Salamander
Fire Walking

I returned to work this week. Little work got done the first day. First off I had to report to personnel, then report to Occ Health to pee in their little cup, and then report to my department head to verify that I'd been cleared for active duty. I then spent much of my time smiling at people and saying variations of, "I feel great" and "No particular restrictions except I'll have to mask and double glove to do some things" and "I'll let you know once I get a handle on things waiting on my desk for me." It was nice to catch up with friends again, but the process became a bit automated by the end of the day.

Because I'd been gone all summer, my office had been "subletted" to someone from the outside who was doing some specimen collection for the government at our facility. Let's call her "Mouth Jr.". Thank heaven Mouth Sr. was out on vacation Monday and Tuesday, or my ears would have eventually fallen off from the acoustical bombardment they were subjected to. During her breaks, Mouth Jr. was in my office and I could do no work. It's scary to think that there are people out there who can say so much on a single inhalation.

By Tuesday, the novelty of being back had worn off. I started taking the reins back on certain responsibilities that had previously been mine. I still did the automaton routine of "I'm fine, how are you?" with a few people, but I was running out of fresh candidates to give my greetings to. I made my first visits to the areas of the facility I have duties in, and did the group wave thing when people, too busy to leave their stations, yelled out their greetings to me. That was actually a lot of fun - a return with no explanations, just hello's and glad to have you backs. I got involved in a big emergency project, which took up most of the day, and promised to eat much of the next day as well.

Wednesday I prepared samples of a recurrent problem we've been having to be sent to an outsource laboratory for pathological analysis. The work was simple, but tedious, and was my first opportunity to observe the new personal safety protocols that will govern the rest of my life on this job. Mask, double glove, towel-less handwash station immediately after degloving, followed by a solid wash-up with soap contact time greater than thirty seconds. I'm going to retire from this job with prunes for hands, and permanent dents across my cheeks where the mask ties cut into my face. I've discovered, as a novitiate four-eye, that face masks and glasses do not go well together. I must find another four-eye who regularly wears masks and inquire after the tricks of the trade.

Thursday was the big Hurricane Preparedness Day. Debate raged as to whether we'd all be flooded or if this was going to be a big non-event. To skip ahead a bit, it did turn out to be (mostly) a big non-event. One guy in our department kept saying it was going to be a big non-event; he was the only one of us to get hit hard. The ceiling over his office failed and his office was completely flooded upon his return to work Friday morning. If there is a God, She has a wicked sense of humor. Thursday was when I found out about the new Big Promotion that would be kicked off next week. More on that later.

Friday was the "do you have electricity at your house?" day. Most of us never lost power, or only lost it briefly, but the woman I answer directly to had no power since at least 9:00 the previous evening. I know certain areas around here are still without power, so I guess I'll find out tomorrow morning if she had a catastrophic weekend or merely a terrible one.

Saturday was a catch my breath day. Friday night The Socialist taught me gin rummy. I beat him soundly in two or three consecutive games when we started playing. Saturday was his day of revenge, and I lost four games one after another, most of them badly. I don't know what I hate worse, beginner's luck (which sets you up for a big fall) or the learning curve (which looks insurmountable until you actually begin to near the crest).

I discovered one truth this week. I did not want to go back. The stress of my job far exceeds any satisfaction I get from it. Perhaps this is merely "just back jitters" and will pass. I don't know. I only know how I feel at this moment. There's nothing to be done for it. Because of the medical insurance issue, I stay at this job for a good long time. At my bleakest (and I've been there a few times this week) I see my dreams of heading out west to live withering and dying before they ever really sprouted.

I don't even know what I'd be good for any more, what I'm qualified to do, what would make me happy to do. The Vorlons ask "Who are you?" The Shadows ask "What do you want?" I don't know the answer to either, any more.

I also discovered I've got some pretty basic fears I have to learn to cope with. Being back to work means that, for the first time, I will be in regular daily contact with potentially two-thousand people, any of whom at any time could be ill or incubating an illness. Many don't know to stay away from me if they are ill. Others won't even know that they're carrying something potentially infectious, because they won't have any symptoms yet.

What happens when I get sick? No matter how many precautions I take, it will be a matter of "when" and not "if" I get sick. It will happen. Will I survive the transplant only to be killed by the flu or the common cold? How much more hospital time is ahead of me? What is a reasonable expectation for a life span for me? The doctors are coy about this last question, and I don't blame them. Each case is different and needs to be evaluated on its own merits - they tell me and I already knew it anyhow.

It didn't exactly help when I attempted to look up statistics on liver transplant patients to try and determine some answers for myself. I already knew I was at risk for contagious diseases. I was aware of, though I hadn't really thought through, the fact that the drugs I was on could poison my kidneys. I was completely unaware (though I should have known better) that being immune-suppressed increased my chances of contracting various cancers. It never even occurred to me that changes in eyesight, hearing and mentation could also occur post-transplant.

I can't dwell on these things. I know that. To dwell on them is to ruin the whole point of the transplant ... to give me an extension to life that has some value. I'll have to find for myself what that value is to make sense of any of what's happened to me. And if I allow myself to be frozen by possibilities, then all of this has been a waste.

But how does one not allow oneself to become frozen?

I face a moral dilemma this coming week. As I stated previously, our company is kicking off a new advertising promotion soon. In an effort to get the good ol' team spirit kicked off, they are holding pep rallies (ill-disguised as company wide meetings) next week. There will be promotional gimmicks for each of the different departments. I understand that some of the departments will be getting key rings and/or tee shirts. Sales department is reputed to be getting new jackets, shirts, and some sort of gizmo. Our department, along with the rest of the people who work in-facility, will be getting special patches on their lab coats or uniforms.

As part of the festivities, there will be a new slogan. As a pledge of commitment to the company, each employee is to affix their name to a piece of paper bearing this slogan. The problem? I do not personally believe in this slogan, and in fact it goes directly against what my job entails and what my personal commitments are to the company.

I don't wish to make an issue of this. There have been other company-wide promotions that I have personally questioned, and remained quiet about. But this is the first time I've been asked to sign a piece of paper regarding my commitment to the "cause". I don't want to sign this paper, in effect swearing to something that I don't believe and will not personally implement. And yet I do not wish to publicly refuse to sign, with the potential of embarrassment to myself and to the corporate officers that have sponsored this event.

I can't talk to my boss. He's completely hamstrung about this. He's made it clear he doesn't like this new promotion, but can do nothing about it but ride it out. I've spoken to a few other employees in my department, whom I trust, and they feel as I do, but see nothing wrong with signing the paper because "it isn't like we're swearing on the Bible or anything."

Ironically, I'd have no problem swearing on a Bible about this, but my signature is my word, and I have real problems signing this. In all conscientiousness, I have to refuse to sign this. I just don't know how to do this without making bigger waves than the situation warrants.

After all, this is just a promotion. No one takes this seriously except the Sales Department, and they're clueless anyhow. This shouldn't bother me so much. But it does. Time is running out. The big meeting unveiling the campaign is Wednesday. I need to figure something out before then.

I need to get back into the habit of updating more regularly. I have fallen out of the habit since my surgery, for several reasons.

First, and quite possibly foremost, is that I find I'm getting lazy. Many things, not just diary updates, are getting put off, or put on hold. I'm not entirely sure what this signifies, except perhaps fear of moving forward.

Secondly, I find I don't want to put much of what I'm thinking down in words. If I don't write it down, then maybe I didn't really think it. If there's a chance I didn't really think it, then it can be swept to a distant recess of my brain, to be conveniently overlooked. This may be a built-in safety feature, and when I get my bearings again I'll be able to face these partially composed thoughts and either dismiss them or shape them into something acceptable. I don't know, and I'm unwilling to work at it at the moment.

Finally, I feel as if I'm losing my ability to connect with people. It's a poor, pitiful me approach to life, but I don't know how to squelch it. I know no one in real life who has gone through what I have. I know no one who takes tacrolimus, who has to worry if they get a splinter, who has to wear two sets of gloves just to garden, who can't clean their cats' litter boxes, who can't even figure out how to compose a letter to a dead thirteen-year-old's parents saying "I'm so sorry for your loss; thanks for the liver".

My life hasn't been extended. It's been put on hiatus until I figure things out. I spent all summer successfully running from this. Returning to work has forced me to face some things. I think I'm finally meeting myself, and I have no clue what to say to me.

Scarlett O'Hara had the right idea. I'll think about it tomorrow.