Airing out our grievances

August 18, 2010

Dr. XXXXXXX
Cross Keys Animal Hospital
2071 North Black Horse Pike
Williamstown, NJ 08094

Dear Dr. XXXX,

On August 16, my mother brought her 3 ½-year-old boxer, Molly, in because of very strange behaviors she was exhibiting, including inexplicably urinating around the house, stumbling, failing to recognize family members, losing her appetite and the ability to drink, losing her nerve function and possibly her eyesight, and becoming confused about where she was. You did blood tests and said that if they came back clean, there was a chance the dog had either a behavioral problem or brain cancer, the latter condition being somewhat common in boxers.

We waited 24 hours to get the blood test results back and when they were finally relayed to my mother over the phone, a vet tech suggested that the problem was behavioral and that my mother should hire a trainer. When you eventually called her back yourself, you acted as though you were completely unfamiliar with Molly’s case and made the same suggestion. By that time, Molly’s symptoms had worsened considerably. The problem was clearly NOT behavioral and she was clearly NOT in any shape to be transported to a vet hospital in the city and left there.

The service my parents received from you at Cross Keys Animal Hospital was despicable. If you had bothered to listen to what my mother was telling you, you may have been able to make some real recommendations rather than jumping from one extreme to another, especially since you were Molly’s primary vet and could have easily looked at her charts to see some of the other unexplained medical issues she’d previously encountered. In fact, if you had listened to the especially troubling symptom that my mother repeated to you over and over (completely colorless and odorless urine), you probably would have reached the conclusion that we did – her kidneys were failing. If you had bothered to actually speak to my parents this morning when they went through with the incredibly difficult decision to have Molly euthanized because she could no longer eat, drink, see, or stand well, you probably would have thought twice about your previous diagnosis. Since you didn’t seem to take it very seriously when my mother talked to you on the phone, perhaps seeing just how pathetically downhill Molly’s quality of life had fallen would have made you take a second look.

I’m sure you’re wondering what my objective is in writing you. It is simply this - I have lived and worked around animals my entire life and never have I witnessed anything so ethically unsettling as how you treated my parents and their dog when they needed expert advice and compassion the most. Molly was our family dog – she was an incredibly special part of my parents’ lives and those of our extended family and it was very hard to see such a young animal suffer so needlessly.

It was no easy decision to have Molly euthanized, but ultimately none of us believed that she deserved to suffer the debilitating effects of whatever she had anymore. When my parents brought her into your animal hospital, a vet tech took the dog, asked if they wanted to be in the room with her (they did not), and took her away. No vet ever spoke to my parents – not you, not any of your colleagues.

I do not blame you for Molly’s death, but I do blame you for treating my parents and our family pet with so little compassion and respect.  Perhaps you are overworked or have achieved some degree of burnout in your career as a vet, but in either case, there is no excuse for being so detached from an extremely time-critical situation that required your attention. Given that the AVMA’s code of ethics is largely based on the Golden Rule, I would ask you the following question: How would you have felt if you’d been treated with little compassion or respect when a member of your family was in critical condition and time was of the essence?

I hope you will think of that the next time someone puts the life of his/her dog in your hands and you are too tired or burnt out to give them any real consideration. As it is, no one in my immediate or extended family will ever make the mistake of visiting your office again. I’m sure that won’t eat into your profit margin too much, but I hope it eats into your conscience a little.

Sincerely,
Tara N. Ronda

A little zen, anyone?

I don't know why but I've suddenly got my zen-ishness back again. I read a very interesting blog post yesterday about the things we do to distract ourselves from the issues at hand - eating/gaining weight because somehow we don't feel like good people, reading a bunch of stuff just to read it and NOT do something else, hanging out online to feel a sense of social cohesion we might not feel in "real life."

All true for me.

So as I was reading, I was thinking, "What's so bad about being alone?" Nothing, really. I'm a pretty cool cat with some interesting thoughts - why can't I just dive into my brain and sit with it for awhile? Why do I (read: we) feel the need to be constantly on the move?

Funny that I should have this mini-revelation now, when I've just formalized my fall schedule and it leaves little "me" time, even to the imagination. Between working, teaching, doing the pre-med thing, and volunteering at the hospital, my week is beyond full. Whatever spare time there might be will be at least partially devoted to the hubster, the BFF, and the animules. Where do I come in?

Still, I think I like my schedule. I like the busy-ness of it because it means I will be at my most productive. I find it distracting NOT to have a busy schedule - then, it's easier for me to sit on my duff and wait around for someone to light a fire under me. But if I'm in a constant state of motion, the slowdown doesn't happen.

Which will eventually catch up to me, as it does every semester.

So how will I balance it all out? I think there are a couple of answers to that...

1. I'll be mindful of everything I do and try to enjoy it, even when it's unenjoyable.
2. I won't waste time on non-productive activities, like procrastination.
3. I will view personal time as productive, too - so when I feel like reading Alice in Wonderland, I will. No questions asked of myself.
4. I don't know how it will work, and I'm okay with not knowing how it will work.

This is just sort of a stream-of-consciousness blog today, but my schedule reminds me of how much I dislike when people dislike what they're doing. Observe your coworkers and you'll know exactly what I mean - how many of them look suicidal and/or homicidal? Probably more than you want to admit. How many of them are grumpy or rude? Quite a few. On the one hand, I suppose you should be compassionate to the fact that not everyone gets to do what they love. But on the other, it's a shame no one taught those people to love the work they do, even if it's not ideal. Because every interaction with another human being is a blessing of sorts. You never know what you might take away from a brief conversation...or even from learning that you dislike certain types of people.

And best yet, you never know what a positive impact you might have on someone who isn't having such a great day, just by being nice.

Zen is such an overused term, but maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means that people know what they're striving for, even if they don't know how to get it. I think it's everywhere, though.

I've learned that my zen is peace of mind, created by making food from scratch, spoiling myself with a good juicy nectarine instead of McDonald's fries, spending that half-hour from 4 to 4:30am (before hubby is up) listening to the crickets and then falling back asleep. Sometimes it's strange things like getting an amazing deal on something I've waited to buy for months, or sitting at the hospital reception desk on a quiet Sunday night when no one is around but the security guard.

When that peace of mind is gone for awhile, I appreciate it all the more when it comes back.

t.

Accentuate the positive

Guess what? Two negatives make a positive in more than math.

A few minutes ago I started eating my celery with peanut butter, which I fully expected to hate, and I realized that it's not actually that bad. I don't like celery and I don't like creamy P.B. (I mean, REALLY - peanut butter is supposed to be CRUNCHY...), but together, they're bearable and even, dare I say, kind of tasty.

In contemplating my new discovery aloud, my office-mate pointed out that NEG + NEG = POS in a lot of areas. Her example: A lot of people like the beach (even grumpy old me), but how many people like the isolated elements? No one likes the sticky, salty humidity or getting sand all up in their whoosy-whatsits, but you put that sea air and the sand together and you've got yourself a fun time. Go figure.

So now I'm sitting here thinking about other ways I can accentuate the positive by adding the negatives. Take, for example, one of my major pet peeves: stupid people with driver's licenses. Add the first element ("stupid people") and the second element ("driver's license") and you end up with a sum that proves your superiority to two-thirds of the world's population. Who can't see the positive in that?

I think I like this new equation. In fact, I see this resulting in a good number of experiments (possibly videotaped for my readers' viewing pleasure)...

t.

As yet untitled...

I am a fan of Lady Gaga. I did not used to be a fan of Lady Gaga. In fact, when my BFF had a Lady Gaga-themed party (to which I didn't go because there was 10 feet of snow on the ground and I was busy puking my guts up), I was very unclear as to why she would waste her time doing it. The kookiness of L.G. continued to elude me until, weeks after said BFF burned the CDs for me, I finally allowed myself to listen to them. It took a few days of playing and replaying them, absorbing the beats and deciphering the lyrics, before I got it.

I'm not a diehard fan, but I have a healthy respect for the young lass with a seemingly endless supply of freakish headgear. I don't find her particularly beautiful, although I'm pretty sure I'd sell at least half my soul to have a body like hers. No, she is not attractive to me in the typical sense. But she does have an attractive energy and sense of self.

Why am I thinking about this just now?

Well, this morning I was listening to my daily dose of Preston & Steve and they were discussing the forthcoming Vanity Fair article about L.G. Since MMR is most definitely NOT a pop station, they were a little critical of her, especially the whole quote about losing creativity through sex. They drew the very common comparison between her and Madonna and went on to discuss the crazy head accoutrements she's fond of wearing. It made me think...and here's the conclusion I arrived at.

Lady Gaga is a symbol. Sure, on the surface she represents the sort of standard drug- and sex-infused pop music with which our radio stations seem to be disturbingly preoccupied. But if you listen closely, you see and hear more. Rather than a mindless repeat of the earlier superstardom enjoyed by the likes of Madonna and her brethren, you are actually witnessing the rebirth of a genre in the form of someone who appears genuine in her self-confidence and lack thereof, her vulnerability as a young star, her passion for hedonism...and her willingness to admit her weaknesses.

See, what I got from listening to L.G.'s music over and over again was an open mind and the ability to release myself a bit from a self-imposed Victorian sensibility that bothers even me. I am someone who likes things to be right because they are supposed to be. I need no other reason to criticize someone than because what they say and/or do violates the natural order of things. I have an exceptionally strong distaste for people who break the rules. Granted, I like to break rules myself - but not the ones I see as universal.

An example: I hate when I send out invitations for something and no one RSVPs. Yes, it's a little rude and yes, it creates some confusion for me. But even more importantly, that's what RSVPs are FOR! It bothers me to no end that people do not use the cards for their intended purpose. This neglect ruins the order of things - why have RSVPs if no one is going to use them?!

Similarly, for weeks after receiving the L.G. CDs, I wouldn't let myself listen to them because in a weird way, I am a prim and proper gal with prim and proper ideas. I dislike people who are shameless about who they offend and how they portray themselves. It bothers me when I believe that someone has no self-respect because isn't that what makes humans different from animals, after all?

In fact, though, there are different kinds of self-respect. What I have found by repeatedly listening to and analyzing L.G.'s music is that the universe doesn't always need order. Sometimes it's okay to break outside your comfort zone and be a little bold. And anyway, who am I to judge?

The truth is that I judge myself as harshly as I judge others, and it's completely counter-productive. So thank you, Lady Gaga, for showing me the light.

However, I do not expect to change completely. I still don't like Snookie and I still think she's an overtanned troll who went crazy with the Bump-It.

The end.

t.

"Go forth and rant, young grasshopper..."

That's what she said..."she" being the better half of the PB&J duo that is Tara and Maureen. I was a little peeved about some things and she advised me to make a blog post out of my dis-ease, so that's what I'm doing.

First it was the library overbuild - if you are a non-Stocktonite, you will have no idea what that means. Well, simply put, it looks like this: you demolish an outdoor, nicely sunlit patio in front of the library-wing entrance and replace it with an "eco-friendly" new wing with exposed, recycled steel beams.

Then, it was the plowing down of these beautiful, massive oaks to make way for a spiffy new college center, which for some reason is pictured in the plans as having a bizarre head-shot of Shakespeare in one of the front windows.

A few weeks ago, it was the unveiling of an upgraded, "more aesthetically pleasing" website with pictures of shiny, happy students galavanting about under trees (some of which are no longer here because of the nice new college center).

And now, at my most delicate moment, when I have been pushed to the very limits of discomfort at realizing just how much my beloved school has changed over the years...the bookstore. The hallowed aisles, once lit with scathing fluorescent bulbs and filled to the brim with junk food into which I could drown my professional sorrows around 3-ish every day, are now carpeted and surrounded by dark wood shelves, professional racks of clothing, and...gulp...INFORMATION desks. It looks more like a Barnes and Noble than the old Follett bookstore. And this, my friends, is the last straw.

There is nothing wrong with getting a makeover once in awhile, wanting to look good for all the new freshmen that will eventually traipse through your halls, admiring your interior (need I remind you to get your mind out of the gutter?). But this is not a makeover - this is a chemical peel followed by a facelift followed by a full-body transplant.

All because we can't be happy with what we have.

The transformation of my old stomping grounds and current workplace is merely a reflection of society at large. Except it usually doesn't cost many millions of dollars for people to get nipped and tucked...but I digress.

I find it disappointing and sad. I suppose I'm an archaic old relic who hates change. More than that, though, all these "improvements" have done nothing more than turn Stockton into a run-of-the-mill state institution. We look pretty, run inefficiently, and find more and more ways to prostitute ourselves to the public for a few bucks.

When I came here 11 years ago, this school meant something. It was on a beautiful tract of land which, while not entirely untouched by progress, still offered unmarked walking trails through the woods, places undiscovered (or unmarred by discovery) that you could find and claim as yours. As soon as you got on College Drive, you wondered how far you were from civilization as you drove...and drove...and drove until you found the parking lots.

Now all the trails have signs with arrows because everyone's afraid to leave the beaten path. The entrance is paved over, making way for a large traffic light for the many cars that will travel down Vera King Farris Drive (meh...far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but...). New freshmen won't wonder where the parking lots are - first they'll pass the newly paved "back" roads going into the woods, then they'll pass the LED sign that tells them where they are (and the newly planted grove of trees that will never make up for all the ones chopped down), and finally they'll see the huge blue building with the ospreys and the school seal screaming the new-ish school colors. The parking lots are bigger and there are no longer rustic old wooden signs with yellow painted words directing you where to go.

And if the students happen to come in from the other side of campus, they'll see signs along the edge of the campus that tells them where they are. They'll pass the new "sports complex" - fake green fields and shiny new bleachers ready for action. Eventually they'll pass all the new-new and old-new housing complexes.

Somehow, through all this development, we became New Jersey's Green College. I think, though, that the green stands for something else. The trees left behind after the massacre aren't really green so much as they're covered in the sawdust from all their fallen compatriots. But there are more classrooms and parking spaces and places to eat...there will even be a large food court in the new college center, expanding the already plentiful ways students can become obese on campus. Yep, the green sure will roll in...

I miss the old school and my old friends and the old way of doing things. At least things mattered back then...now we're just another school in the crowd. I'm thinking about writing the Stockton Bible - you know, to memorialize the old times. I envision a section somewhere around the middle (let's call it Tara 9:6) that will go like this:

"For unto the Pinelands, an urban university will be born, a paved paradise will be given to us; And the fate of South Jersey will rest on Its shoulders; And Its name will be called Extinguisher of Poverty, Mighty Institution, Eternal Ivory Tower, Prince of Capitalism." (If you'd like to see the original verse, feel free to hop on over here. Call me a spiritual satirist, if you will.)

Fearless

Here's how I found out I'm no longer afraid to live. Last night, my mischievious little husband told me about a series of break-ins happening around our neighborhood. I say mischievious because I think he likes to see me squirm sometimes - in other words, he thought by telling me about this new development, I would flip out.

Not one to disappoint, I did flip out a little, thinking about ridiculous possibilities like What if they break in during the day and let the cat and dog out? What if they break in at 2am and my insomniac self is hanging out in the living room watching infomercials? What if they decide to take all of our ::GASP:: food?!?!

Mid-mini meltdown, however, I realized my heart really wasn't in it. I was just acting out my typical response without really thinking about it - in other words, it was an automatic response.

I then proceeded to disappoint my husband by saying, "Oh well, we don't really have anything worth stealing anyway." Because in my head, what I was really thinking was Wow, I have actually managed to quit my unhealthy attachment to all our STUFF. The chief concern in my mind was the safety of my pets (and of course my hubby). I'm not too worried about me, though. I have a feeling that if someone knocked on my door at 2:30am (which is how the intruders approached their first victim's house), I'd just invite them in for coffee. What's the harm in being kind to common burglars? Either way, they're going to take my stuff...at least if I offer them coffee, I have a far lesser risk of ending up unconscious on the floor. Who's gonna turn down free caffeine at 2:30am when they clearly have to stay awake long enough to finish the job and evade the police?

Still, why wasn't I bothered by the thought of someone invading my home, privacy, and sense of safety? Shouldn't I be more concerned about losing my precious iMac and way-too-large T.V.? But all I could think about was what a burglar's face might look like if I was waiting at the door with a mug of coffee and some cookies. Like waiting for Santa Claus, right? Except instead of a white beard, red suit, and sack in his hand, you're facing some dudes in ski masks, possibly armed, sacks in hand for a whole other reason. Wouldn't that just completely throw them off if I welcomed them, asked them to come in and take what they wanted? That's why I've got insurance, right? (Though I'm not so sure our insurance company would want to fund the replacement of stuff I essentially gave away.) Anyway, what could they possibly steal that would mean anything to me to lose?

I slept pretty good last night, despite my best attempts at reliving that awful, gnawing fear I've lived with forever. I did have nightmares about burned cookies, though...

t.

Redemption at Bobby Dee's Casino

The blue neon "Redemption" sign dangles over the cashier's counter at the back of the arcade, behind the machine that sucks up your hard-won tickets and spits out a receipt you will ultimately trade in for a cheap plastic water gun or rubber ball.

It surprises me. As we parade up to the counter to redeem the $14.85 earned through an hour of game-playing and quarter-wasting, I look up and all of a sudden...BAM! There is this crazy blue sign. The synchronicity is funny in a humorless sort of way - really more sad than anything. Still, the sign is there and I can't help but think it's meant for me, the many thousands of other Wildwood visitors be damned.

I don't like the tackiness of the boardwalk or the tourist-trap shops. I can't stand throngs of people pushing you every which way as you trudge across the boards, occasionally tripping over a nail that needs to be pounded back in, carrying a 40-lb bag of beach goodies that will probably not get used. I especially don't like the humidity of the salt air, how it makes your skin sticky and your hair frizzy. The only thing I like about going to the boardwalk is the promise that eventually, I will get to go on the beach. I don't go in the ocean any deeper than my ankles because I can't see the bottom and I know there's a killer jellyfish waiting for me somewhere under there. But I like the wet sand and the white-capped waves that go haywire when a storm is coming.

A storm is coming today, only I don't know that it's going to be both weather- and marriage-related.

Everyone knows I hate the boardwalk, but I go anyway because Syd and Alex enjoy the rides and the bizarrely entrancing foods like Chipstix and pistachio fudge. But I make no secret of my distaste for the whole scene, which makes me feel worse because at some level, I know I am not-so-secretly trying to ruin their day together.

Things get worse when the two of them trudge off to Mariner's Landing, leaving me in a shop where I am searching for a non-tacky headband to pull the sweaty hair back from my forehead. I think he's waiting outside when really he and his kid have gone off to ride the rides, thinking nothing of my impending panic at having to search the entire boardwalk for them. I am angry and I get progressively angrier with each circuit around the pier. No Alex, no Syd. They don't care that I'm carrying around a bag full of flip-flops and beach towels.

I finally take a break on a bench in the center of the pier, under a pergola that barely spares me from the sun. I can see the bathroom, I have water, I have crackers, and best yet, I have the keys to the truck and all the money. I think things are fine.

But after five minutes, I get angry again and start another circuit around the pier. 

Of course, we eventually find each other but I can't hold my anger back and ream Alex out for giving me a mild anxiety attack. When all is said and done, I've wasted a precious 20 minutes of the time we have with Syd cursing at my husband in the middle of the boardwalk. I stop mid-yell, think for a second, and apologize for flying off the handle. In the hopes that I can redeem myself a bit, I follow them down the boardwalk like a sulking puppy, still carrying the beach bag.

Bobby Dee's Casino is on a corner, the address a simple 3600 Boardwalk painted in small letters on the side.  Alex and Syd are happy again and ready to spend some cash on a few games that will pay out nothing but cheap orange tickets and maybe a few brass-colored tokens. But if they're happy, then I'm happy because I am still trying to work out how I'm going to save the remainder of the day. I am repentant for my outburst and repentance for me usually takes the form of silence.

In the end, when Syd is ready for her mini-shopping spree, I see the sign and stop dead. It makes me think of the word redemption and what it means in the context of a boardwalk arcade.

What does it all mean?! 


Does it mean anything?


To be continued...