Batman is the Bad Guy

I was floating through the news recently-ish (definitely taking it in spoonfuls at a time) and somewhere in the absolute deluge of information the past while, I found this:  

Full article linked here.

So, here's the short version:  Florida decided that ex-felons could have their voting rights back BUT they had to pay any fees or fines attached to their sentence.  Whelp, when you've been making prison wages for X years and no one wants to hire you, essentially, this was an insurmountable barrier for a lot of people.  Mike Bloomberg and a few other notable persons stepped up to pay for these fines, to allow these persons agency in the system again--I mean, it would definitely be a case of taxation without representation, here.  There was some pushback, but ultimately there was no clause that said these individuals had to pay the fee themselves, so it went through.  

I had two major emotions with this:

Firstly, delight.  What a wonderful bit of clemency and grace to these individuals, to help persons take ownership of the community again by giving back this piece of agency.  What a beautiful reprieve and a gesture to help reach out to disenfranchised persons.  This lasted for a few beats.

Secondly, a profound sense of disappointment.  WHY don't we see this kind of thing more often?  I'm talking about real philanthropy, rather than the token statements that a lot of billionaires in our country make.  In short, I'm appalled that we have so many billionaires but no Batmans.  Sure, Bezos will throw a couple million around every now and again--but this is literally pocket change to him.  With a net worth of over 184 billion, he could end homelessness or world hunger and still have well over 150 billion left to retire on, let alone give his workers a living wage and better working conditions (example A and example B).  And he doesn't.  And neither do any of the others.  So, no, they don't get credit and goodwill for throwing a couple million dollars at something for the tax break and the positive publicity.  They have the power to make a massive impact on some serious problems, and they are choosing not to do it.  Money and perceived success does not necessarily make someone a moral person, much as we would want to believe it, and there comes a point where someone that is hording resources is inherently no longer" good" by nature of their resource hording.  I don't pretend to know where that magic line is, but it definitely includes one billion and up.  

I'm not advocating for literal Batman--there are a number of issues with vigilantism and parts of Batman are pure power fantasy--but the general idea of using ones resources to tackle a larger community issue would have a much greater impact than punching three people in the face one night.  Imagine if Batman spent all of that money on tech to ensure that everyone in Gotham had a living wage or helped pushed substance abuse counseling to undermine the drug trade in Gotham.  That would reduce crime in Gotham far more than punching people.  

...Do the Robins even get dental or just complex, emotional trauma?  But in any case, yes, symbolic change can be encouraging and inspire other people, but REAL change is all the more inspiring and better reaches those who need the help.  

Every day, Batman, Bezos, and other billionaires have the opportunity to use their resources toward something truly altruistic, and every day they choose not to.

Hello, Luna

So, if you've been paying attention to Andy's Facebook page of late, you might have noticed a particular common theme.  This is Luna.  

So, yep, Luna is a three year old Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever and pretty darn cute.  Andy in particular has been adjusting to working fully from home with some difficulty, with adjusting to my class schedule, reading/homework load, and twelve-hour clinical days.  He has been feeling particularly low without regular human interaction.  At least when we were still working at Skyward together from home back in March and April, we had a similar schedule and understood the flow of the day.  We knew that there was going to be some adjustment in my transition back to school, but that did not eliminate all the reality in processing it.  So Andy began seriously arguing for a dog, a companion to help easy the lonely parts.  

Mike was fine with and even excited at the prospect of getting a dog; Andy was chomping at the bit and would have brought one home months ago; I was the holdout.  Frankly, I wasn't interested.  

I knew that I wasn't keen on taking on the emotional load of caring for something else, feeling stretched between all things anyway.  During adjustment and all else, there would inevitably be pee and/or poop inside the house, something else that did not excite me.  There would be walks and taking the dog out, that no matter how much Andy assured me that he would take the lead in those kinds of needs, inevitably it would be my job, too, somewhere.  And buying food and other care supplies would still be in our collective budget and vet appointments and grooming and other costs.  But mostly it was the emotional costs that I didn't want.  We have enough going on.

...and there was one more important thing.  I don't trust dogs as a general rule.  A dog jumping up on my stomach puts their paws directly on Melvin, just a few layers of cloth and fabric between their claws and my intestines.  I have a panic freeze response.  I know it's an illogical reaction, but my brain has tied fast-moving dog with profoundly unsafe and it hits my PTSD triggers.  A perceived endangerment to my body triggers a particular immediate panic, and I refuse to feel unsafe in my own home when it could be easily avoided.  Even trying to process the idea was pushing some red zones, from the association of the association.  

So why the hell did I say yes?  

We talked about it as a household.  We discussed boundaries.  We made plans.  I feel my anxiety curbed significantly to have a plan.  I knew the benefit the change could bring to the other members of our household.  I had their assurances that A) they would do the bulk of the work and B) they would ensure that the house stayed clean.  We made some boundaries specifically to ensure that I would have some safe spaces.  We also planned agreed-upon commands and strategies for handling certain needs.

A few days in (while we're still trying to encourage the idea that tether time is pee time and otherwise that the carpet is not the same as grass when it comes to finding a place to pee), and I felt vindicated in some ways, as Andy expressed surprise about the fatigue he felt from the emotional load to work through this change and adjustment.  We knew it was going to happen, but once again that's not the same as feeling the weight of it.  Luna is trying to get used to our flow just as we're getting used to hers.  We can't sleep in when she's ready to eat and whining directly above us.  That takes emotional bandwidth.  We can't just turn her off when we're tired.  It's a huge change and demands that energy, particularly when she pees on the carpet once again.  But I made a promise to myself to embrace the experience, to allow time and acknowledge what I'm feeling in those places.  This is pushing my comfort zone, but pushing those places is where growth happens--I want to see which way I will grow in this experience.  I want to see what the experience can hold for me.

There's also this expectation, that I feel like I am supposed to be happy about having a pet all the time.  I think it's similar to how people are culturally expected to feel about parenthood.  I'm not always thrilled about the obligation.  But she is awfully cute when she falls asleep at my feet when I'm doing classwork.  She has a charming kind of derp in her lack of spatial awareness, thunking her head into the coffee table, tumbling off the couch, and all else.  And I have been getting outside more, taking her on evening walks around the neighborhood.  There are shining moments.  I just resent feeling that I have to feel a certain way and getting into a shame cycle if I don't, even though logically I know I am not obliged to feel anything by the people that matter.  I have to fully know that I'm safe before I can be open to that.  Perhaps some of my hesitancy is veiled stubbornness, that I refuse to fall in love just because I'm supposed to.  Probably the best way to say it, though, is I'm leaving room to fall in love but not trying to force it.  In some ways, I'd be fine not to have her anymore; but in the same breath, I'm going to make the effort for as long as we do, for those that it really matters to, Luna being one of them.  Andy's happiness matters; Mike's happiness matters; Luna's happiness matters; mine does, too, and there is a degree of flexibility from all of us that simply will take time.  

And that's an important factor, too--we've had only about two weeks together.  It's going to take time to find a proper rhythm.  I need more perspective.  In short, there's more processing to do yet, and thankfully I've got one week of class, Thanksgiving break, another week of class, and then finals, meaning that some planned rest is forthcoming.  Limping and pushing toward the finish line for this term is where I need to direct my emotional energy as it stands currently.  

And Luna and I will continue to enjoy some private time on evening walks in the interim.  

Jealousy

I've been experiencing a very strange kind of jealousy that I've been trying to put a name on for quite some time now.

I've had a chronic illness for over twenty years now.  When it comes up in conversation or I find a space to relate to someone by revealing it, I will openly talk about my experience with Crohn's Disease.  Hell, I have gotten to a point where I make space as I need it, using this blog as a particular focal point.  In some of those discussions, I undertake the emotional labor of teaching for the bulk of it; in other discussions, I build off of the foundation and educate less but still tend to have some kind of component; in a few conversations, there is a different kind of understanding, where we can get right into the important pieces that were driving the impulse to bring up the subject in the first place.  

In some of these conversations, I've thought more than once, "I wish I just had cancer."

Now, I absolutely do not intend that thought to delegitimize the pain, fear, heartache, and agony that someone with cancer is or has gone through.  Not at all.  It's not the Pain Olympics, where I'm trying to judge nor compare the pain that someone else is going through to my own.  All of that pain is valid.  I would go as far to say that cancer is one of the places many persons first truly confront the idea of mortality.  

Here's what I mean:  a cancer patient doesn't have to explain to most anyone what cancer is.  Most people have some idea of the general process of how cancer works, with vague ideas of treatment options.  That empathy is there IMMEDIATELY.  The sympathy is accessible and available sometimes just by looking at them, particularly when they are in treatment.   

And in my nursing textbooks, there is a whole chapter dedicated to the pain management of cancer patients but not any other condition.  No specific notice in the part that discussed Crohn's, how to deal with its specific pain.  There were two pages dedicated to how to guide someone through some of the emotional changes of a cancer diagnosis, recommendations on how to be empathetic and how to approach the conversation.  In a textbook by the same authors, someone with Crohn's?  Two generic paragraphs.  For an ostomy?  Three paragraphs.  Three paragraphs to gloss over what has taken me many, many blog posts to attempt to address.  

I am envious of empathy that I don't have to ask for.  I am envious that there is a place for these persons to be seen that I cannot access.  I am envious that even in my training to be a nurse there is an implied bias to see these persons differently, just in exposure of information alone.  

I'm aware of what my own biases are--or at least as many of them as I can be.  I know that when I get a patient with a stoma or a patient with some kind of inflammatory bowel disease, I'm going to approach the situation very differently, that there will be an understanding that is unique in those places.  I recognize this.  I don't pretend any differently.  But that doesn't mean that when I get a patient recently diagnosed with cancer that I'm not going to approach them with grace and compassion.  And I still long for that understanding for the persons with the more obscure diseases, for those that don't have that instant empathy, for those whose suffering the same but understanding is obscure, too.  There is extra effort in understanding these persons, and not all persons are willing to put in the extra effort to understand.  

It takes effort to see me.  It takes effort to see people.  I wish that understanding Crohn's was as effortless as understanding cancer, unfortunately reinforced by its prevalence and the related public understanding.  Even in pop culture, I can name characters who have had cancer, but I've never seen Crohn's featured outside of a medical drama.  I would wish this understanding for persons with myasthenia gravis or lupus or SCID or EDS or MS or any number of diseases.  

And that's the trick.  I would want everyone to have accessible empathy.  To not have to ask to for empathy, for immediate access to those human elements that I crave for in places, I would wish that for others, too.  To have nurses primed to meet them where they are, too.  That's what I would want, not to lessen the care those persons with cancer need to but to expand it to myself and others.