Barack Obama has always claimed his religious faith is one of the most important things in his life, and essential to his identity. It's therefore all the more disappointing that his choice of Rick Warren reflects a particularly American brand of incoherence and hypocrisy when it comes to public displays of supposed religious belief.Read the entire post - well worth it.
The incoherence is reflected by behavior -- such as choosing Warren to give the invocation -- that seems to affirm two propositions:
(1) Religious beliefs are enormously important.
(2) The actual content of those beliefs is irrelevant.
December 18, 2008
Coherence
A very coherent point lost in all the drama about the choice of Rick Warren to perform the invocation at the inauguration.
December 3, 2008
Concussion
Concussion.
I had recently thought of it as being beaten about the head and shoulders with a wad of conservative talking points.
Or what happens if you are actually brave enough to watch an entire hour of Bill O'Reilly's hate fest on Faux Newz.
No longer.
Yesterday while crushing down a bunch of left over cardboard boxes in our garage, I stepped on one that has that lovely waxy sheen over pretty colors advertising some product crucial to everyday life (in this case a mat that goes under a desk chair) and personally redefined concussion to something akin to its medical meaning.
That slick, shiny box flew out from under my feet and I went momentarily airborne, levitating horizontally above the hard concrete floor of the garage for what seemed like a full second to my time-dilated senses. I could envision in that long interregnum exactly what took place next: my butt, then my back, then neck and finally my head hit the floor with a truly sickening *thwock* noise, the kind of sound that makes the stomach churn just to hear it.
I lost just a hint of time after impact, until I became aware that my seizure response dog, Rufus, was frantically licking my face and covering my body with his. When later asked by the doctor if I had lost consciousness, I tentatively said yes, then measured the period missing by the amount of dog slobber I was covered in, which, fortunately, was not much. Perhaps a minute, likely even less time passed before I was aware that my head really fucking hurt, got the dog off me, and tried to regain my feet. I was horribly dizzy and my vision blurred. My head was completely numb and a large knot was already forming on the top part of the back of the skull. I was nauseous for a few minutes.
I had a phone with me (habit when outside or in the garage for any length of time) so called Rachel. I'd be hard pressed to recall what exactly I said to her, but she lit out from work right away. The fact I was able to stand and talk seemed reason enough not to call 911 and all that entails.
We went to St. John's Urgent Care which is associated with my doctor in the same complex. I was the only person there, so they got me in quickly. Medical history, poking and prodding, lots of questions, Darvocet and Flexeril, a neck brace plus X-rays followed, along with a lot of waiting around. Thanks to the brief period of unconsciousness I not only had to have the X-rays but also a CT scan. Though they had a machine there, it was not operated after 5pm so I was out of luck. Off we went to St. Francis Hospital emergency center.
The ER in any hospital is always a somewhat alarming place. I've been in a couple for my own medical problems and to take others for theirs. The worst was probably the night my friend Chris R. drove his 1970's era Lincoln ocean liner into a telephone pole in Virginia, breaking his nose and collar bone (annihilating both car and pole - the latter only stayed standing thanks to the heavy. demolished car still holding it upright). Marty and I were there for many an hour as Chris slept, passed out despite the pain of his nose and collar bone, as the ER doctors ran tests and also dealt with a more lethal car crash that came bursting through the doors after we arrived. That night also included the delicious irony of Chris being essentially let off the hook for a certain DUI by the improbably named Officer Bacon of the Fairfax police, something I've laughed about over the years whenever this particular incident comes up.
St. Francis wasn't terribly busy, though there was a decent crowd in the waiting room. I got checked in for the CT, waited, and was called in under 5 minutes. We were taken to a trauma room, seen by a nurse (where my blood pressure and temperature were taken for the second, though not last time for the night), had to recount the details of the fall yet again, then were made to wait. Rachel and I listened to the flow of chatter around us as nurses and the ER doctor attended to other patients. Judging by discussions amongst staff about visitors coming and going, there seemed to be either a lot of new people on rotation or a recent policy change concerning who could or should accompany a patient into the ER area.
Eventually the doctor stopped by, looked over my chart, assured me the wait for the CT would not be long but the time before it could be read might be, thanks to a shift change in progress. A little while later a nurse stuck her head in, asked if I was there for the CT. An affirmative response prompted her to ask us if we could wait at the end of the hall in the small seating area there. I said yes, then, as she walked away, I saw a woman who had previously been vomiting noisily in another room collapse into the hallway and onto the floor. The nurse didn't see her, so I said "excuse me" loud enough to be heard, and pointed to the prone body "That woman has collapsed". She called for help and went to attend to her. We moved to the end of the hall, where I was called shortly for the CT.
Being an epileptic I am more than familiar with the joys of CT and MRI machines. The latter are a particular favorite of mine. Trapped head first in a cool plastic and metal cocoon, head caged in place, with barely enough room for my shoulders and arms to lie in a relaxed state, I am bombarded by the weird post-techno beat of the machine as it produces high resolution slices of my broken brain. It is an entrancing, ever changing symphony of differently pitched knocks, hums, and repetitive low frequency tones and warbles most likely recreated in the outside world by a spastic child and an old ARP 2600 synthesizer. The earplugs prevent hearing damage, but nothing can drown out the sheer volume of the bone jarring trance generator that performs as a side effect of the near-magical workings of the MRI. Every time I'm in one of these monstrosities I totally zone out to the unique bursts of machine music.
Of course, I wasn't scheduled for an MRI. :)
The CT took about five minutes. A full MRI of the brain lasts anywhere from 30 minutes to a full hour, so I was pleased and relieved. It was also cool to be able to see the imaging elements spinning rapidly over head. More visually entertaining than the spare white plastic tube of the MRI.
It all came up clean, of course. The doctor at urgent care was pretty certain it would turn out that way, as was I, after the initial shock and pain of the fall had subsided. The short span of unconsciousness, the nausea, and the blurred vision combined to force the doctor, as a cautionary procedure, to order the extra tests. The necessity of it all doesn't in any way blunt the mind numbing waiting that accompanies any trip to the ER, unless you are mortally injured or in some other way in danger of immediate death or permanent harm. That waiting is punctuated by the blood pressure machine puffing up on my arm and restricting the flow of blood to my hand every ten minutes, by the bodiless pronouncements coming from the PA (including a recorded voice issuing a prayer for the hospital, its visitors, staff and patients as visiting hours came to a close), and the sporadic visits from nurses, hospital staff or the doctor.
That waiting time left me to wonder about the disposable nature of so many things in the hospital chain - even fingertip pulse takers have been made disposable, with the electronics embedded in flexible plastic, fitted over the finger, and plugged into a monitor. I understand about issues of sterility, but that seemed especially wasteful. The amount of trash generated by any given hospital in a single day must be enormous. And each time will appear in a full accounting of my little trip through the belly of the medical beast.
I can't wait for the bills for my portion to arrive.
Today my neck is stiff as the cardboard that tried to kill me, and my back, a chronic source of pain and trouble, is protesting most loudly about my garage escapade. The minor cognitive oddities that dogged me last night have passed completely, so all that is left is to heal the muscles of my neck and back, and I am honestly thankful I got away without a major injury.
The sound of my skull bouncing off the concrete will stay with me for the rest of my life.
So I'm whole, but concussed.
I had recently thought of it as being beaten about the head and shoulders with a wad of conservative talking points.
Or what happens if you are actually brave enough to watch an entire hour of Bill O'Reilly's hate fest on Faux Newz.
No longer.
Yesterday while crushing down a bunch of left over cardboard boxes in our garage, I stepped on one that has that lovely waxy sheen over pretty colors advertising some product crucial to everyday life (in this case a mat that goes under a desk chair) and personally redefined concussion to something akin to its medical meaning.
That slick, shiny box flew out from under my feet and I went momentarily airborne, levitating horizontally above the hard concrete floor of the garage for what seemed like a full second to my time-dilated senses. I could envision in that long interregnum exactly what took place next: my butt, then my back, then neck and finally my head hit the floor with a truly sickening *thwock* noise, the kind of sound that makes the stomach churn just to hear it.
I lost just a hint of time after impact, until I became aware that my seizure response dog, Rufus, was frantically licking my face and covering my body with his. When later asked by the doctor if I had lost consciousness, I tentatively said yes, then measured the period missing by the amount of dog slobber I was covered in, which, fortunately, was not much. Perhaps a minute, likely even less time passed before I was aware that my head really fucking hurt, got the dog off me, and tried to regain my feet. I was horribly dizzy and my vision blurred. My head was completely numb and a large knot was already forming on the top part of the back of the skull. I was nauseous for a few minutes.
I had a phone with me (habit when outside or in the garage for any length of time) so called Rachel. I'd be hard pressed to recall what exactly I said to her, but she lit out from work right away. The fact I was able to stand and talk seemed reason enough not to call 911 and all that entails.
We went to St. John's Urgent Care which is associated with my doctor in the same complex. I was the only person there, so they got me in quickly. Medical history, poking and prodding, lots of questions, Darvocet and Flexeril, a neck brace plus X-rays followed, along with a lot of waiting around. Thanks to the brief period of unconsciousness I not only had to have the X-rays but also a CT scan. Though they had a machine there, it was not operated after 5pm so I was out of luck. Off we went to St. Francis Hospital emergency center.
The ER in any hospital is always a somewhat alarming place. I've been in a couple for my own medical problems and to take others for theirs. The worst was probably the night my friend Chris R. drove his 1970's era Lincoln ocean liner into a telephone pole in Virginia, breaking his nose and collar bone (annihilating both car and pole - the latter only stayed standing thanks to the heavy. demolished car still holding it upright). Marty and I were there for many an hour as Chris slept, passed out despite the pain of his nose and collar bone, as the ER doctors ran tests and also dealt with a more lethal car crash that came bursting through the doors after we arrived. That night also included the delicious irony of Chris being essentially let off the hook for a certain DUI by the improbably named Officer Bacon of the Fairfax police, something I've laughed about over the years whenever this particular incident comes up.
St. Francis wasn't terribly busy, though there was a decent crowd in the waiting room. I got checked in for the CT, waited, and was called in under 5 minutes. We were taken to a trauma room, seen by a nurse (where my blood pressure and temperature were taken for the second, though not last time for the night), had to recount the details of the fall yet again, then were made to wait. Rachel and I listened to the flow of chatter around us as nurses and the ER doctor attended to other patients. Judging by discussions amongst staff about visitors coming and going, there seemed to be either a lot of new people on rotation or a recent policy change concerning who could or should accompany a patient into the ER area.
Eventually the doctor stopped by, looked over my chart, assured me the wait for the CT would not be long but the time before it could be read might be, thanks to a shift change in progress. A little while later a nurse stuck her head in, asked if I was there for the CT. An affirmative response prompted her to ask us if we could wait at the end of the hall in the small seating area there. I said yes, then, as she walked away, I saw a woman who had previously been vomiting noisily in another room collapse into the hallway and onto the floor. The nurse didn't see her, so I said "excuse me" loud enough to be heard, and pointed to the prone body "That woman has collapsed". She called for help and went to attend to her. We moved to the end of the hall, where I was called shortly for the CT.
Being an epileptic I am more than familiar with the joys of CT and MRI machines. The latter are a particular favorite of mine. Trapped head first in a cool plastic and metal cocoon, head caged in place, with barely enough room for my shoulders and arms to lie in a relaxed state, I am bombarded by the weird post-techno beat of the machine as it produces high resolution slices of my broken brain. It is an entrancing, ever changing symphony of differently pitched knocks, hums, and repetitive low frequency tones and warbles most likely recreated in the outside world by a spastic child and an old ARP 2600 synthesizer. The earplugs prevent hearing damage, but nothing can drown out the sheer volume of the bone jarring trance generator that performs as a side effect of the near-magical workings of the MRI. Every time I'm in one of these monstrosities I totally zone out to the unique bursts of machine music.
Of course, I wasn't scheduled for an MRI. :)
The CT took about five minutes. A full MRI of the brain lasts anywhere from 30 minutes to a full hour, so I was pleased and relieved. It was also cool to be able to see the imaging elements spinning rapidly over head. More visually entertaining than the spare white plastic tube of the MRI.
It all came up clean, of course. The doctor at urgent care was pretty certain it would turn out that way, as was I, after the initial shock and pain of the fall had subsided. The short span of unconsciousness, the nausea, and the blurred vision combined to force the doctor, as a cautionary procedure, to order the extra tests. The necessity of it all doesn't in any way blunt the mind numbing waiting that accompanies any trip to the ER, unless you are mortally injured or in some other way in danger of immediate death or permanent harm. That waiting is punctuated by the blood pressure machine puffing up on my arm and restricting the flow of blood to my hand every ten minutes, by the bodiless pronouncements coming from the PA (including a recorded voice issuing a prayer for the hospital, its visitors, staff and patients as visiting hours came to a close), and the sporadic visits from nurses, hospital staff or the doctor.
That waiting time left me to wonder about the disposable nature of so many things in the hospital chain - even fingertip pulse takers have been made disposable, with the electronics embedded in flexible plastic, fitted over the finger, and plugged into a monitor. I understand about issues of sterility, but that seemed especially wasteful. The amount of trash generated by any given hospital in a single day must be enormous. And each time will appear in a full accounting of my little trip through the belly of the medical beast.
I can't wait for the bills for my portion to arrive.
Today my neck is stiff as the cardboard that tried to kill me, and my back, a chronic source of pain and trouble, is protesting most loudly about my garage escapade. The minor cognitive oddities that dogged me last night have passed completely, so all that is left is to heal the muscles of my neck and back, and I am honestly thankful I got away without a major injury.
The sound of my skull bouncing off the concrete will stay with me for the rest of my life.
So I'm whole, but concussed.
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