FishLake

Where did the “Donate to the IOF” button go?

There’s a good chance many of us will be unable to get the vaccine this year.

Their bottom line: Going forward, Covid-19 vaccines will only be recommended for people over 65 or with at least one chronic condition. If manufacturers want to offer updated vaccines to younger adults, they must run a new placebo-controlled trial after a variant arrives. Their rationale is that, given higher levels of population immunity, the original trials are no longer relevant. Vinay followed up by saying, “This is a restoration of trust. It’s bringing us back to evidence.”

We have to be strong and remember we’re in this together. Continue to organize. Demand that your orgs adopt disease mitigation practices in absence of these lifesaving vaccines. Educate others. Protect our young, old, and disabled comrades. A better world is possible.

Basically that. I wanted to play Minecraft this summer since it’s been ages and introduce it to my kid. Didn’t realize I’d missed the deadline to migrate my Mojang account to a Microsoft one back in 2023.

I wish I could still access my old account. I really tried. But it’s lost. I could buy a new copy of the game. I could upload my old skin, the one I made myself in 2012, but it wouldn’t be the same. I won’t have my name, and I can’t claw it back from Microsoft. Worse still, the account I bought my partner when we lived apart, so we could raise pigs together, is gone as well.

Maybe I should buy some new copies. Start over, new usernames, new skins. So many things have changed since I last played. Old pastimes are subsumed by new responsibilities and new joys. Life is sedimentary like that. Some times we must accept that we can’t unearth the past.

You can catch a glimpse of my character if you look up my username. He’s what I used to be, in my favorite shirt and cardigan that no longer fit, and my favorite beanie I lost on a climbing trip. I’m glad he still has them. I like to think my and my partner’s old Minecraft avatars are still present somehow in the digital ether of Microsoft’s servers. Tending to their pigs and spaghetti minecart tracks and falling asleep together over Skype.

Some people interpret their dreams as an exercise in self-discovery. Some let their dreams inspire them in the waking world. Others regard them more simply as a novelty of the human mind. Still more do a fourth or even a fifth thing I can’t think of (my list felt incomplete). Whatever your experience or opinions of dreams are, I think dreams are neat. We go to sleep and our brains hallucinate for a while and sometimes we remember it. I think we often forget how incredible that is. 

If you’d be willing to share, I’d like to know about your recurring dreams.

A few weeks ago I disposed of the last of my 3yo’s heart medication. They don’t take anymore. I mean my partner and I haven’t given it to them in two years. It’s no longer part of their treatment. Their treatment plan, in fact, ended about two years ago. For all intends and purposes they have a clean bill of health. But the medication has been sitting in the back of the fridge, like a splitter that was never pulled out. 

The liquid medication, Amiodarone, is a thick syrupy elixir. Our pharmacist said it was okay to dilute and flush it, which seemed uh…not good for the environment. Amiodarone is hard enough on the human body. When they were taking it, our then 8 month old couldn’t go out in the direct sunlight for more than a few minutes for risk of sun poisoning. Among other side effects to their eyes and liver. It is potent and costly and, given to an infant, inevitably ends up on your couch. Can’t imagine what it might do to a river system. 

Our 3yo’s next cardiology appointment is in a year. After that it might be two years. Then maybe not again until they’re a teenager. My partner and I always talk about getting rid of the Amio. That it’s just a reminder of our trauma, not theirs. They don’t have any memory of it. We’ve never wanted our 3yo to grow up with a sense that they’re meek and fragile. That their defining characteristic is some event that happened to them before they could remember anything. They know they went to the hospital, they know they had a sick heart. More importantly they now that dozens of doctors and nurses worked tirelessly to heal them. Sure, they know these things and act differently. They play doctor differently than other kids, insisting on blood pressure cuffs and echocardiograms. That’s what their cardiologist does. They wear a mask with us to the store, are aware of people who are sick, wash their hands regularly. My partner and I sometimes wonder what unknown traumas they endure. It’d be unfair of us to carry on a token from back then in our fridge.

We’d long since taken down the milestone ECG charts from the cork board. The NG tubes are tucked into a box with other hospital memories. We’ve stored all the photos from the hospital, all the ones from immediately before  and after, on a shared drive. There are some hand-me-downs our 1yo never wore, some toys they’ll never play with because those are hospital toys. All those reminders, big and small, are just as compartmentalized as the trauma in our minds. Therapy and consoling each other when we remember helps too of course. But the Amio stayed in the fridge and became almost like a background texture. 

I consulted a friend with knowledge about drug disposals. They suggested soaking charcoal with the medication and burning it in a container. Then dispose of the container and the ashes. I wanted to do that. But I didn’t have time. That is to say that I did actually have time. Plenty of time. Two years and more of time. It could have waited in our fridge longer. I could have incinerated it and done something with the ashes, like incorporating them into ceramic glaze or something, anything to hold onto it. But I put it in the medication drop off bin at the pharmacy. It was unceremonious. And I felt guilty. 

Sometimes I worry that around a corner or behind a door I’ll be back there, in the hospital. Machines and doctors and nurses and monitors and that jeering noise the monitors make when a heart rate is too fast. And my baby, ashen and unmoving, blanketed in wires and tubes, is still there in the past. Where did it all go?

I wrote a post last year about some of the things my students (I’m a teacher) and colleagues said to me as the only COVID conscious person in our building. One of my students told me, “Y’all still acting like it’s COVID,” because I mask and follow basic hygiene. I made a comment on another post last night that was similar, so I thought I’d do it again.

When I tell my students how I don’t want to get COVID or other illnesses and they look at me like I have two heads. It’s like COVID has destroyed basic hygiene knowledge. So this time around, I’ve decided to write down some of the things I have said to students and staff so far this school year.

To a student, “Cover your mouth with your shirt or a tissue when you cough. No, not like that. You have to catch the germs. Yes, you actually have to trap them.”

To a teacher, “Yeah I noticed a bunch of your class is sick too. Just saying, nothing’s stopping you from masking again. There’s not just effective against COVID. I’ve got extras.”

To a student, “Take it out of your mouth. See, now there’s spit on your pencil. And you use your hand to write with that pencil. And you’re touching the tables where your friends sit. Do you think they want your spit on them?”

To a teacher, “I don’t think they’re faking it. If a kid feels sick I make a nurse appointment for them. They’re not going to be effective learners if their body needs rest.”

To a student, “You’re right, I did get COVID last year even though I mask all the time. I would have probably gotten it a lot more if I didn’t. Where do you think I got it from? My house?”

To the principal, “Thanks, we practice hygiene a lot in my room. It’s not that hard. You just have to model how to do these things for them. I honestly think we should have a hygiene clinic/assembly at least at the beginning of the year.”

To a student, “Okay why in the world is your used tissue lying on your worksheet rather than in the trashcan? Yes, you have to do it again. I’m not grading your snot.”

To a special education teacher, “I know some of my students on your case load need fidgets and other manipulatives. I don’t want to step on your toes, but maybe these chew toy things aren’t the best choice for this student who struggles with motor function anyway. He’s literally covered in saliva by 10am.”

To a student, “You still have to wash your hands after using the free-draw markers. 20 seconds. Warm water. Soap. Get your finger nails.”

To a teacher, “They’ve been empty for weeks? The custodians have thousands of refills for the soap and hand sanitizer dispensers. Just ask them for a few boxes at a time and change them as needed. You don’t have to just live with them being empty.”

To a student, “Hand sanitizer doesn’t clean off your hands. You literally just rubbed snot all over the your hands. No, you can’t just use more hand sanitizer.”

I could go on and on. But I think you get the picture. Kids have always been gross. Apparently more and more adults are too. You’d think a pandemic would make some of these basic hygiene practices common knowledge. Why the hell am I teaching 11-year-olds how to blow their noses and wash their hands? Why am I the only one on staff who actively tries to not get sick.

Today I was with a group of colleagues. We’re all teachers. We’d just got done with a meeting and were gathering up our things before lunch. I asked the group if anyone had a certain resource. “Hey, does anyone have a copy of such and such standard I could print?” No answers. Not that everyone was quiet. They just kept talking amongst themselves. It’s not like I was trying to but into their conversations either. I was participating, at least somewhat. So I asked again when I felt like there was a natural lull. Still nothing. I looked directly at some of them too. Just blank stares.

This doesn’t happens to me a lot, but often enough that I fear it. And when it does happen it causes me a lot of anxiety. I don’t know what it is. I feel like a child, like when my older brother would purposely ignore me when we were kids.

I’m pretty attentive to other people when they talk to me. When I’m in big groups I try to make sure everyone is heard. I never want anyone to feel left out or unheard. Am I missing some social understanding that seems obvious to everyone else? Should I speak louder? Say different words? Most of the time I just shrink and walk away from whatever I wanted to say. I feel like people hear me but don’t want to respond.

I don’t know. It just stings. Maybe it’s just an insecurity I’ve harbored since I was little. I feel silly for posting this, but I’ve never really asked if this happens to anyone else.

I’m getting over my second infection, that I know of. I think almost everyone in this comm says that qualifier. Because we understand things like asymptomatic spread and false negative tests. And no matter how diligent we are with precautions, there’s still a chance you can get it. (Blessings on our brethren who haven’t left home in almost 5 years).

I mentioned I had COVID to someone I was speaking to over Zoom yesterday.

They said, “Yeah my son and my wife had it in 2022, but thankfully I’ve never had it.”

What the hell do you even say to that?

I’m going to the internet for medical advise since my doctors aren’t giving medical advise anymore. I honestly trust y’all more than my children’s pediatrician who claims COVID “isn’t a big deal for kids anymore.” Cool shit.

My kids are younger than age 5. Masking is difficult for them obviously, and I can’t expect them to wear a mask properly at daycare when I’m not around. What’s a good option for them when it comes to nasal sprays? Any suggestions? Not going to daycare is unfortunately not an option.