Welcome to Erin's blog!

I am dedicating this blog entry to every person who has been affected by blood cancers. These cancers are heinous, painful, and resilient. The treatment, which includes chemotherapy, often requires the complete decimation of the patient's immune system, followed by a replacement with new marrow. This procedure takes anywhere from about 4 hours to, at most, 2 days (it depends on the extent of the donation). It also requires a willing donor, with matching marrow. Often, the patient is able to rebuild a new immune system, fight the cancer, and make a full recovery.

The reason I am writing this evening is to ask you all, everyone reading this, to register as a bone marrow donor with the national bone marrow registry. Marrow is more complex than blood, and so requires a more specific match, thus making it very difficult to find matching donors. The registry exists to pair those in need of marrow with possible willing donors.

I registered a couple years ago, and it was one of the easiest things I've ever done. All I had to do was sign up for a kit online. When it arrived, I filled out one page of paperwork and took the kit to the lab at my doctor's office (I didn't need to make an appointment; all I had to do was show up). They drew a couple vials of blood, which they then sent back to the registry to analyze. My match type is now recorded forever in the registry. If a cancer patient needs a marrow transplant or donation and a willing donor is not found in the family, the registry is searched for other matches. If one is found, the donor is contacted, informed of the match, and asked if they are still wiling to donate.

It's one of the easiest things we can all do to save another person's life. To sign up to receive a FREE kit, click here. To find out more about the National Marrow Donor Program, click here.

Signing up to be a donor is a beautiful tribute to anyone who has ever had cancer, both the people who were able to beat the illness as well as those who were not. I registered to be a donor because of a classmate I lost in 7th grade, Brittany Lambert. I still think of her, 10 years later.  I would give anything to be able to give someone like Brittany a second chance.

 I am asking you today to sign up to join the marrow registry- not for me, not for yourself, but for everyone who has lost the battle with cancer who can't be here to ask you themselves.

If you still need convincing, check out this blog.

Thanks. 

What? WHAT? You killed Amber!? Come ON Fox writers!!! It was Wilson's last shot at love! And we actually LIKED that character, unlike Dr. McBaldy Oldguy and Dr. Omar MacHuge-eyes. Haven't the writers of House, M.D. ever heard of a freaking FOCUS GROUP!? Lord. 

I’ve finally got something to say. I know it’s been a while. I’ve been pretty distracted. But last night, something caught my attention to the point that I was yanked out of my blissful selfishness. I was watching the news, and a story on the Kentucky Derby was aired; one of the horses, Eight Belles, was severely injured and had to be euthanized on the track. This is tragic enough, but what followed was, to be honest, sickening. The trainer was interviewed, and through tears, he praised the horse. But then he had the gall to say that race horses like Eight Belles have “given us everything they have. They put their life on the damn line, and she was glad to do it.”

….

Don’t you mean you put their lives on the line when they race? The last time I checked, these horses are forced to race. And trainers still have to “break them” to get the horses to the point that they will allow someone to ride them. Then the years of training punctuated by races where the horses are whipped and forced to run at break-neck speeds… What happened to Eight Belles (who was, by the way, only three years old) is eerily reminiscent of what happened to the famed “Barbaro” (another Triple Crown contender) last year. Call me crazy, but I’m going to take a wild guess and say that Eight Belles, instead of being trucked around from race to race and unfamiliar place to unfamiliar place, would rather be somewhere eating grass in a field. I don’t purport to be an equine expert, or even an equine enthusiast. But I really do think that a horse would rather run in a peaceful pasture than around a track.

As demonstrated by this egomaniacal trainer who was somehow able to not only own, control, and dictate the lifestyle of another living being, but who has now taken upon himself the right of speaking for that animal, people have a remarkable ability to rationalize some pretty illogical stuff.

We’ve all done it. I was a vegetarian, but I still bought leather shoes and bags. Why? Because I told myself they “last longer” than food; they’re reusable. And this is true. But I was an ethical vegetarian. My entire basis for removing meat from my diet was not dietary; I felt, and I told many people this when asked, that it was simply wrong to eat another living being when other options were available. So now that I was forced to put meat back into my diet (I suffered from severely low iron stores without it), I eat it every once in a while (begrudgingly, unless we’re talking cheese burger or hot dog). And I feel guilty every time I do. But I’ve been buying leather shoes the entire time.

This horrible event at the Kentucky Derby brought this ethical paradox jarringly back into the forefront of my mind. I’m glad they chose to euthanize Eight Belles right on the track, so the crowd was forced to witness the price that too often must be paid to purchase an hour or two of entertainment. It’s a dear cost, and I’m glad they had to see it firsthand. But I think the reason it upset me so much was that it revealed something in my life with which I am not entirely comfortable. In psychology, this principle is called “cognitive dissonance”. And psychologically speaking, human beings will do everything in their power to reduce this dissonance. It produces, quite simply, a really crappy feeling that most people just don’t like. They do whatever they can to “rationalize” their actions.

So the next time you get angry, upset, frustrated, or offended, it might be helpful to examine why you are upset. If you’re like me, most of the time, you’re really just angry at yourself.

….But I still think horse racing is cruel.

I have been a loving fan of the daily show for years. My god, I have a cat named Jon Stewart. And what do I get for my loyalty? A painful, painful betrayal by the Daily Show. I managed those baristas they reference. I trained Wesleyan's finest. And we were good. We were damn good.

Good news! I'm a grown up! I have a 9-5 (doing what I'm already doing at SOS Children's Villages)! I can finally sing along with Dolly ("Workin' 9-5") without feeling embarrassed, or like a pretender to the throne. I'm employed!

On the downside, I now have a job. Everyday. From 9-5.

You'll never guess what I did today.

I spent the entire day playing veterinarian. And I thought "pretending" was something I left behind in my childhood...

The other day, I asked Lloyd's vet if I could shadow her for the day, because it's something I've been kicking around in the back of my mind as a potential career. She was excited, I was excited. It was really cool.

When I got there, we jumped right into appointments. Vaccines, check-ups, vomiting, diarrhea, a clotting disorder (or rat poison).... it was very interesting to see things from the "other side". I noticed that most of the owners were a lot like I am- asking a lot of questions, very invested in their pets. Which was cool to see.

But the really interesting part was getting to talk with all the staff. I learned that Lloyd's vet was very concerned with how she would deal with euthanasia as a vet, before she even got into vet school. She also was very squeamish, but now she says surgery is her favorite aspect of the job.

The assistants (who are there to hold animals down, give shots, give meds) are the very hard workers. They all had "battle scars" from scared and angry patients. While I was there, they suggested that I apply as an assistant, because vet school loves to see "experience with animals" on your application. I think I will.

One cat was there who had stopped eating several days ago, and whose organs had subsequently been shutting down, one by one. He was laying in his cage, with an IV, with his head on his paws.  He was by far the "sickest" looking cat, and I couldn't help but notice him whenever I was in the assistants' office. I found myself ducking in there several times throughout my day, chatting with the staff, and watching the minor procedures (teeth cleaning, etc.). At one point when I popped in, I noticed that a towel was spread over Fiend (the name of the sick cat). A little note on the door simply read, "Fiend is still in here. Waiting on owner's decision re: cremation." Just like that, I knew he was gone. Thirty minutes before, he had been alive, lying in his cage. Then somewhere, someone had decided it was his time, and he slipped away. Quietly, peacefully. 

What is the dividing line between life and death, this life and whatever lies beyond? Is it a breath? Is it a presence? Except for physiology, Fiend had been "dead" for hours before he actually passed, sustained on IV fluids and almost motionless.

What is death? Is it an instant? Is it a process? Is it simply another term for "life"? Is life just a term for the gradual march toward death? Are "death" and "life" two labels for the same process?

As I looked at Fiend's little emaciated frame, and I stroked his head, tears rolled down my cheeks. It seemed right that he was mourned. It was the necessary action to take. I wanted to acknowledge our shared fragility, our shared mortality.

I watched the assistants carry him over to the table, place a little leg tag on him (so the crematory would know who he was), and put him in a plastic bag. I didn't want to go with them to put him in the freezer. It was a very respectful process, despite it's raw nature. One of the assistants said that when the owners leave after a euthanasia, and it's time for the animal to be collected and taken to the crematorium, she will go into the room and cry a little bit before taking the animal way. Because, she said, "someone should be mourning them".

One of the assistants said that they all, every single one of them, had broken down at some point. Some had done it several times. In fact, they said that when you stop doing that every once in a while, it's time to find a new job.

Death is such a moment. Death is such a lasting event. Even just the act of dying, with all connections to the animal or person removed, is momentous. It is powerful.  And it forces you to deal with the idea of it.

Jobs where death is seen so often are something that I, strangely, have always been drawn to. I wanted to specialize in human osteology when I wanted to be an archaeologist (digging up bones of people). When I wanted to be a psychologist, I wanted to be a forensic psychologist. I considered being a doctor for a time. Public health was an interest, especially concerning HIV and AIDS. I even volunteered at a camp where the children had AIDS/HIV and other terminal diseases.

But why? It's not a morbid curiosity. It's not because I like it. It's almost as if, in some other life, I had something unresolved. Something I need to confront. Being raised as an agnostic, you are taught that there are many interpretations about the afterlife. And right there, in that very sentiment, you are shown absolute uncertainty. It's very difficult to believe anything after you have been raised on the simple truth that nothing is certain, not even the most important things in life. Like where you go after you die. Or whether or not you see your loved ones after they are gone. How can you blindly believe in one interpretation, when, for all intents and purposes, all others are equally valid? At what point in my life will I say, "Ah. That's it. That's the afterlife. I know what I believe now". At this point, I fear it will never happen. And that is a truly saddening thought.

In my imagination, that one idea, that one statement, seems like it would bring so much peace. Imagine it- in the face of death, to be able to say, "Fiend, you were sick. But I know, I truly believe in my heart of hearts, that you are running around somewhere, with scratching posts abounding, chasing butterflies and reuniting with your family who have passed on before you."

Well, that would almost be too good to be true.

For all of you who read this, I would love to hear your ideas about this. Feel free to email me, and I will post them as comments here (or not, if you don't want me to).

My mom always told me I lived in a sty. Now, a stye lives on me. Ewwwww. Honestly, who gets a stye these days?

This was supposed to be my inaugural post. One for the ages. A really insightful, inspiring, interesting post that hooked readers in. Something to make you all want to come back. But all I can seem to think about is my swollen eye lid. Which, if you had one, too, I imagine you would be distracted by as well.

First of all, it took some work for me to figure out what a stye is (and by work, I of course me the requisite googling and wikipedia look-up). I would like to point out at this juncture that it has nothing to do with hygiene. It just...arrived in my life yesterday and, following my usual protocol for things that wander into my life, I've decided to name it. Scott. It's a small little puffy spot on my eyelid that hurts like a bruise. Not excruciating, just annoying. And mildly disfiguring.

Scott and I watched a Law and Order marathon last night. Now Scott and I are in the cafe, supposedly working. I think the best way to get Scott to leave me alone is to use warm compresses on my face. Which I've now discovered leaves me half blind for about half an hour after I remove it. Which leaves me squinting at the TV like an 85 year old woman for half of the Law and Order episode I'm most likely watching. I'm pretty sure Lloyd (my cat) thinks I'm pissed off at him, so now, because of Scott, Lloyd is ignoring me.

I hate Scott.