I think my dentist called me boss-eyed!?

It's not even worth saying that you hate going to the dentist. It's just understood, right? Even if you're one of those lucky people who don't have to have their jaws dislocated and cranium rattled by drills at every visit (and by the way, bite me if you are one of those lucky people....) There is still the noise, the smell, the uncomfortable plastic chair, the lights that give you eye spots, that damn plastic thing they stick in you mouth for x-rays.... I digress. It is all-together an unpleasant interruption to your day. The strangest thing happened this morning during my dental exam, I swear my dentist called me boss-eyed! It was the damnedest thing, he's not even british. And I think someone would have mentioned it before now if I was....

Paranoia

I think that the peanuts and the departments vending machine are meeting weekly to plot my demise.  (Maybe it's not as likely as ninja monkey's, but everybody knows peanuts are wicked evil).  I've generally ignored the peanut recall because I don't have cupboards full of peanut products at home and I assume that anything on the shelf at the grocery store is safe, but vending machines?  can we really trust them?  It wouldn't have been a problem except for that fact that our departments vending machine is old and poorly maintained so most of the letters and numbers identifying the row your snack-product-of-choice occupies have fallen off.  It's embarrassing to admit how often I eat from the machine, let alone how many times I counted rows incorrectly and ended up with stale granola instead of m&m's or Nutter Butters instead of grandmas cookies.  Luckily a quick internet search left me with the reassuring knowledge that the cookies shouldn't kill me (this time).  I always knew the peanuts had it out for us, but now they've recruited the vending machines.  The world really is a cruel place when I have to google my snack food for safety before eating it.

Sometimes science hurts

A weekend of field work has left me sore and exhausted and my trusted field assistant (the husband) in bed dreadfully ill.  Nothing ever seems to go as planned when I'm in the field.  There is always something I'm unable to do that I have to report back on to the professor come Monday morning.  This time events were totally out of my control, which actually made me feel a bit better.  The tasks may be unfinished, but not because of some personal failing on my part.  

This weekends mission had been to do the regular site maintenance (mowing down the alleys between the plots) and to cut into the weed jungle to install two new experiments (28 plots).  We utilized a dull machete and gas powered brush mower to cut paths in the jungle (my hands are soar enough today to make typing a great challenge).  It was exhausting but exhilarating and the field assistant and I collapsed into the tent that night confident we'd have the job finished by noon the next day.  

And then the vomiting started.  

Camping is usually great fun, even work related camping, until you are ill.  And then there is no place you want to be besides at home in your bed.  I'm quite certain it is the same for all people around the world, when you are sick you want to be at home, in your own bed, period.  I've had this experience before, the research group I worked with as an undergrad camped during the field season.  A delightful experience until I got the flu, and suddenly even the most luxurious camping was a misery.

So, sunday morning I packed up camp and drove the field assistant home to his own bed and the comfort that it could provide.  Unfortunately the 3 and 1/2 hour car ride was lengthened to nearly 5 hours because of the need to stop repeatedly (and the need to wash vomit of the side of the truck).  

Once the patient was tucked in and sleeping feverishly I was able to finished the job of unloading gear and returning the half washed pickup.  It was incredibly draining to do all this on my own, but even as tired as I was I had resigned myself to a sleepless night.  I thought with him feverish and sick I'd sleep lightly, ply him with medicines, try to help him feel better.  All the proper caregiving duties that you feel obligated to do when your loved one is sick, but alas I did not.  Instead I slept like a corpse, selfishly ignoring the rest of the world until the alarm called me to consciousness.   

As a result of the deep sleep I feel quite refreshed for a monday morning, but also a bit guilty.  Beyond the soreness of my hands and a slight stiffness in my back I fared quite well this weekend, but the poor husband/field assistant is going to need at least a week to recover.

Sacrifice

There are some serious things happening to people in my life right now, and it's got me thinking about sacrifice.  Specifically, what part of myself would I sacrifice to survive.  Sounds strange I know, but in this world of cancer and disease it is a very real possibility we may have to make such a choice at some point in our lives.  Your breast, your bladder, a large portion of your colon, a foot, a leg.....  It's morbid to contemplate, and often there will be no other choice, which really isn't making a choice at all.  But I'm thinking of the situations when you have a choice, usually a choice between two treatments one being more likely to succeed and more extreme.  You can take a chance on one treatment while maintaining your vanity and pride, or you can opt for the more extreme treatment, perhaps sacrificing some personal dignity but gaining a greater assurance of future health.  It's hard to know how you will react when faced with your own mortality.  Can you be strong enough to sacrifice part of yourself?  Would I still feel like me, even though a part of me is missing?