|The ephemera of cougar dreams|
I’m sitting here, trying to think of something interesting to tell you, but am stumped! I’ve had a sort of nice and sort of crummy week. On Friday last, I did something to my poor knee and have been limping around ever since. My discomfort reached its apex on Monday, and I actually made an appointment with a doctor. I have gone voluntarily to the doctor for things other than routine maintenance about three times in the last thirty years, so that will give you a clue as to how much I dis-enjoy it. I don’t enjoy the routine maintenance either, of course, but it is one of life’s ordeals which must be endured. And I have cut that ordeal to the minimum. Ugh. The knee doctor, selected at random from a roster of unfamiliar Sports Medicine names – actually, he was the one with the first opening – was hyper-adorable. Had I been forty years younger, I would have been in love. But, I am not forty years younger, so I forwent (is that the past tense of “forgo”?) the tender passion. As hoped, he said, “Keep off it, and it will get well soon. Nothing critical.” As also really, really hoped, he said, “Here is a note forbidding you to go to work for a week. Call me if it isn’t better, and we’ll make it longer.” Maybe I was in love after all. Does this make me a cougar? He was very young! A baby, in fact.
Speaking of cougars, the last time I worked, I had an elderly patient with a very bizarre hairdo which looked like a bright golden swimming cap. The nurse giving me bedside report explained that the patient had this hairdo because she was a cougar, and the patient confirmed this. I was thinking that this meant that the patient was a WSU fan, and I couldn’t understand what the hairdo had to do with that. I was reluctant to ask about this, and so just pondered for a while. Suddenly, hours later, as I was talking to her about her knee, I realized that I had the whole “cougar” thing wrong. She was quite another sort of cougar. We both thought my mistake was funny, and then discussed the joys of cougardom. Later in the evening, I was in a different patient’s room double checking a unit of blood for a transfusion with another nurse. It takes two nurses to do this, and it is quite the little ceremony. A mistake here would be such a disaster, so every unit of blood is checked about ten times by two people each time before it ever gets to the patient. We make the patient spell her name, state her birthday, and then double check all the other paperwork that comes with the unit. While we were comparing names, dates, blood types, and unit numbers, I heard Elvis singing in the background. When we were done, I turned to the tv and saw a cop show. “I thought I heard Elvis,” I said. “You did,” they explained. I didn’t quite ever take in how Elvis got on the modern cop show, but it was clear to everyone else. They asked if I was an Elvis fan. This is the sort of thing that a music snob like me doesn’t really like to admit. I hemmed and hawed, but it quickly became apparent that we all loved Elvis. The patient, in fact, had been a real groupie and had been to many concerts. Then Virginia, my nurse friend, pointed out that the patient’s birthday was the same day as her own. I pointed out that it was the same year as mine. “Why,” Virginia said, “we are all monkeys!” The patient’s husband said that he was a monkey too. “Wow!” Virginia said. “A room full of musical monkeys who all love Elvis.” We thought this was as funny as the cougar hairdo.
|Lucky LeCompte -not a cougar|
I couldn't think of any relevant photos, so I named the top one so as to make it relevant, and Lucky LeCompte, while not a cougar, is a feline, making him tangentially relevant.