Where is that Robot?

I've been mistaken for a robot quite a few times in life.

How do you write like that?
How can you remember all of your kids' names?
How can you stomach a Keanu Reeves movie?
Always the same answer: Robot.

In fact, several times as a Trail Guide we would let the joke run too far and I would 'malfunction' during a lesson. Josh Meeker and I liked to watch our sixth graders give a nervous laugh as he reprogrammed me by pushing the correct sequence into my back. We acted like nothing had happened the rest of the week and the girls in my cabin would write home that a cyborg was taking care of them at camp.

I've always appreciated that excuse for the organized parts of who I am.



This past week I landed myself in the hospital after a heart episode that occurred in the middle of subbing for a computer class. Although this is becoming an unfortunate degree of Normal in my life, the way the hospital responded was not. I was admitted to the cardiac ward and put on close supervision. After two days of laying in a hospital bed and reading Tina Fey's Bossypants from cover to cover I expected to go home with the same list of instructions as before: Rest. Feel better. Get back to Normal.

My team of cardiologists don't like my Normal.

Which is why Friday afternoon I lay in the Cath Lab while Surgeon Chris rubbed green solution all over my chest and joked about how he was honored to try out this procedure on me after only watching it twice on Youtube. He told me more about the ICD they were about to implant above my heart. The Implantable Cardioverter-Defibrillator is a small titanium disc with a computer inside and two wires out the top. It reads my heartbeats and is able to step in when things get out of whack, sending an electric shock to essentially jump start my heart. It will help me from passing out and will keep my heart from stopping in a case of Sudden Cardiac Death. It has to be put in now.

As my surgical team finished prepping and joking about various nonsense on their end of the deal they all turned to me.

"Caitlin, honey, you are one of the youngest patients we have had in here lately. Which means we are all excited for this next question, what music do you want to listen to? We pretty much only get asked to play Frank Sinatra and classical music."

The Head And The Heart sounded like the most natural O.R. play list.

As I fell asleep to guitars and violins and harmonies I realized this might be a game-changer. After months of unexpected hospital visits and rearranging plans and missing important events I need a change. It gets so tiring to not know if you will remain conscious for the whole workday or will need to set up an evac while you are out on the trail.

I woke up in recovery with a computer in my chest, already reading my data and watching my heart's every move, which they printed out to show me before finally allowing me to go home.



ICD.
No, this device won't strengthen my heart and there is a chance I will eventually need a transplant.
No, this won't overall give me more energy or a healthy blood pressure.
Yes, this will leave a scar and it will hurt like a bullet wound for a week.
But it will keep me alive, which sounds like a good first step.

So Tinkerbell (as my sister has lovingly named it) was added to my life with hopes of improving it. My recovery time will be longer than I would like but will give me the chance to properly rest. Finding Normal will be easy once I'm back on my feet.

And I am finally able to use my robot excuse with an ounce of validation.

Oh heaven go easy on me.

Day 41: ...You’re Going Where Now? (October 14, 2008)

The only other time I have kept a blog was during the autumn of 2008 which I spent working with the wonderful community of Faith Alive in Jos, Nigeria. As an American 20-year-old college kid with no clinical training it was quite an honor to be asked to come, along with my dear friend, Adrie, and be a part of the Faith Alive Family to assist in their medical clinic and programs. I like reading my daily logs again years later but strongly feel the pangs of missing I have for these friends and this place so far away. Six years have passed but I am still Sister Kate (the Owibo).

           Biana informed me last night that if I wanted to I could devote the first half of this day to helping with HIV testing at the Jos prison. I jumped at the chance to see something new and help out in a way that I didn’t realize was a possibility. I met Simon in front of the Clinic after breakfast and we hopped in the van for a short ride across Jos. We pulled up to the prison and met with Esther (a young woman from the lab) before walking through a large metal gate escorted by uniformed guards. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I braced myself for the worst. Metal bars, mean armed guards, sickly looking prisoners, I thought I would be walking into a concentration camp. Thankfully that is not what met me behind the entrance. What my surroundings instead turned out to be looked much more like a college campus than a jail. A large green was surrounded by six or seven large run-down dormitories with a large letter of the alphabet painted on the side. To one side of the lawn sat a row of classrooms, a small garden, and a chapel. To the other side were some poorly made wooden buildings where food was being prepared in bulk in the traditional Nigerian style--with lots of fresh air. Simon led us to the classroom area where they set up a small testing center (one table with the proper swabs and needles) and the men filed in immediately. I was sent next door to the chapel where I would be helping out with registration. I walked in to a room with 75 Nigerian men and realized that this was the first (and possibly only) time in my life where I would be the only white AND female contribution to a crowd. What a feeling.

            The man with the paperwork introduced himself as Prince before we quickly developed a system of patient information processing. Simon told me that I was the authorized Faith Alive staff for the day, which I found out meant I gave my signature on every person’s paper next to “Doctor Presiding.” Never again in my life will I enjoy that level of prestige. Two others jumped in to help and for the next five hours the quartet of writers took information, copied data, and got prisoners on their way to free HIV testing. It is really cool to be working for an organization that, with as little resources as it has, believes in the power of free services. Most of the men that got tested today would never be able to afford this important step of their medical life, even if it looks very cheap to the developed world.

            It was truly an amazing experience as I spoke with prisoners and realized how happy they were with life. None of them looked depressed or angry or hungry. They looked like people I would run into on the street in my neighborhood. I did not get a chance to discuss the Nigerian penal system much today, but Prince did inform me that most prisoners are only serving sentences for a few months. There are virtually no women at this particular prison (although I assume it resembles demographics all over Nigeria) and most of the men we registered today were in their early twenties. It was strange talking to a prisoner who said he was 20, my age, and realizing just how different our years have looked. When we had a lull in the almost-constant traffic Prince asked me geography questions that he has been trying to figure out. I was able to explain some of Great Britain’s makeup as well as help him out with learning country capitals, something he has worked on for a while. In return, he helped me in his area of expertise; the Nigerian states and tribes. You can learn so much from former strangers if you take the time to listen.

            Around 1:30 we packed up our things, prayed with the staff that helped us, and went back through the checkpoints. Greg was nowhere to be seen outside so Simon put his hand on my shoulder and, with big eyes asked me, “Cait, are you able to walk more than a kilometer?” I realized he was worried about me so I suppressed a laugh and told him that I was a fine walker, even wearing a skirt. It was hot but we knew it was going to be our only option when Simon spotted the red Faith Alive van down the street. I think he was much more relieved than Esther and I. I made it home for a late lunch and declined the invite of the trio to go to the Museum Shops in order to get a needed nap. Some days you just need the extra sleep!

            E-mailing at the Clinic was followed by a nice Baba dinner. We weren’t sure what our activity for the night should be so Jon suggested turning on the television where, on our favorite Arabic channel, The Life Aquatic was just starting. Oh Wes Anderson. So our day ended with a wonderfully bizarre movie and, because NEPA has neglected us for an entire 24 hours now, we got ready for bed without the need for any other entertainment.  

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

pppppffffffftttttt.

"For as many years I have been doing ultrasounds this stuff still grosses me out," he said as he squeezed the jelly onto the wand. "At least I can promise this gloop will be warm."

I clenched my fists as he traced a slimy line across my skin. We both looked up at the monitor.

"It's big," he said after a first glance, "but I guess you already knew that."

I nodded. This wasn't the first time I had stared at a screen of what hid under the layers of skin. I could feel what I was carrying around inside of me; I sometimes pushed on it to see if it would respond.

He turned up the audio and we listened to the beats. As a woman with a good sense of rhythm I can tell when someone or something is losing track of it. This sounded like the fourth-grade version of myself on a drum set--trying hard but failing to make anything that could be mistaken for music.

"There is one more thing we need to check," he said as he took on-screen measurements and typed in figures. "And that is in color."

The ultrasound went from black and white to a rainbow of hues. It almost looked like I had a lava lamp inside of me. The center of the screen turned red and then orange with every beat while the rest of the screen shifted between shades of blue.

He looked at the colors for a while before he hit the keys and created a message I couldn't quite make out on the bottom of the screen. His expression hadn't seemed to change but I knew from his pause that he may have seen what he needed.

"Can I ask you what you saw?" I didn't know the confidentiality rules between a technician and a patient.

He looked down at me and half-smiled. "I saw that there isn't a strong blood flow... a problem I know Doctor S. will talk to you about in your follow-up."

As if I needed any more problems with this attention-seeker, this thing that I had been bonding with over the past few months, after all we had been trying.

He entered the last pieces of information typing with one hand. "Do you want to take a picture of it before I turn off the machine? I've seen plenty of patients snap a shot on their cell phone to post on Facebook."

I started to laugh.

After the handful of ultrasound images I have seen friends post proudly displaying growing babies in their wombs this just wouldn't compare. Their shots encourage the cyberworld to place bets on genders and guess how many weeks until the arrival. They talk about names and nursery themes and pregnancy cravings. My ultrasound wouldn't get any comments that said 'Congratulations!' or 'So excited to meet Him/Her!' It wouldn't get any likes.

"No, thanks."

He took the wand off my chest and the image disappeared.

I would have to show the world a picture of my failing heart some other time.

Tous Les Mêmes

Paul Van Haver may, in fact, be the most beautiful man in the world.
Followed closely by Gael García Bernal. And Taye Diggs.


As a woman whose first crush was on "The Blond Boy in Hook" I can claim an unhealthy dose of celebrity crushes over the years, from my favorite high school bands' drummers (Nathan Young) to French actors (Jean Dujardin) to creative directors (Benh Zeitlin) to those ones I can't quite figure out (Aziz Ansari for the win!). And I'm not ashamed!

... or am I?

This past weekend I got to see the most beautiful man in the world, commonly known as Stromae, perform at The Fulton in Hollywood. As Gavin and I waited in line with dozens of scantily-clad twenty-somethings I saw hand-drawn signs, specialty Stromae t-shirts, and lots of cleavage all screaming the same thing: "Notice Me!"

I started to question the motives and assumptions of those of us with Famous Fever. Did all one thousand people in queue actually believe that the man on stage was going to recognize us in the sea of faces? Did we think we would stand out in the crowd by showing more skin or holding a piece of paper? And, if so, what did we think would happen when he saw us?


Caitlin's Daydream: Stromae would notice me from stage because of my hair (if I have one thing that makes me stand out in a crowd it is my blond mane) and search me out after the show. He would track me down walking to my car and thank me in his thick Belgian accent for being so in tune with his lyrics--he could read all my emotions from where he was performing--and ask a little more about my philosophy on life. Because we are both such deep thinkers we would talk with lots of nods and hand gestures for a while about pacifism and a fatherless generation and God. He would suggest that we meet for coffee the next day to continue our discussion. Of course Gavin would come along too since he is more brilliant than I am and could make a case for Team Baird. At the end of our coffee-turned-lunch-date he would suggest I come visit him in Belgium and, later, become Mrs. Van Haver. And then we would both change the world through his European stardom and my big smile.

Reality: Stromae points to Gavin a couple songs in because he is literally a head taller than the rest of the crowd.

Towering Brother steals the show.


And you know what? Gavin and I both felt validated. Not because one of our favorite singers recognized a 6'3" redhead (not hard to do) but because he never pointed to the people with the signs. Or the people with the shirts. Or the people with the lack of shirts. He pointed to the guy who was following along and having a good time. The one person in the crowd who didn't need some musician to validate his coolness or acknowledge his good looks.


So that is why I am ashamed. Ashamed that I get sucked into feeling that only the rich, beautiful, talented people can give me an identity.

I'm a woman with a big heart and a pretty face. I'm a woman who loves well and teaches well. I'm a woman with reachable dreams and a hope for humanity. I'm a woman who is surrounded by amazing people who make conversation and travel and life all worth it.

And I don't need a celebrity to prove it.