. . . speaking of medicine, I’d better take mine. Since my schedule has changed so drastically these past few months, my routine of medicine-taking is messed up and I often forget.
This isn’t good.
Stress is also taking its toll; the last time I checked my blood pressure, it was 198/99. Also not good. The stress is tapering off; it’s gradual but it’s happening. So I look for that to get better. And if it doesn’t, well, there’s always the Guinness Book of World’s Records section on humans exploding in public places.
I think sometimes that it wouldn’t be possible for the stress to get any worse. But somehow it usually finds a way.
I’m still struggling with the forgiveness issues. It is very hard.
You wouldn’t think four tiny pills daily would be any big deal to remember.
Next semester, when I teach all day instead of all night, it will be easier to remember.
I prefer night classes but maybe considering the fact that my memory seems to be shot all to pieces when it comes to self-maintenance, a more ‘regular’ routine will be good for me.
Can you guess what the coolest thing about teaching college, as opposed to middle school, is?
It’s being able to go to the bathroom whenever I want.
For over twenty years I could never go to the bathroom. I went when I got up in the morning, and couldn’t go again till the last bus left the parking lot at 3:45. Every school day for over twenty years. I had 23 minutes for lunch, and that was my only interaction with adults the entire day, so I usually chose a sandwich over the restroom. Besides, the teacher’s restroom was at least a mile down the hallway and around the bend, and if we chose to go to the restroom during lunch, we got no lunch.
I can’t offhand think of ANY kind of personal emergency that would entice me into the students’ restroom.
Although I did once spend the better part of a Saturday night dance, kneeling on the floor in front of a toilet in the boy’s bathroom, with my entire arm past my elbows buried down the flush-hole. Wiggling my fingers to try and break up the blockage. And I did.
That is a memory that the Alzheimer’s can have, and gladly.
But it was either that, or mop up the whole top floor after the dance. Not to even MENTION the interesting and foul-smelling things that had already started cascading down the sides of the toilet, to float across the floor, out the door, and onto the gym floor.
That is a kind of poem but I don’t think Authorhouse is going to pay me for it any time soon.
The shower that I took when I got home that night might be a Guinness Book contender, too.
My doctor told me that most of her patients with bladder or urinary tract problems were teachers. Teachers simply can not leave the students to go pee. If anything bad happened in the room while we were gone, we would be held responsible. The elementary teachers downstairs could cover for each other. The middle school teachers on the upper level did not have that option. We were assigned an area and we were responsible for everything that happened in that area. We didn’t dare turn our backs. And there was no one to substitute, not even for a few minutes.
In college, we have BREAKS! I’d forgotten about those. They are wonderful! Fifteen minutes here, fifteen minutes there . . . . . I can pee freely again!
Well, maybe not ‘freely,’ but certainly whenever I want to!
If we all peed* freely, I’d be back on my knees in front of a toilet, arms buried up to my elbows and with wiggling fingers, again.
I’ll pass**.
* includes any and all bathroom elimination processes
**bathroom. pee. pass. HAHAHAHahahahahaha