The old boxer

Mr. Jansen is a big man. Broad shoulders, thick neck. If he could stand, he would be intimidating. He now sits in a wheelchair all day, his feet tucked snugly in special-order sized slippers. He is neatly dressed, a striped buttoned shirt tucked into a pair of grey dress pants. On one arm he wears a large gold link bracelet. Visible above it is a faded tattoo with illegible initials underneath. In his pocket is a pack of tobacco and some paper. He pulls out a piece of paper and slowly rolls himself a cigarette, licking the edge of the paper to seal it. He feels in his pocket for a lighter but not finding one, he puts the tobacco and rolled cigarette back in his pocket.

He's a quiet man, spending his days sitting at the table in the shared living room, watching the goings-on around him. He enjoys watching soccer on television and prefers to keep to himself, especially in the evenings. I'm the new psychologist, I tell him. I want to meet all the people that I will be working with for the next few months. He shakes my hand; it disappears in his. I coax some conversation out of him. He tells me that he used to be a boxer.  He makes small punching gestures to illustrate and smiles. His dentures shift in his mouth and he pushes them back in place. He can't remember what the tattoo says or who it's about. He has one son. And his wife visits him every day, she's a beautiful woman. He smiles again, his eyes light up briefly, then he's quiet. He stares ahead of him, his face relaxed as though far away in thought. I ask him a question but he doesn't respond. Mr. Jansen?, I touch his arm. He turns slowly and looks at me. Who are you? he asks me. I tell him I'm the new psychologist, I wanted to meet him. Ah. With his left he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the pack of tobacco. He rolls a cigarette and seals it slowly. He places the cigarette between his lips, and reaches again into his pocket, finding the other cigarette. With his right hand he holds the second cigarette as if it were a lighter, his thumb searching for the switch. He looks at it and mumbles something under his breath before putting both cigarettes and the tobacco back into his pocket. He leans his large body back in his chair and stares ahead of him again. He's forgotten me again.

Mrs. Lapost

Nel is a painter. She proudly shows me her small room, second down the hall on the 4th floor, unofficially known as the behavioral ward. Paintings line the wall on the floor around the room. A few rest on the shelf above her tv. Most are framed. One, a beach scene, sits behind a golden frame leaning against it. She is surprised when she pulls the frame toward herself and the two separate. Oh! I must have forgotten to frame that one. But the frame is too small. I'll have to find another one. An easel stands in the middle of the room, a blank canvas and oil paints rest neatly on the frame.

I can't hang them up, I don't want to put holes in the wall.

I openly admire them, impressed with her obvious skill. They resemble the style of the Dutch golden era. Winter scenes and stormy seas. But the portraits she is most proud of. They are exact replicas of pictures of her loved ones.

This is my father. He was a bit of a cheeky sort of guy, don't you think? 

She portrayed his smile perfectly, the twinkle in his eye hints at mischief. She points at a photograph of a younger woman surrounded by three teenage boys.

This is my daughter. With her children. All boys. Yes, they are good looking, eh?

Nel tells me about her workshop, where she had space to paint and think. She used to make portraits for friends and clients. All she needed was a picture. She would change the colors of their clothes and the background, but the faces were the same. People loved the portraits she produced.

My daughter hasn't visited in a while. She must be busy. See, this is her in this picture. I nod and smile. And this man, that's my father. And here he is with my mother; they were so young back then. But you can see he was a cheeky man. And this one is my husband. He died some time ago. We used to have so much fun together. This painting is from a beach we visited in Norway. It was beautiful! She touches the frame. Oh! I need to frame this one yet...but this frame is too small. I'll have to get a bigger one. And here, she points to the picture of the woman with the three boys, that's me when I was younger. I don't know who those boys are... they look nice. 

Nel hasn't painted in a while. She can't remember the last time she painted. She looks at the easel, as for the first time. She picks up the box of oils and wonders aloud where they came from. Perhaps she'll try painting later today. But she must be inspired, she says, and she hasn't been inspired for a long time.

Excuse me waiter, can you tell me if the chef washed his hands first?

The minute the pee-stick shows two stripes, your life changes. No, I'm not referring to the wonderful realization that you'll be starting a family. I'm referring to being able to do and eat all the things you are used to doing and eating. I'm only three months in and the deluge of warnings and advice are beginning to frustrate.

The list of foods, activities, and things to avoid is long. Somethings I'm ok with taking off my menu, like liver, heart, brain and other organs (ew), raw chicken and sausage.. . For some things the advice seems common sense: don't go horseback riding, skip white-water rafting or deep sea diving and stay off of roller-coasters. And with a whole lot of things I am willing to believe that there must be a good reason for including them on the list of what to avoid: moldy cheeses, raw fish or meat, hot tubs, unpasteurized dairy products, x-rays, drugs and certain medicine, smoking, alcohol, and lifting heavy objects.

And then I go out for dinner and find that I technically cannot eat half of what is on the menu.

So, how careful should I be? There must be a nice balance somewhere between being recklessness and (unnecessary) paranoia...

First of all, who do I listen to? Should I always take my steak well-done till all the delicious juicy flavour is cooked out of it, as most sources say, or can I follow the NHS who says that it's ok to eat whole cuts of beef or lamb rare? What about sushi - does Japan have a higher rate of miscarriages that I don't know about?  Do I avoid all alcohol at all costs (like my friend who spit out the sip she had just taken cause she thought it was champagne), or do I take seriously the studies that show that not only is small amounts of alcohol ok but also claim that children born of mothers who drank small amounts while pregnant are less likely to develop anxiety disorders or be stressed? 

Do I really have to avoid raw vegetables and fruit at restaurants cause they might not be washed properly? How am I supposed to do groceries if I can't carry the bags home? Must I avoid that cookie-dough ice-cream because the cookie-dough might contain raw eggs? And what about unpasteurized hard cheese that "contain less water where listeria is less likely to multiply", and are therefore deemed ok? At what point is the likelihood an acceptable number? I mean, how likely is it, really, that I'll get salmonella from a raw egg? And who ever gave the advice to clean the litter-box out every day obviously never had to pay for kitty litter...

I'm starting to feel like I should be covered from head to toe in armour and stick to cereal for the next six months.

New phase starts now

This new post comes as I start a new phase in life. This because two major changes have taken place (or, well, one is in the process of taking place): 1) I got a new job; 2) a week after signing the contract, I was surprised to find out I'm pregnant. This next year will be an eventful one, interesting to say the least. I think I have finally felt the urge to write here again because I feel like I actually have something to write about, which I didn't while I was at my old job, wasting away behind a computer doing things I really couldn't care less about to make money for a company that I didn't believe in... I think these changes bring much more to my life than a new work place and a growing waistline.

I've started my new job, my first day consisting mainly of following like a lost puppy the girl who will be acting as my mentor for the next few months. She is a day younger than me, we figured out, and years ahead of me in experience at the job. This job is so totally different in every way from my previous job that I get excited and just a little bit shit-scared (yes, shit-scared) at the same time every time I think about it. My new job is at an old folks home, specifically with patients with advanced dementia. The work philosophy is 'give our clients as pleasant and fulfilling a life as possible while they are with us'; there is nothing commercial about this place. The manager of the region told us he would be the first manager to tell us to slow down, take time to be with the clients, and leave the paperwork for later. I can live with that approach. My new boss is very involved in the work of all the employees under his management; he welcomed me with flowers and checked in a couple times during the first day to see how I was doing. Most of my colleagues are women and I will work directly with several teams from different sections of the organization (as opposed to me being the only woman in a team of 8 who I worked with daily). I will actually be applying my education as a psychologist - in a field that I did not specifically study for, elderly care and dementia treatment. Eventually, I will take over the work of my mentor at three locations, which will involve everything from intake-interviews with clients, communication with families, training/classes on psych topics for nurses and 'verzorgenden' (which is a specific kind of job for the non-medical care-givers; who are, by the way, all women with very strong...personalities).  Essentially at the moment, I have been given the space and time to get used to the new job and learn the ropes before I take it on myself; I will be working closely with my mentor until we both feel that I can do it on my own.
I looked for a job like this for so long! I am, of course, incredibly impatient to prove that they hired the right person and wish I could do everything, perfectly, immediately. And at the same time I am overwhelmed by how much I so obviously need to learn yet before I can be any good at the job I am expected to do. I want so badly to touch the lives of each patient I work with, to be part of giving them a good and happy life while they are with us; the idea that I could have any sort of influence on their lives is intimidating. Hence the shit-scared part. Also, it doesn't help that as I start this new job, I have to find a moment to tell my new boss that he just hired a pregnant lady who will be needing 4 months off work starting January, probably just about the time she would be getting the hang of things and able to lessen the load for her mentor as intended.

Ah, but it's good. Let it be. This glitch cannot dampen my happiness at the though that there grows inside me (inside me!!!) a whole new little life. Amazing.

So, welcome, new phase. I have been waiting!

rewarding behavior.

so, i'm trying this new thing, based on stuff i'm getting out of my coaching class, where i try to modify my behavior by rewarding myself for desired behavior. for after all, we learn that way as kids, why wouldn't we still learn that way as adults? i'm combining my personal experimental behavior modification with desperate attempts to make my job more interesting and keep myself motivated. but, i'm keeping it small and simple, one step at a time.

this week, i have set for myself the goal of becoming more disciplined in my work behavior (read: spend less time doing other things on the internet). my mini-goal is to exceed the daily expected minimum of 12 accident analyses by 3 accidents. to reach this goal, i have decided that i should have met the minimum by 3pm, giving me plenty of time to complete another 3 analyses in the next 3 hours before going home. if i have stayed focused enough and worked hard enough to meet the goal by 3pm, i reward myself. with a cookie. not just any cookie. an american oatmeal raisin cookie. the best cookie i have ever had in holland (cookie making is not their strongpoint).

i got my cookie today for making 12 reports before 3pm, both yesterday and today (sorta, one of the reports doesn't actually count cause it turned out to be in the wrong category...but who's being picky these days?).
yesterday i missed it cause they closed early.
today i ran down immediately at 3, to make sure i didn't get distracted and miss their closing time of 4pm. (yes, that's how much i want this cookie...)
i got more and more excited for my cookie, the closer i got to the counter.
mmm, feels so good to get a job well done, and fast. to meet a goal. to see progress. and now to reward myself with something small.

they don't carry the american oatmeal raisin ones any more.
they are the only ones i like.
they are the reason i chose 'cookie' as my reward for meeting my goal.
they are my incentive to help me change my work behavior!
they are practically the reason i get any work done at all at this point!

so i took the new brand. the only type of cookie available. a chocolate chip cookie.
it's bigger. it's soft. it has lots of chocolate chips in it.
i'm sure it's worth it. i'm sure it's just as rewarding....

it taste like cardboard.
with sawdust and butter.
the chocolate chips are small. i can barely taste them.

what a disappointing cookie.