Stand up eight

I think back to 2013, as I made my plans to head back to school and decided getting my master's wouldn't be too difficult. Closing up my computer for the night, I have to chuckle. For the past 10 or 11 months, I've been slowly deteriorating. There's a great Japanese proverb:

Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

And I try. I've been getting knocked down my entire life, and eventually you just get used to getting back up. It becomes habit. 

Last weekend I worked 12 hours on Saturday and 8 on Sunday to get my thesis done and turned in to my advisor. Let me backtrack. Over the summer I had an emotional collapse. Too much pressure over too much time. I reached out and got help and am slowly trying to pull myself together, or at least keep from drowning. On Wednesday I graduated from anxiety coping skills school. At least I graduated from something. 

Back to last weekend. I was exhausted. I converted my thesis document to PDF and sent them both over to my advisor, 20 minutes before bedtime on Sunday night. As I scrolled through the PDF document, a feeling of calm passed over me like I hadn't felt in at least 6 months (medications excluded). I sent the email, got up from my desk, and began getting ready for bed. I started thinking about how on Monday after work, I could just come home and relax, instead of my usual routine of picking up my thesis and beginning work again. It was a soothing thought. My phone signaled a text message. It was my advisor. 

"Can you chat?"

I looked at the time. No. No I cannot chat. It's nearly 7:30 pm and I have to be up at 3:45 am to prepare the weather briefing. 

"Yep."

 I started to prepare the coffee pot while he skimmed my thesis and listed things that needed to be changed. Then he started adding more data analysis and more writing, and more papers, and more plots. An hour later I was barely able to mutter "Ok" to each of his demands. I felt myself slipping underwater. I didn't even struggle. (Turns out in the distraction I also neglected to put coffee grounds in the coffee maker.)

I hung up the phone and slowly sat down at my desk, and stared at the screen. Then promptly lost my shit. 

It's now been 5 days and it's been tough getting back up from that one. Maybe I'm halfway up. I feel like I'm dragging a 200 lb weight around. With no end in sight. I've learned something from all of those "light at the end of the tunnel" speeches. It's the same thing I learned when I was on a hotshot crew hiking to the top of the mountain. Every peak before the last one was a false peak. It looked like you were reaching the top because you could only see sky beyond the hill.... until you crested the hill and it was just a step leading to a steeper hill. And so on. The light is an illusion. Sometimes I say it's from an oncoming train. In any case, it's not really there. Throughout my career as a grad student, I have seen that light at the end of the tunnel at least a dozen times- then quickly everything goes black. At this point, an oncoming train would be a blessing. 

So. I'm getting back up. I think. I don't know exactly why, although self-preservation rings a bell. 

Fire

You eventually get tired of hearing about fires. At least I did anyway. My last season in fire, 19 firefighters burned alive. We had already submitted paperwork with our dentists' contact information, in case our bodies were ever burned so badly that dental records were our only means of identification.

I read through the article Mike's mom sent me about the fires in wine country, just in case she ever asked me about it. But I already knew enough, and didn't care to know anymore. We parked our research truck in the ashes of Fountain Grove and scanned the atmosphere through the night, and watched the Nun's Fire burn in the distance. Mansions reduced to ash and melted metal, whole neighborhoods burned to the ground. And the people. The people who couldn't get out in time. An officer showed me a picture of one he found- nothing but a few vertebrae to differentiate concrete from human. 

But you never do leave fire behind. For 14 years I have made a living off the tendency for California to burn. People from out of state will tell you they'd be terrified to live in a place where the ground shakes occasionally. Maybe because we all want to believe that the ground beneath our feet is solid, and won't one day fall out from underneath us. But I don't suspect my home will ever be lifted off the ground and deposited a few miles away in a pile of wooden shards by an unpredictable vortex of spinning air.

Yet everything burns. The article is from Alta- Journal of Alta California. I was going to read through it, then send it to the recycling bin so I didn't have to think about it anymore. Instead, it sits face up on my coffee table, flames illuminating the face of a male firefighter. I hate that my thesis involves this fire. I don't want to be part of the "everyone" who is talking about, researching, that fire. But I am. So I hold on to the journal, in case I need it.

During your emergency response training, they teach you that you will get called on the worst day of someone's life. You get called because something goes horribly wrong. You don't get called because someone is having a wonderful birthday party. You don't get called to the neighborhood where all is quiet and all is well. I thought I would become a meteorologist and learn to predict rainfall, and leave my fire days behind. But it's what I know. It's what I understand. And that understanding propelled me into years of research, and then into my new job.... still studying fire, and making a good living off of it. Fire is a parasite. It gets into your blood and becomes permanent. People want to talk to you about it, ask you about it, show you articles and ask if you've seen the movie.

I've lived it. I live it. I am not a moth drawn to the flames. I have walked through those fires and will never shake the embers from my shirt, or the smoke from my hair.

Some of my indoor plants are on a field trip to the great outdoors. There have been a lot of plant deaths lately (my fault) and since I'm trying to pull myself together, I thought caring for the living beings in my house would be a good start. Some of the plants needed to be replaced (because they were dead), but some just needed new homes. Others have been inhibited by location and needed a field trip to expose them to light on all sides.

The guy in the middle behind Sharky McSharkface lives outside, so he's not on a field trip like his buddies he's surrounded by.

I just moved back to San Diego after being gone about ten years, and am still working on my thesis. All the uncertainty and stress before moving, as well as the moving, getting settled, and trying to find my new routine, has led to a massive increase in anxiety. After getting my care interrupted by the move, I've found my way back to the same psychiatry department as when my dad died. They're renovating the outside, but the waiting room looks the same. Addictions on the first floor, psychiatry on the second. When I find myself feeling embarrassed, I'm reminded we're all visiting the same department and no one really has room to judge. Second therapist in a row to tell me I need to have more compassion for myself. I can't figure out what that's supposed to look like.

Sometimes it helps to care for another living being. I don't know, maybe I'm cheating. Maybe I'm using my plants to practice compassion on something else....besides myself. But I can't expect to pull myself together when I've got crispy dead plants lying all over my house.

A huge issue was the death of Stuart and his housemates. Stuart was a venus flytrap that I've had for about a year. That's quite a bit longer than I can keep most plants alive, so that and the fact that we both eat meat created a bonding experience between us. He lived in a terrarium with two air plants. He's tropical, so he's supposed to get a lot of sun and water. I only have two windows in my apartment and he didn't work real well near either of them, so he was placed on the counter near the kitchen where he only got indirect light. One day in July, I decided I'd take him outside to get some sun. I forgot about him..... and it was during a pretty extreme heat wave. When I got home and saw his withered brown limbs, I panicked. I had killed him for sure. Mike and Carrie tried to make me feel better, like maybe he'd make it. Long story short, he didn't. And neither did his roommates. Finally, over a month later, I have replaced Stuart and his roommates with as-of-yet unnamed plants, and added a little sand castle.

They are currently sunning themselves on my coffee table.

And then there's this guy. This guy deserves another shot at life.

He used to live on top of my bookcase. I'm guessing the reason he ended up under-watered is because I'm short and either had to bring him down to water him, or stand on the chaise lounge and squirt him with my water bottle. He used to be a pretty big, full, plant with lots of bright green vines. All of those vines died except this one. I decided I wanted to try to save him, but having a scrawny looking plant on top of a big bookcase was depressing. I dug him out of the pot he was living in (see the white pot behind him with little orange flowers that now houses a bright philodendron), managed to save some of the roots attached to him, and gently set him in this little pot with loosely packed soil. I feel like his demise is inevitable, but I really hope he makes it. From my experience in emergency medicine, I understand what it takes to keep a human alive, but plants are a different story. If he lives through being parched to the brink of death, dug from his home and plunged into a smaller pot, I'm going to give him a name. Something heroic and courageous. I don't know why it causes me so much despair to lose a plant.

This guy lives on the second shelf down on my bookcase. I have no idea why he's doing so well. I've had him maybe 6 to 8 months.

But you can see that he's got one arm sticking way out.... because it's the only one that really gets any light. This is why he's outside right now. I'd like the rest of him to get some sun and even out a bit. Maybe I should be rotating him occasionally? If only plants could talk.

This is one of the new guys. Poor thing was root-bound, and you can see how he's only had one side exposed to the sun as well. He's going to end up on top of the bookcase. Let's hope I give him a little better treatment than I did his predecessor.

This guy replaced another one I killed.... by over-watering. He at least appears a little heartier than the last one.

And lastly, this little guy got a new home. He's been in a plastic pot, living in the bathroom since Carrie brought him over. Carrie has an amazing green thumb. He's not dead yet, so that's something. He comes out every once in awhile to sit on the coffee table and get some sun. Not a lot of light in the bathroom.

As I was re-potting the philodendron, there was a root hanging off one of the vines. Just hanging out in the air. I don't know if the plant was purposely doing that or not, so as I put him in the pot, I tucked his little root into the soil and hoped I was doing the right thing. I suddenly felt like I was caring for a small child, and it struck me as somewhat odd. But maybe plants just need some love and respect, and they'll decide to be friends with you forever.

White Flag

I've been on the verge of throwing up a white flag since my alarm went off this morning. I contemplated going back to sleep, but instead got up and poured coffee for Mike and I. I placed his on his bedside table, and took mine back to bed as well, and sipped it in the dark. I watched red numbers change on the alarm clock on the dresser.

I made it to the gym, but since I'm tapering for my marathon this Sunday, I just did an easy half hour of weights. It rained on my way home and while I showered. I had no desire to go teach my class. Early in the semester I have high hopes for my class, thinking if I just do something differently, they will care. They will come to class (on time), listen to my lecture, do their homework, and study for quizzes and exams. I realize you can't control other people's actions, but I also realize you can inspire them to take action.

I don't know what it takes to inspire an 18 year old to be responsible. I don't know how responsible I was as an 18 year old. I have a hint though... I recently read one of my diary entries from around that time, where I complained that my dad was being unreasonable for getting angry at me that he had been telling me for a week to do the dishes. A week. We rotated through chores at my house, and one week my chore was the dishes. Apparently that week, the dishes just continued piling up until my dad finally did them and left me a detailed bill. How unfair! He didn't realize how busy and stressed I was. How dare he!

Today is not only Monday, but it's also the first day back to the real world since Thanksgiving break. And I gave my class a quiz. I know, I'm a jerk. But they had fair warning, they knew it was coming. As we all stood out in the hallway waiting for the previous class to exit, I spotted a student that doesn't normally come to class. I figured he was there because we had a quiz. That's when most students decide to show up. When I was handing back homework, I noticed he wasn't there. That was odd. With the way our nation is going, I figure a university is a prime location for an active shooter. Last semester I would habitually bring up the contact info for the University Police, have it set so that all I had to do was open the phone and push a button, and set it on my table in front of me. Should something happen, I had the number ready. I haven't done that in awhile as I've been fairly comfortable with my students this semester. When that student showed up in the hallway, but never entered the classroom, I set up my phone again- ready to dial University Police in a second. While the students were taking their quiz, I searched through the homework they all turned in for his name, and found it. That explained it. He had dropped off his homework, didn't know there was a quiz because he rarely comes to class, and went home.

With two minutes left of the quiz, another student walked in. I handed him his quiz and told him he had two minutes. Three minutes later, I told everyone to hand their quizzes up. While students passed their quizzes to the front of the class, the late student came up to me with his quiz and tried to explain why he was late and why I should let him do the quiz after class. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other students watching the exchange. He said he just got back (from being on vacation). I told him there were a few other students who were traveling back today and I told them they'd be unable to make up the quiz- it wouldn't be fair to allow him to. He said "Well yesterday I just had a bunch of things to do...and if I had known there was going to be a quiz, I probably could've made it on time."

It's amazing the miracles that could've happened if you had just known.

I told him there was no reason to be late to my class, and that the other students had known about the quiz, so why didn't he? Had he not been to the last several classes? He thought for a moment, then said he had been there (I doubt it).

"But this is a lot of points..." he argued.

"It is a lot of points. But I can't let you make it up and not let the other students make it up."

He tried a few more times while the rest of the class watched. Then he handed me his quiz, with one answer scribbled in, and sat down. I started to pull up the power point lecture, and he grabbed his stuff and walked out. I continued with what I was saying for a second, and then stopped. The class had watched the entire exchange. The student had been there all of five minutes. Two of them he had spent arguing with me. Sometimes I think it's more appropriate to pretend nothing happened. This wasn't one of those times. Maybe it was. Maybe I was just tired. I didn't want to be there either, but there I was.

I faced the class. Wide eyes looking back at me told me they all wondered how I was going to handle this. It wasn't that big of a deal as I get that sort of thing often, just usually after class or in an email. But it was Monday for all these students, the Monday after vacation.

"I know it's Monday. What's worse is that we're all coming back from being on vacation. And some students were not able to make it back in time for the quiz. I know you guys don't want to be here right now, and I know you didn't want to take a quiz this morning. But you guys made it here, and it's a good thing that you did. Because sometimes in life we have to do things we don't want to do. I'm sorry it's Monday, and I'm sorry you had a quiz. But you did it. And you all know you can't make up a quiz without a doctor's note, and I need to keep it fair for everyone."

There were some nods in the group. I moved on to our projected schedule for the remaining couple of weeks of class. We went over the Finals schedule and I made sure everyone (who was there) understood that the Finals schedule is made by the university and not me.... and therefore cannot be changed by me.

As I went into the lecture, the student who had been late and argued with me, came back into class, stuffing things into his backpack. He seems like a nice enough student and didn't seem threatening at all to me, even as he argued. He was not tense or angry, just embarrassed and desperate. I went on with the lecture and the remainder of the class period went peacefully.

When I got home, I ate lunch and sat down to grade the quizzes. Three quizzes in, I just couldn't keep going. I'm all out of drive. I want to curl under the blankets in the darkness of my room, and shut the world out.

But I want time to stop too, so that I don't fall (further) behind. I'm supposed to be writing a paper... but not until I figure out what to do with my new data. I'm supposed to be grading quizzes and homework, but it's zapping my will to go on.

I've decided to take a different approach to my class next semester... as I always do. New Year's resolutions of a sort. New Semester's resolutions. They are definitely getting quizzed on the syllabus. They will also get a more in depth introduction of myself. I usually don't give them very much background, but I think most of them believe I'm only a couple years older than them and don't really have any life experiences. Maybe I can be a little more inspirational next semester. It's too late for this class.... there is no hope.

Midterm

Today my bones hurt. I stand in front of my class watching them take a midterm exam. I handed out crisp, clean, white exams. One by one, they drop them off at my desk in the front of the room, covered in ink (the brave) or pencil scratch, stacked on top of their cheat sheets. One girl turns in more than one cheat sheet, and now I’m faced with an issue I didn’t anticipate. Do I subtract points from her exam? My ankle bone hurts. Which is interesting because to my knowledge, I have never injured the bone in my ankle. Maybe it’s the cyst that’s apparently growing out of my joint.

I sip cold coffee as the room slowly empties. Three students remain. The construction outside provides a constant loud hum that I’ve managed to tune out. The stack of exams on my desk grows larger and I wonder who does more work for these things- myself or my students?

Rubble

After returning home from the Northern California wildfires, I dropped all my gear on the floor, ate a sandwich from the sack lunch provided by the fire, and peeled off my clothes. My feet had been in my old fire boots for 26 hours. I crawled in to bed to tack on a third hour to the two broken hours of sleep I had gotten out on the fire the night before. When I woke up, I was cranky and felt helpless. I took a hot bath. Mike texted and asked what I needed. "Dinner" I replied. I managed to put all my gear away before he made it over.

After eating, I crawled into the soft down comforter of my own bed. As I closed my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the rubble and char of Fountain Grove, the leveled community I had spent the night in, conducting LiDAR scans from our mobile research truck. I let the images play in my head. Dispatch informed Night Ops of another fire, and that the caller had said "People are running". Night Ops responded with an order to get on RedCom and order up anyone and everyone who might have resources available. They were going to lose another town.

I sank into a deep sleep.

This morning, as my mind raced with all my uncompleted tasks, the horrors of the last 24 hours, and my own insignificance, Mike tells me to save all those thoughts for my run. I wondered how far I'd have to run to escape the images of all the wreckage, and evacuees holding hands, comforting each other. I wonder how long I will need to press my feet to the pavement to out run the thought of an ocean of fire rolling over people as they desperately tried to escape. And people wonder why so many are still missing. But people, like animals, look exactly like everything else when all that's left is char.

I told Mike I felt worthless. I wasn't out saving people, or saving their homes. I had stood and stared at the rubble, over coffee heated in a JetBoil on the bed of the pickup truck, hoping that morning was not the day they'd let survivors back in to see if their homes still stood. When I was fighting fires in San Diego, we had driven past homes completely destroyed. Families sifted through the burned remains, looking for any token of their lives before the fire. Those days, fighting fire wasn't fun. Fighting fire was fun when it didn't kill anyone or destroy anyone's home. It hurts to watch others come to realize their grief. I've inherited my father's empathy.

"You paid your dues" Mike responded. I don't know. When is it really enough? Some people spend their whole lives fighting fire. Me, just a small fraction. But you can't keep pushing yourself to do something you no longer love. It takes the life out of it.

I put on my shoes and went out into the brisk morning. I started to jog and the impact jostled my bones. I was exhausted. I thought about the neighborhood we were advised not to go in, because they were still searching. For people. Or what was left of them. I had a 16 mile run scheduled for yesterday and made a plan to make that up on this run. 16 miles should make all this go away.

I needed to write the midterm for my class, analyze the computer simulation of the winds driving the fires, go shopping. My breath started to even out and my legs strode forward on their own. I'm not sure what it is about cars that melts into a bright silver liquid when they burn. Maybe the rims? It looks like mercury, shining in the sun. Complete ruins, surrounding an untouched playground. Buildings crumbled to the ground next to a broken pot for a plant. Two cars parked, presumably, in what used to be the garage, next to what looks like was once a lawn mower.

I ran down onto the entrance to the paved creek trail and turned left under the bridge. I came upon a homeless man sitting on a bench, going through his backpack. I wondered "What's the difference?" Thousands of people are now homeless, but this man has probably been homeless for a good portion of his life. My GPS beeped. 1 mile. 7 more to go before I turn around and head home.

I stopped at the park to pee, then continued on. My stomach hurt. I wondered if it was smart to push so hard after having so little sleep in the past couple of days. I just wanted to do whatever it took to make myself feel better. Another beep. 2 miles. I wasn't helping anyone. I wasn't doing anything to make the world a better place, or to save people. I gave up responding to other people's emergencies and embraced the peaceful life, where choices aren't a matter of life and death.

I choked up and held back tears, tried to even my breath again. 16 miles were not going to make this feel better. And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not supposed to feel ok. Maybe I'm just supposed to feel. I stopped running. I walked for a few more minutes before turning off my GPS.

Buddha taught that we suffer because of our expectations, our view that the world should be a certain way. We fail to see that things just are. People die, houses burn, we're all just ants building our own troubles. I made myself keep walking, trying to look at the fall leaves around me. I crossed over the bridge and looked at the ducks standing on the ledge before the waterfall. I took a few deep breaths and decided to just enjoy the day.

I pushed aside my thoughts about not being ready for the December marathon, not being where I should with my thesis, not saving the world, not being enough. "Be here now". I decided to find a turtle. I walked closer to the creek, glancing around as I did. I smiled and said good morning to others out on the trail. An old couple sat together on a bench. I found my turtle. He sat on a log, still as a statue. His neck stretched toward the sky, soaking up the sun. I stared for a couple minutes and he still didn't move. I walked home.

I had a snack and took a nap. When I awoke, I made the mistake of Googling the "Diablo Winds". My thesis. I wanted to see if my advisor had given me credit for the statistics on the winds that he had desperately asked for, as he was preparing for a radio interview. Because of the wildfires going on just north of here, the most catastrophic in California's history, the entire world was talking about Diablo winds, what they are and the science behind them. There goes my thesis. There goes any self worth I had mustered during my walk home.

Getting back up was tough. I suppose it always is. Hundreds of papers exist on Santa Ana winds, so my one among a few on the Diablos will be fine. I don't know where I read it, but it stuck with me: "You're always okay until you're not". With the memories and emotions of the last couple days draped over my shoulder, I went out to get groceries, grabbing a couple chocolate bars just in case.

Creature Week

The other day as I drove to the gym in the darkness, I started thinking about a weekend swim in the cove. I haven't done an ocean swim since September, so my mental comfort level has dropped a bit. As I walked into the women's locker room, a local news station was playing silently on one of the televisions. The headline along the bottom read "Up next: shark advisory". It went to a commercial.

I locked my things in a locker and tried to locate a tv with that station on as I prepared to warm up on the stationary bike. I saw the story pop up, but it was too far away to see the closed captioning. I had to wait until I got to work to look it up.

Sure enough, the shark advisory was for San Diego. A juvenile great white shark, about 8 feet long, was spotted by a couple of surfers.... last seen headed north. The advisory doesn't affect the cove, which is further north than the shark sighting, but I decided to cancel my open water swim anyway.

It's been Creature Week on The Weather Channel that plays on one of the many tv's in our meteorology office at work. We've been watching sharks, spiders, and snakes.

San Diego has also been having a bee issue lately, with traveling swarms (apparently not Africanized). My roommate told me about a swarm that came around before I got here and she nearly smacked into it. It reminded me to locate my epi-pen and be sure I always know where it is.

So last night, spurred on by all the creature talk of the week, and my upcoming triathlon (in the harbor), I had the craziest dream. I was doing a triathlon, but in a weird order. I ran first, then biked, and then had to attend to someone with an injury. About a half hour or so later, I was done and considered finishing the race. But I was worried because of my ankle injury that I've been rehabbing and wasn't sure I should even do the run. Then I realized I had already made it through the run just fine and only had the swim left. I decided to do it. My transition time would be horrible (like a half hour), but my swim split could still be good.

I quickly pulled on my wetsuit, tearing the ankle cuff in the process. I entered the water near the officials who directed me into a shallow, rocky area. I carefully waded through the rocks. As I came upon larger rocks that forced me to rise up out of the water, I was swarmed by bees. I crawled over the rocks and in front of me lay a deep, dry canyon. On the other side of the canyon, rocks piled up in the form of a wave. As I looked on, a huge wave crashed over the lip of the rocks and flooded the canyon. I was terrified. That kind of power was more than I was trained for. The wave subsided. As  waited for the next one, a giant killer whale flung itself over the rock wall and landed in the canyon in front of me, awaiting the next wave. I would have to swim through the powerful wave.... with a killer whale.

I woke up.

I have a feeling I'm going to have to get my nerves in check before the triathlon. Even in the harbor, I'm going to worry about the creatures of the deep. But being in the water with a hundred other people at least statistically decreases my chance of getting eaten.