Ebola Part 3

I had to take some time to write this one.

You know how some days, you feel like your emotions are really close to the surface? Something traumatic, or dramatic, happened yesterday, or earlier in the week, but you held everything in check, but you feel the tears, or the fury, just hovering there on the periphery of your vision.

Today was like that. I've been keenly worried about my littlest sister all week. She had a heart ablation procedure scheduled for Tuesday, where they were hoping to fix the arrhythmia and elevated heart-rate problems she's been having. She's so young.

I am completely kicking butt on the commute this morning. Traffic is light, the drive is smoove (yes, I know that's a silly way to spell 'smooth' but it just felt smoover than smoother this morning, you know?). I actually am getting to the NIH fast enough that I start to worry. My appointment is for when they open, right at 7am. And I'm on track to get there before 6:45. I might have to park my own car!

No worries. Even with my early arrival, the guys that run the valet service are already there. And the Vaccine Research Center ladies are also already at work. This week, my nurse shoos me on down to phlebotomy first for the blood draw. I peek inside my bag o' vials; Eek! There are a whole fistful of 10 ml tubes! I'd thought since it was just a two-week follow-up, that it's be a small blood draw, 40, maybe 50 ml worth. They're taking at least twice that much today. Well, they warned me when I started that being a volunteer, I allow NIH to use my blood for other research projects, too, so...filled with righteous justification, I head towards the snack cart.

D'oh! It is not open before 7am. But I get right in to have my vein tapped. I happen to have the same phlebotomist that drew my blood at my intake appointment two months ago. Have you noticed that the older the nurse or phlebotomist, the easier the blood draw? OK, maybe the rest of you haven't had your blood drawn repeatedly over the course of months by a dozen different people. Sometimes, it feels like a sharp jab into the crook of your elbow. Sometimes, it feels like a slight poke. The better the phlebotomist, the slighter the poke. Mine today, at phlebotomy station number four, is a magician. I read the comics she has strategically posted on her cubicle wall in the direction away from where the blood is drawn, and feel something akin to a brush stroke, a pinch at the crook of my elbow. It is always a pleasure to work with a professional, even if their profession involves stabbing needles into you.

Four ounces lighter, I go back to the snack cart, which by now is in place. If I sounded annoyed earlier when it wasn't there, I wasn't, honest. I mean, it's staffed by a sweet old lady volunteer, so how irritated can you really be that it wasn't there at 6:55am?

There is a child, a little boy I think (it's hard to tell because the child has no hair, and is dreadfully thin) sitting by his Momma eating an iced pastry from the cart. He has his mask pulled down to his chin (like the one's your Dentist wears? You know, really sick patients wear them to add a small barrier to their weak immune systems?). And he laughs at something his Momma whispers in his ear. Unless you've lived with someone who is terminally ill with cancer, and whose hair has all fallen out from the devastating treatments, "laughing" is probably not an activity you imagine. He looked gleeful in that moment, and it stunned me. A sick little boy laughing sounds *exactly* like a healthy little boy laughing.

The sadness, hovering on the periphery, rushes in, and I start crying. I wonder if my little sister had any snacks before or after her ablation. I try to be subtle as a I pick up a napkin to dab my cheeks before leaving with my banana and juice (orange, 2 cartons). As I walk back out of the lobby, I sneak another glance at the the smiling little boy before turning the corner back towards the elevators.

I know we live in a mortal world, and so all of us die, and I think of my sister again.

Please, God, please let them live through this.

And I have to stop and sit down a moment to let a sob escape me. The hospital, this early, is pretty quiet, so I'm thankfully alone. No one is walking by who would have to politely ignore me so I could grieve in peace. After a few moments, the overwhelming grief passes, I take a deep breath, and go back upstairs.

My blood pressure is better this week, 130 over 80. I don't tell the nurse I have a crying headache; maybe that helps blood pressure. I'm on my way to work in no time. The sun is just rising, promising a bright new day.

I hope, in my heart, it is a good one for us all.

Ebola Part 2

Urk. It actually snowed in DC last night, so traffic is ookier than normal around the top-side outer loop of the beltway. So I’m crawling, crawling, crawling to the NIH.

I arrive almost one hour later than I’d intended.

This is my . . . (counting on my fingers) fifth visit to NIH, so I’m feeling like I kind of know my way around. I no longer pause every time I walk around a corner, getting my bearings. I start to look closer at the environs, noticing some details.

The elevators are *old* but they have really cool brushed-steel-looking doors. Set into the doors are scenes of nurses and doctors caring for people, scientists doing . . . science stuff. I notice there’s a quaint little vaguely electronic-looking thingey on one wall in the lobby that shows what floor each of the elevators is currently at. And then one arrives for me.

Yes! They’ve restocked the volunteer fridge from last time. Ack! Nothing but apple juice and graham crackers. I feel like I am in nursery school, but being a volunteer of principle, I take one of each. Another volunteer is in the waiting room who has come in for the screening process. It turns out they are starting to screen for group 2, and are projecting a start of the group 2 trial near the end of February, after they complete the first two injections in my group.

The nurse sees me, but it’s all very routine now. Here’s your bag of vials for phlebotomy, see you in a few minutes.

So back down I go in the ancient of days elevators. I ponder why I think of them as old. The analog buttons, maybe? I think it’s the old, worn tiles on the floor. They are pretty fast, though. And I’ve gotten elevator number 1 for both trips; it’s manned by a lady sitting in a chair, who punches the buttons for you. And it looks like she’s writing down how high and how low down she is going, like an elevator blog. What is up with that?

Ah, the phlebotomy treat cart. Orange juice and an apple danish. They only draw about 90 mls of blood today. Still looking around at details, I read an “In case of accident” chart on the wall. So if blood spills are less than 10mls, they can just wipe them up with a paper towel? Oh, unless they are worried about it, then they are supposed to call 911. I’m in a hospital; if I dialed 911, does it go to the police, or just to the receptionist?

And holy smoke, they have a policy for spilling radioactive material? And they have a special clean-up material they use to . . . blot radioactive spills? Oh, that’s important, close the door and don’t let anyone in the room. Now I’m a little freaked out.

Near the end of the draw today, I notice one of those little “whiff” packages of ammonia (you know, the ones that they break open and put under the nose of people who pass out) taped to the wall. I ask the phlebotomist if she’s ever had to use one, and she said, “Just once, last week.” I think that means I’m statistically safe.


I go back upstairs, and they take my vitals. I notice with interest that everything is in Metric. My temperature is 34ºC, my weight is *mumble* kilos. I guess blood pressure is still the same, though. I get a stern lecture from the nurse about my blood pressure being too high (like 150 over 110). I mean, I kind of hustled coming back upstairs, right? I mean, getting on and off the elevator, anyway. And they just drew . . . (doing the metric conversion in my head) like 3 ounces of blood. That’ll make my blood pressure spike a little, won’t it? They shoo me back to the waiting room to read my book and await pharmacy’s delivery of the mixture. “Pride and Prejudice” is deservedly a classic, yo! Curse that awful Mr. Wickham!

The mixture is delivered, and they *SMACK* it into my right deltoid muscle. I think I said before it was my triceps, but I was wrong; I listened to the nurses talking about what they were doing. Ouch. I look this time, and see that the biojector actually makes a bloody mark. I guess even CO2, if it’s going fast enough, can leave a mark.

My half hour passes (they have to make sure I don’t pass out, I guess) and I’m fine. I snag a snack-pack of graham crackers to give to the kids later, and head to work.

Ebola, Part 1

Left super early so as to try and beat the morning rush hour traffic around the DC beltway. Am personally offended by all the poltroons doing the same thing. How is it possible that there is a back up at 6:45am?

Followed instructions, and found myself stuck at the entrance in a long line of vehicles being searched (!) by rent-a-cop security guards. They did have a real live policeman (who looked exactly like Lee Van Cleef, very scary) walking around all the commercial vehicles with a sniffing dog. I guess the National Institutes of Health are a high enough profile target to merit the security. A bored lady had me roll down my window, and waved a wand with a wad of some kind of paper on the end at my steering wheel (I suppose that any bomb residue would stick to my hands, and then the wheel?) and then she had me pop the trunk and waved it in there, too. I felt safer, a little, driving in.

The place is HUGE! I tentatively made my way through the campus-like setting, peering for directional signs in the growing dawn. Hey, cool, they have valet parking! I wonder if that’s just making nice for the human guinea pigs, or if it’s a further security measure?

I go to admitting, and have my first snack encounter while waiting. Apples, muffins, juice, milk, and coffee are available in the admitting area. I grab an apple for the ride home (wrapped neatly in a protective foamy thing) and an orange juice. They call my name, and I forget my unopened orange juice. D’oh!Upstairs, I meet the nice nurse who is doing the intake interview. While waiting, I had my second snack encounter. A fridge is kept stocked with juice, and a small basket is filled with graham and townhouse crackers for the Vaccine Center volunteers. Juice again, which I drank this time. Nurse explained how important it was to them that the patient is enthusiastic about completing the study, since, as a volunteer, I can fish on them at any time and ruin all the invested work they put into it. I assured her I was excited to participate. She further explained that today I would be giving blood samples to be tested for a variety of factors, any of which might exclude me from being able to participate in the study.

As an FDA monitored vaccine study, they have to continually demonstrate no harm is coming to the patient; their duty is to first protect the participants from harm, second to pursue the vaccine study. If I have any disposition towards testing outside the standards set by the FDA as “safe” then I will be precluded from participation in the study; I might (due to my native disposition) test outside the safety zone on something, in which case the FDA would pull the plug on the whole study.

So downstairs I go to phlebotomy. Hey, it’s right next to the admission area, my juice is still there! It’s unopened, so I go ahead and live dangerously, drinking it while waiting in line to fill some blood vials. The nice phlebotomist tells me all about her grandbabies while filling at least twenty of the little vials.

Back upstairs for a base-line physical. Dang, I need to lose some weight. Nurse shook my hand, said thanks for participating, and I have an appointment to go back for appointment zero in two weeks (if I pass the blood screen). It will be at appointment zero I get the first of three administrations of the trial vaccine (there is a 2 in 7 chance I will get the placebo).

Sunsets and Otters

Mrs. L. needed the house empty so she could bake pies for our pie night festivities, so I went to the zoo Saturday afternoon with the four youngest bairns. Grandma and Grandpa came too, along with three-year old cousin Marc.

The Baltimore Zoo has been much in the news lately because of budget shortfalls. There were plans discussed to send their elephants away, and some of their rare species for breeding elsewhere. A groundswell of community and business support has brought sufficient moneys that such measures *probably* will be unnecessary.

It was a beautiful day, clear skies, slight breeze, temperatures close to 70 degrees fahrenheit. We left the coats in the car, though I wished later that I had brought them when the sun went behind the hill.

The zoo starts out as a straight line. You go by some birds in cages, some land mammals in cages, a predatory bird exhibit, and prairie dog village. Highlights here were watching a large black goose duel with a zoo caretaker wielding a leafblower. The goose would spread his wings and puff up his feathers, while sneaking up behind the leafblowing zoo lady. Every once in a while, the zoo lady would turn around and shake a finger at the goose. There were some beautiful arctic foxes, both sound asleep. The gibbon cage was funny, because four gibbons were racing around the top, swinging from handhold to handhold, in some kind of a chase-game. One of the swingers (heh) had a baby gibbon hanging on for dear life.

The next stop was the new $3 million polar bear facility. The money came to the zoo as a grant specific for the bears, so they couldn’t *not* build this facility and spend the money on the short-fall, in case you were wondering. The bears were a total let down, completely lounging lazily about the place. Kids had fun bouncing around the pseudo-tundra buggy (those things you can take out and watch the polar bears in Canada).

We spent about 30 minutes after that in the kid’s zoo. The cows mooed, the chickens crowed, and everyone got to help brush out the goats. The littlest one was brave and went down the curvy slide all by herself, and I was pleased with her confidence.

Next, we split up, with cousin and one son going with Grandpa to the reptile exhibit, and Grandma going through the swamp and river habitat with me. This is where it got a little chilly, because this habitat is in the woods, in the lee of a big hill. Kids were all terribly amused, crawling through the groundhog habitat and poking their heads up to wave at Daddy. Youngest laid down on a rope bridge and giggled madly while the other two kids jumped up and down, making it swing back and forth.

The absolute highlight of the day came next. They have an otter installation that mocks a real river and dam, with plexiglass viewports into the “river” where the otters live. At first, I didn’t see anything. But then one poked its head up, spied me looking at it, and *jumped* into the river, swimming right over to the viewport. The other otter joined in, and they danced for me, swimming figure-eights in front of the window, looking right at me when they’d surface for air. The unbridled glee of their play was sanctifying, peaceful, and beautiful. I hollered for the kids to come and watch, we sat mesmerized at the show for ten minutes. Just us and the otters, in the growing shadow of dusk, alive and glorious.

Taking Things for Granted

I taught 9th grade government to kids in an alternative high school for a year. It’s the night school for the kids who’ve been kicked out. For drugs, for fighting. Some of them have jobs and work during the day, some of them have babies of their own they care for. I have students who are under house arrest (one for 2nd degree murder) whose slips I have to sign. Neo-nazis, dealers, users. Virtually every social ill you can imagine, I have represented in my class. It is the modern nightmare distilled into a dozen or so teenagers.

A few weeks ago, I had assigned my class some book work , which they were actually working on. Two students, Cole and Taylor, kept going off task, talking to each other. As long as it doesn’t disrupt the other students, and they continue to do some work, I don’t disturb them. I overheard the following conversation.

“Yo, man, I saw this thing on like the Discovery Channel? Someday, they gonna have a train that goes UNDER the Ocean! You can get from like New York to Paris in like an hour, man!”

“Yo, dude, I am SO hungry! I can’t work, I’m weak!”

“Man, me too. Yo, you know what’d be good right now? Some Chili’s! That’s some good eatin’, yo!”

“Serious! You know what else is good? Chicken nuggets!”

And so on. I was amused at the banter. Then the following exchange made me interject.

“You know what I could really go for, man? Some scrambled eggs! That’s some good eatin’, yo! And yo, check this out, I know it sounds heinous, but check it out, it’s goooood, man! Scrambled eggs with syrup on them!”

“NO WAY! That’s gross!”

“Serious, man, I thought so, too, but my buddy did it, and I was watching him, saying, ‘Ew, gross.’ And he was like, ‘Nah, man, try it.’ So I did, and man, it was good!”

Here is the part where I started talking.“Hey guys, you’ve eaten French Toast, right?”

They stared at me blankly. “You know, French Toast? Like pancakes? With syrup?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, French Toast is just bread that is dipped in eggs that have been whipped up, and then the bread is fried in a pan; if syrup tastes good on that, it’d taste good on just the eggs, right?”

And something miraculous and terrible happened. I saw a light dawn in their eyes. Cole spoke it out loud.

“Ah, s**t man, that IS what it tastes like! No way, is that what French Toast is made of?”

I caught myself nearly asking him hadn’t he ever seen his Mom make it, remembering he lives with his Aunt. It occurred to me, that not only had these two boys never made French Toast, they’d never seen it made. They had no idea it came in any form other than a frozen box.

We spent the next ten minutes reviewing the basic steps for how to make French Toast. Cole promised me he was going to go home and make some. I fear this little knowledge will not be enough to help him in his future, though. But it made me promise myself to remember how much my four year old son loves to help scrambling eggs, and to never, ever chase him from the kitchen again.