Saturday, November 8, 2014

What Is Wrong With You, Google?




Every single time I log into Blogger, up pops a screen like the one above telling me Blogger cannot complete my request.  I dutifully click the button that sends me to a Blogger comment page.  I've stopped explaining what happens and now just let them take a screenshot and finish out the task.

Except today.  Today, their ubiquitous error message pissed me off to the point I stirred from my apathy and wrote back.  (I may be a tad grumpy today; sorry about that.)

Google Feedback lets you send Google suggestions about our products. We welcome problem reports, feature ideas and general comments. Notifications sent through Google Feedback will not be processed and should be submitted using this tool instead.
Start by writing a brief description: 

"As often as I get messages telling me how sorry you are that you can't complete my request, yet nothing changes, I have serious doubts that you really give a hoot.

So, to answer your question as to what I was doing when I got this error message, I was attempting to open a post I hadn't finished from the drop down menu on the Dashboard page.  I had just lifted my cup of coffee for a sip with my non-dominant hand while the index finger of my dominant hand tapped the Posts selection.  As I waited for the next screen to rise (nanoseconds, really), I set my coffee mug down and proceeded to scratch an itchy spot on my left butt cheek.
Say!  Do you think such actions on my part - while in my less-focused state of mind - causes this repetitive failure to communicate on your part?"

Thank you for your feedback. We value every piece of feedback we receive. We cannot respond individually to every one, but we will use your comments as we strive to improve your Google experience.

Yeah, well; I won't hold my breath.

I Love My Circle of Willis

The image above of the Circle of Willis is from Wikipedia.  Thank you, Wiki, for letting me use this.
 
 
When I was in the USN's Hospital Corps School at Great Lakes, Illinois, our anatomy and physiology instructor, Mike Warman, used to tell us we should love our livers, that "we should massage our wonderful, beautiful livers every day."  Mike considered the liver the most important organ in our body.  Never could understand why, if that was so, he abused his every night by getting sloshed at the enlisted men's club.
 
My favorite body part used to be my eyes, then my breasts when they developed, then my genitals when I discovered what they were there for (ah, yes - massage that, Warman!); finally, my brain, when I fell into writing and found there was more in that squishy lump than I ever imagined.
 
Now, though, I am grateful for something else: my Circle of Willis.  I've named mine Bruce.  (Oh, come on!  You knew that was coming.)  I wish there was an easy way to gently massage my C-of-W, but there isn't. 

The Circle of Willis sits at the base of the brain.  It provides a communication pathway between the blood vessels which originate on both sides of our necks, to feed the hemispheres of our brains (left internal carotid feeds left hemisphere; right feeds right)- barely used when all is going well.  Should something unfortunate happen to one or the other internal carotids, the C-of-W acts as a traffic circle, rerouting blood from the undamaged, or less damaged, part of the circulatory system to the brain hemisphere that needs it.  This back-up system, thank you Mother Nature, is called a corollary system, also a redundancy.  Isn't the human body a wondrous thing?

In all likelihood I would have gone the rest of my life not caring about Bruce, taking him for granted as I have everything else about my body - at least, those things that are default systems I can't see.  If it hadn't been for a CT scan of my cervical spine to check on the degree of arthritis invading it, no one would have known about the occlusions in my internal carotids until I had had a stroke - or croaked.  That serendipitous finding may very well be the best thing that's ever happened to me.

I've had a series of test procedures done, one or two more to go, then I see a vascular surgeon about opening up and cleaning out the one that is totally occluded, to give the other one (not quite 50% closed) a break from having to feed both sides all the time.  (I've been operating for an unknown time on 1/4 brain capacity - just thought I'd save some of you from pointing that out.  Don't be snarky, now.)

What's interesting (to me) about all this is that before the CT scan, I'd been following with great interest fellow-blogger Fresca's posts (they start here) about her new job as activities maven in a facility for patients with Alzheimer's - and other forms of dementia, some only a temporary state.  These are a few of the conditions we aging folks give a lot of thought to, the possibility of losing who we are to an insidious disease, accident or physical debilitation. 

I find Fresca's posts enlightening and hopeful.  She approaches her charges as still vital, interesting, engageable people, not lumps of wasting humanity that need to be entertained or occupied with something to do between meals and sleeping.  I told her that I hoped, if I found myself in such a facility, that I'd be lucky enough to have someone like her trying to reach the person I once was.  I didn't know how close I might be to needing that kind of help.  These things happen to millions of people worldwide every day; I'm only one of them.

I just wish Bruce were more easily massaged.  I do rub the base of my skull and tell him how much I love him.  I hope that helps.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Minefields of the Mind


(After Corps School, on my way to Charleston Naval Hospital)


Blogging friend Should Fish More (Mike Mullins) wrote of an episode of PTSD-spawned flashback to his service in Vietnam.
As Mike says in a reply to a comment, everyone’s jungle is out there.  Maybe my first trip wire was the hospital ward at Ft. Polk, Louisiana in 1968, where we went to see my brother, recovering from wounds he received in Vietnam.  Or when I was stationed at Great Lakes, for corps school, and got my first exposure of the unending stream of walking (wheeling, hobbling, et cetera) wounded.  Then there was Charleston Naval Hospital, my last duty station.  None of what I saw was like being in a kill zone after a firefight, or working in a field hospital tent, but it was more than I had ever seen in real life before, and was more than I could process.  So it lay repressed, in deep cover, for 45 years, waiting for the right moment to ambush.

Sometimes I feel ashamed of myself for having these episodes when I didn’t see combat or serve close to the front, where the boys I did see had been patched together enough to send home to stateside hospitals.  I can’t imagine what I’d be like if I had been, and that’s scary to contemplate, considering.
I'm learning about triggers and desensitizing and coping mechanisms and how the 45-year-old memories that seem to explode from nowhere, that destroy my serenity, are also door-opening keys to the memories from childhood forward that I took with me into the Navy.  The memories I can’t look at directly, but only through the lens of my time in service.

I don’t fully understand the mechanics of PTSD; may never know.  But I’m working on it, getting better a little bit at a time, one episode at a time.  My heart breaks for those whose condition is far worse than mine, who can’t function in “the world”, who are still lost in their own jungles (or deserts, or mountains - wherever there was mind-altering trauma).  I hope they find the help they need and deserve…and have earned.
(Thanks, Mike.)

Sunday, September 7, 2014

New Digs

 
This is the house where I used to work.  Too bad I didn't take any photos inside, but I think you'll be able to imagine the scene if I say we had three houses worth of furniture, equipment, books, office supplies and people in that one tiny house.  We also had road dust, leaking pipes, poorly fitted windows, road noise that sounded as if the vehicles were going to drive through the front room (my office) at any moment.  There were good noises, though - children from a near-by preschool program used to parade on the sidewalk in front of the office on their way to the park a few doors down.  Their voices made me think of chirping birds, with laughter.  I loved having them go by.  If I weren't busy, I'd go to the front door and wave to them.
 
However, we needed to move, having long ago outgrown the space, and the expenses for repairs kept rising.
 
 
 
One of our Board members is a Vice-President at a local bank.  When we started our search for a new place, he remembered that his bank owned an adjacent, attached building that had been sitting empty for more than ten years.  Two years ago, the Board asked him to investigate our being allowed to use it, for as modest a fee as possible, of course, since we're a poor non-profit.  After much negotiation and back-and-forth with the bank's corporate office in New York, all parties agreed and we had our lease.  Above is our front façade.
 
We began packing up the old office in June, readying for a mid-July move.  All that while we still conducted regular business, which was more stressful than any of us imagined it might be.  We had to remodel the inside from front to back, mostly cosmetic work, to change it from a dark, dreary cave-like décor to something that would reflect the available light in all the rooms.  (The windows are few, narrow and coated with some sort of sun screen material.  Dark, dark, dark.)
 
 
 
This messy room (still unpacking and putting away - remember the three-rooms-worth of stuff?) is my new office.  I was permitted to choose the wall color, design my new built-in desk area and choose the materials and new equipment.  That wall where the clock is (as were all walls) used to be a dark brown.  The new paint color is a light yellow-green that appears different depending upon how the light hits it.  I wanted something light and cheery and had selected several shades for the Board to review and select.  Fortunately, they picked the one I wanted most - called Hemingway.  Shortly after moving in, the air-conditioning unit for my office died, hence the small fan.  The bank is considering what to do.  I might have A/C in December.  The next two images are of my desktop - also messy and cluttered.  Not for long, though.  I'm going in this afternoon and doing some clean-up.
 



Our new space also houses our library, a much needed expansion.  Our librarian has been asking for more space for years, but several people on the Board, and one weighty committee, have given the library short-shrift in the ten years I've been here.  Our librarian has worked hard, under trying conditions, to organize and properly archive our burgeoning collection of documents and books with the smallest budget allotment ever.  He's done a great job, and now has the space - and budget! - he needs to do it right.


That's it, folks.  If  When I have everything put away, if things look any better, I'll post an update.  (I know - hard for you to get excited over office space, right?)

Anyway, thanks for stopping by today.  See you later!



 

 

 
(Well, what else would I have in my office for decoration?)

Friday, July 4, 2014

Happy Birthday!

http://4thofjuly-pictures.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/fourth-of-july-photos.jpg


Sorry for the link.  Google wouldn't load the image, after several attempts.


I hope that those of you who celebrate the anniversary of our becoming a sovereign nation will have a great time today.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Goodbye, Joe.

When I started my blog several years ago, I searched for others that had a crow theme.  Joe Hyam's blog wasn't about crows, not in the way I was searching, but he had taken a photo of a crow, and that's what came up in my search.  I liked what Joe wrote and added him to my list of blogs to follow.
 
Joe, through his blog, introduced me to many things - art, poetry, other bloggers, other places - that expanded my limited knowledge and added a lot of pleasure to my life.  He wrote about the artist Rothko, of whom I'd never heard, but whose works I find interesting. 
 
 
Abstract by Rothko

 
Joe also introduced me to another Brit with whom I've corresponded, his dear friend, Roderick Robinson.  When Joe posted a photo (below) he took of friends on a park bench near his home, I immediately thought of him and Robbie.  I swiped the photo, with Joe's permission, for my collection, and look at it often.  Never more so than today.
 
 
Photo of friendship, by Joe Hyam (c) 2009
 
 
If you visit Robbie's blog page today, you will find a beautiful tribute to his friend Joe, who has died.
 
I have no idea if there is anything for us once we die, but if there is, I hope Joe has found his Beloved and they are enjoying a skyscape together as beautiful as the one he captured in the photo below.
 
Goodbye, Joe.  Thank you for all that you gave to me. 
 

Golden clouds by Joe Hyam  (c) 2013

Sunday, March 2, 2014

Beginning To See Trees

 
 
The familiar expression about not seeing the forest for the trees, meaning one can't see the big picture for being myopically focused on details, doesn't fit with my situation right now.  My problem is being overwhelmed by the enormity of the forest surrounding me, full of frightening sounds and shadows, no clear path (or paths) to follow out of the darkness, with frightening goblins jumping at me, ambushing my peace of mind.
 
However, I have a guide now, my former therapist, whom I last met with four years ago.  I tried counseling with a psychologist at the Veterans Outreach Clinic nearby, but it was not a good fit.  In fact, she made me feel worse than when I walked in.  She insinuated on my first visit that I was a malingerer, there for compensation.  I tried counseling with her through two visits, recognized it wasn't going to work and left.
 
I've been ill for a long time, more than 50 years.  Whatever happened at the end of December opened all the closet doors, behind which I've been stashing bogeymen -- instead of dealing with each issue as it popped up.  I do have PTSD, related to my time in service, triggered by my visits to the VA clinic, but it is mild and will settle down.  I can feel a space opening up around me, allowing a bit of light in.  That light will enable me to see into the rest of the darkness.
 
I have a long way to go before I'm out of the woods, the labyrinth of my mind.  There will be more clearings, I hope, where I can stop to rest, to gather my wits about me, before going down the next path.
 
For the time being (however long that might be), I will continue to lurk, to visit your blogs, but won't be back here for awhile.  Just wanted to pop in and let friends know I'm okay.
 
So, happy trails to you, until we meet again.