of course, so I got a whirlwind tour
of the unit and nursing station, then had to find things to do. In
grad school I wore my hair down past my waist and had a fondness for
full skirts. I must have looked a bit like Alice in Wonderland
running after the White Rabbit that day.
The nurses were busy, the
patients were distressed, and the doctors were terrifying.
And few people seemed to be wearing uniforms or name tags, so I got
everybody mixed up. As a student in this kind of environment, you
are either a help or a burden, so I tried hard to be helpful, but I
wasn't sure what I was doing at first. My boss was a truly kind and smart
woman, but she was very much in demand by multiple staff people, so I
spent a lot of time waiting for her to be free as I worked, SLOWLY, with
my first few patients.
I went home after a week
of this with awful stomach cramps. I shared a large, run-down
house with a bunch of other busy, grad student types. I remember
lying awake, looking up at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking "I can't
do this. I'm not gonna make it." It wasn't my first
experience in psych, but it was first time working working in a
hospital. Up till then, I'd thought I wanted to be a private
practice psychotherapist, have an office, see some nice private patients
("normal neurotics," I had one supervisor call them).
Somehow, I sucked it up
and made it back in for my next week. No one seemed to notice
quite how anxious I was (it's easy enough to hide anxiety in this type
of a work environment--unless you actually pass out, which I
saw happen to a brand-new student a few years later).
So what's the work like?
Social work on a psych unit is about taking a social history, assessing
the patients' resources, communicating with the patients' families and
outpatient therapists, and setting up services (as best you can) to help
the patients when they are discharged.
The social history part
was fun. All those nosy questions you are dying to ask people?
Asking them is part of the job! And it's amazing how fast you can
bond with patients in a situation like that.
Now finding
resources--that was a lot harder.
I remember my supervisor
sitting me down on my first day and giving me the spiel: "This is
not a rest cure. A little spit, some Haldol, and they're outta
here. Our job is to find them a safe place to go, even if it's to
a shelter."
A shelter? Yes, it's
amazing the number of patients who were homeless. You never get
used to it. And it's easy to feel horrible about yourself when you
can't do anything about it--our country doesn't take good care of its
mentally ill. The lucky few get good services, and the rest
are on their own. And the idea of patients being
"institutionalized" is over--hospital stays are breathtakingly short.
Which is good and bad--the idea of patients being at home as much as
possible is often a positive thing, and the days of people being kept
too long because they have good insurance or because they are being
overprotected are gone. But those patients who don't have a
lot of resources and are very sick often end up on the streets.
As depressing as all this
may sound, I found that the work was fascinating, challenging, and
rewarding in those cases where you could feel the patient's life
changing for the good.
The other interesting
thing were the doctors and staff. The Medical Director was a
tall man in his late sixties with a booming voice. He ruled the
unit with an iron fist, and when he walked in each morning, the nurses'
station got REALLY QUIET and everyone started running around, fetching
charts and patients and making tea for him. I was initially so
nervous that I couldn't even speak to him, but I soon realized that my
youth, timidity, and deferential behavior pleased him, so I kept it up
even as I became more confident. The other doctors were a strange
mix of personalities, and I learned it was necessary to tailor my
approach to each patient based on the attending doctor.
As for the nurses and
other support staff, their competence and empathy for the patients
varied widely. Some were idealistic, some were burned out, and
some were as emotionally fragile as the patients. But
amazingly enough, the system seemed to function pretty well.
And a month later, I
found myself somehow managing to simultaneously deal with an angry
doctor and conduct a family meeting with a screaming baby and several
people talking loudly in Spanish. My boss was out of the office
that day, so I just had to wing it. And when I got home in one
piece that night, I knew I was going to be ok.
In fact, I soon
discovered that I couldn't imagine doing anything else. Or even
THINK about anything else, at times. Sometimes I avoided
going out on Friday nights--I often couldn't think about topics that
were non-hospital related until at least Saturday. My classes seemed
like a silly waste of time, compared to the amount of information I was
taking in at the hospital every day. I found myself
frequently working late, sometimes unnecessarily. I think part of me wanted
to prove myself, but I also felt so connected to work that leaving at
the end of the day felt strange.
After a while (to my
great pride), the doctors and nurses started to forget that I was a
student. That winter, the full-time social worker on my unit went
on extended sick leave, and I found myself holding the fort while
training a series of temps. I did feel the need to occasionally
remind everyone that I was a student, but the reminders never seemed to
stick.
So, when I graduated that
spring, they hired me.
Keith and I started
dating a month after I started as a "real" employee. Thank god he
was in New York! Having a relationship and a full time hospital
job seemed impossible, even long-distance. The hospital operators
got to know the sound of Keith's voice when he'd call to have me paged.
It's tough when a doctor and your boyfriend are on hold waiting for you
at the same time.
Fortunately, Keith's own
tendency to overwork himself has brought a strange sense of balance to
our relationship.
So, how I learned over
the years to cope, and how my work life evolved. . .
. . . will be the topic
of a future entry.
I'm off to try not to
think about hospitals for the afternoon.
But since I am
"Administrator-On-Call" this weekend for emergencies. . . you never
know.
send a comment or question
May 22, 2005
How I Became a Dragonmark
Heir and Tattooed Babe (All at the Same Time!)
I have never considered
myself to be the tattoo type.
Even as they have become
more socially acceptable, and my friends started getting them, I never
really thought about it, for a number of different reasons.
First off, I've never
messed much with what Mother Nature gave me. I have, to this day,
never dyed or permed my hair (although as the gray ones start to come
in--see my March 14 entry--I'm becoming more flexible on this issue).
I've never been big on makeup, don't do wax hair removal, have pierced
only my ears, and have never had a nose job (despite lifelong annoyance
with the size of this feature). I have to admit I'm intrigued by
spray-on tanning, but I've never done that either (I'll get back to you
later in the summer).
Secondly, I don't do pain
well. Honestly, I tend to vomit when I'm in pain (not something I
relish doing in any setting, let alone a tattoo parlor). I also
passed out once after some extremely minor surgery to remove a mole on
my chin--I was 14 years old, and got through the whole thing just fine,
until I tried standing up and walking out of the doctor's office with my
mom. I felt dizzy and nauseated, and I took a step toward the
ladies room as my mom was going over the post-surgery instructions with
the nurse. Next thing I knew something very unpleasant-smelling
was being waved under my nose, and I was looking up at florescent lights
as I heard a voice say, "Has she every fainted before?" I remember
feeling very self-conscious and apologizing profusely ("Did I faint? I'm
sorry! I'm really, really sorry!"). I haven't fainted again
in my life, although I've also not had facial surgery since then,
either. I did have my wisdom teeth out in my early twenties,
although general anesthesia, valium, and nitrous oxide did the trick
that time. (By the way, I think nitrous oxide is over-rated.
I was really looking forward to it, but found it smelled horrible and
that the laughing fits were more embarrassing than enjoyable).
Thirdly, as you all know,
I'm a hospital administrator. I have to look professional at work.
Visible tattoos on co-workers have always annoyed me. In my line
of work, conservative dress is important, and I have always believed in
appropriate dress to the occasion. (Of course, this also includes
wearing skimpy elf-girl costumes to Gencon. Appropriate does not
always equal conservative. Nor should it.)
SO--all these
reservations went straight to heck when I opened up the Eberron Campaign
setting last June and saw this picture (called "Dragonmark Heir," by
artist Lucio Parrillo):
http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/eb_gallery/82096.jpg
Keith and I were actually
at a wedding that weekend at a quaint old inn on Cape Cod. We were
sitting out by the pool eating breakfast.
"Well, I guess I'm
getting a tattoo!" I found myself saying.
"Hmmm?" Keith's head
snapped up from his eggs and sausage.
"Look at this picture!
This whole dragonmark thing is basically an invitation for people to get
tattoos! As your wife, it's my responsibility to be the first girl
who does this. If I don't act quickly, I'll have to walk around
with the knowledge that some other girl has MY tattoo on her back!"
It was also, I realized,
an obvious marketing opportunity. And a lot more fun than my
previous marketing experiences, which involved slinging out hospital
brochures and mugs with the hospital logo on them, filled with
chocolate.
To top it off, our
longtime friend Lee Moyer had done
the artwork for that part of the book. So there it was--art from
Keith's world, created by a close friend, and envisioned as a magical
mark on one's body. What could be more appropriate for a tattoo
for Ellen? Sometimes, you just can't argue with your destiny.
Keith decided he
would join me in the tattoo experience, and then followed a long debate
over which marks to get. The Mark of Healing seemed like an
obvious choice for me, but I just didn't like the art. I
preferred the
Mark of Storm, especially since my mood is
very influenced by the weather. I hate rain and clouds, so a mark
which might allow me to make the sun come out seemed appropriate.
Then there was debate as to whether the mark should be Least, Lesser, or
Greater. Doubting my ability to stomach the amount of time it
would take to get a large tattoo, I went for the Least. Keith
decided on the
Mark of Marking.
At a work party shortly
thereafter (one of those perfect balmy backyard BBQ's, where everyone's
had just a tiny bit too much to drink), I mentioned my upcoming tattoo.
This was followed by an orgy of flesh-revealing:
"Here's the one I got the
summer I went cross country!"
"I love this one on my
back, but I never get to see it!"
"Showing the whole thing would involve pulling down my jeans, so I'll just
show you guys the top half!"
Some of this was denied
the next morning at work, but I know what I saw!
And so it came to pass
that last July, we found ourselves at
Bolder Ink, settling in for an afternoon of tattooing with
Darren.
Keith went first, deciding on the Greater Mark of Making, despite some
warnings that the intricate design might blur over the years ("You don't
want blurring!" another tattoo artist named
Joel yelled from
the hall as he ran past). Doing it all in black instead of color
might help, Darren suggested. That was fine with Keith--black is
pretty much all he wears, anyway (I'm serious, it's kinda like a black
hole looking into his closet. According to his mother, he has been
that way since birth. Probably would've asked for black diapers as
an infant, had he been able to speak). Since I went with the Least
Mark, my tattoo was possible in full color. I asked for it to be
on my shoulder blade, silently hoping that: 1. It wouldn't hurt too
much, and 2. It would never be visible at work. Darren said that
tattoos don't so much cause pain, but rather produce a rush of
adrenaline, which is obviously hard on the body. "If you guys need
me to stop so you can take a break, let me know. Don't be afraid
to speak up."
So I sat and watched
Keith get the Mark on his arm. He seemed perfectly comfortable,
barely twitching as the needle went in and out, in and out. I read
a magazine and held his hand, trying to remain calm. You can
still back out, a voice whispered in my head. SHUT UP,
I replied.
Finally, the time came.
Darren had me sit up and lean sideways against the chair. As the
needle started going in, I realized it didn't feel as painful as I
feared, just really, really WEIRD. Hmmm, not so bad, slow deep
breaths, visualize somewhere calm, like a beach. . . I lectured
myself bravely. Think about how great it's going to look.
After about 15 minutes, I
realized my breathing was coming faster and my head was spinning.
I was also slumping farther and farther forward. Uh-oh.
"Kid, you look a little
pale," said Keith, squeezing my hand, which I noticed to my
embarrassment was slick with sweat.
"I'm ok," I managed to
wheeze. LIAR! my inner voice shouted. You
can't handle this! You're going to pass out or vomit soon if this
keeps up!
"Can you stop for a
minute?" I found myself asking Darren. Like forever? the
inner voice shouted, but I shushed it. I was not going to spend
the rest of my life with a half-finished tattoo on my back, vomit or no.
Pull yourself together.
I spent the next few
minutes with my head in Keith's lap, trying to breathe deeply.
Darren brought water and candy, assuring me that this wasn't uncommon.
It's amazing how easy it is to retain one's full ability to feel
embarrassment, even as other vital functions (such as breathing) are
malfunctioning. At some point I heard Joel's voice out in the hall again, saying "Darren, you've done it again! Another one is
DOWN!" Then I was vaguely aware of the sound of singing.
Keith later told me that Joel was belting out the old 80's power ballad
"Total Eclipse of the Heart" in an effort to keep me in the land of the
living.
It must have worked, too,
because I slowly began feeling better. Darren suggested I lie down
for the rest of the procedure, which I enthusiastically agreed to--I've
always tolerated pain better in a prone position. We began again,
and I slowly realized I was going to be ok. This is good for
you, I told myself. You need to push your limits sometimes,
and do things you are afraid of. It helps you grow. There's
too many times in your life you've avoided stuff like this because you
were chicken.
And soon enough, I was
done. Darren let me look in the mirror and WOW! . . . it was
beautiful.
I spent the next few
weeks flashing as many people as possible, even (to my surprise) my
co-workers. "Wanna see my new tattoo?" I'd crow to nurses,
doctors, and social workers. "Pull down my shirt right here!"
"Did it hurt?" the ones
without tattoos would ask.
"YUP!" I replied.
Going to Gencon was even
better. I shopped carefully for tops cut low in the back, and even
had a costume made to match the original
picture in the ECS.
"Nice dragonmark!" I
would hear occasionally, as I walked the halls of the convention center
in my low cut camisole, hair twisted in a bun so it wouldn't hang down
my back and cover the tattoo.
I would turn around, go
into full diva mode, smile widely, and announce: "I'm Keith Baker's
wife!"
This was usually greeted by some kind of wide-eyed surprise, followed by "Congratulations!" and
then "Is that a real tattoo?" Many people assumed it was some kind
of temporary body art.
Hmmm, sometimes it's
really fun to be the wife of someone famous. I can't deny it.
Even given my incessant moaning in this blog about losing my identity,
there are times when being "Keith Baker's wife" is pretty darn cool.
There, I'm admitting it!
SO--was it worth it? Absolutely!
Will I get addicted to tattoos, as so many people do, and get
more and more of them as the years go by?
Put myself through that AGAIN? Are you CRAZY?
And finally, the question
on all of your minds:
Can I control the weather
yet?
I'll get back to you.
As to whether that freak spring blizzard last month was me--maybe, maybe
not. I'm not saying.
*Wink*
send a comment or question
******
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