So, I figure that the latest "pandemic" shouldn't be allowed to pass by without two cents from the resident virus enthusiast.  (I make no claims on the word "expert."  Sure, I've done a lot of reading, but I still have much more to learn.)

First, please remember that we've already done this.  Multiple times.  Yeah, remember SARS?  West Nile Virus?  Avian flu?  Yeah, whatever happened to all of those?  Funny how, once the media feeding frenzy was over, everything was back to normal and most Americans remained unaffected.  I have no doubt that, eventually, the panic over swine flu will subside and fall to the wayside in much the same way.

As of today, there are 109 confirmed cases of swine flu in the United States in 2009.  Let's do the math on this one, shall we?  Let's take the population of the United States to be 300 million people.  It's slightly more than that now, but this way, if my calculated percentage is skewed, it's higher rather than lower than it actually should be.  109 people out of 300 million works out to 0.000036 percent of the population.  Furthermore, notice that this is less than a one in two million chance.  Therefore, your likelihood of getting this disease (which, let's be clear--it's the flu) is very, very, very low.  I don't think that we need to be discussing a "pandemic" at this point.  That's absurd.  The government has also set aside twelve million doses of an antiviral drug known as Tamiflu, so the point is, this can get a lot worse before we really need to start worrying.

Let's also talk about that one death in the United States that the media keeps hyping.  If you've ever had a flu shot, you know that it's recommended for the very young and the very old, since those aged 20 to 45 or so are generally healthy enough to be able to fight off influenza without complications.  This story might be more newsworthy if someone in this age range, therefore, had been claimed by swine flu.  In actuality, though, the victim was a 22-month-old Mexican citizen who was brought to the United States.  The kicker?  The child had an underdeveloped immune system.  Therefore, the one life claimed here in the States wasn't even an American.  It was a very young child from Mexico with an underdeveloped immune system.  Sure, no one likes to see a child die, but I think this is far from cause for panic.

There's another reason I don't think that we should panic yet.  According to the Centers for Disease Control website, an average of 36,000 people per year died of a cause related to influenza in the United States during the 1990s.  Therefore, people dying of causes related to the flu is neither new nor uncommon.  In fact, perhaps we're safer because we're being proactive with this particular strain.  I can't turn on the television without being warned by some health official to wash my hands, stay home when I'm sick, and cover my mouth.  It seems that these things should be common sense, but perhaps the supply of common sense is low in this country lately.  (At least, that's how it has seemed to me.)  Furthermore, with the nation preparing for this thing to turn terribly virulent, it sounds like we're far more prepared to deal with and contain this virus than we normally are when it comes to influenza.  Therefore, it's entirely possible that we're safer precisely thanks to the paranoia of the media and the preparations that have been made by health officials and the government.

Sure, the rapid and unprecedented mutation of this viral strain is somewhat unsettling, and the swine flu isn't something that the health officials working to contain confirmed cases should take lightly.  However, I think that the widespread panic that has ensued is overblown and absurd.  I sincerely doubt that pandemic is "imminent," and I don't think that this is something with which the average American citizen needs to concern himself.

For once, I agree with our noble president, who has asserted that the H1N1 flu strain is cause for "concern," not "panic."

Maybe, instead, we should be focusing on the fact that, mere weeks ago, the Federal Reserve printed a trillion dollars to pump into the money supply in a single day.  A trillion dollars.  $1,000,000,000,000.  In one day.  No wonder the U.S. dollar is basically worthless at this point.

I remember the day vividly.  I was six years old, and my father and I woke my younger brother from a nap so that he could come meet the ball of fur with a little pink tongue sticking out which the local animal shelter had told us was an eight-week old Cocker Spaniel mix.  The black spots on his tongue and his Chow-Chow ears and tail, and his Retriever head, and his Welsh Corgi crooked legs, however, belied the presence of a drop of Cocker blood in his veins.  From where I sit now I can see the picture of the day we brought him home, me holding him and grinning for the camera, my brother grinning at the dog, and the new puppy himself with his tongue out, seeming to smile at the photographer.

I watched him prance around the fenced-in backyard, a fluffball on stick legs, too big at that point for his body.  I laughed and threw him a tennis ball, which he'd dutifully fetch and prance around the yard with, that tongue lolling out of his mouth.  I laughed with delight and called "Puppy" to bring me the ball back.  Gunpowder, the other Cocker Spaniel, watched warily from the sidelines as Puppy leapt and ran, clearly overjoyed to be free from his small cage at the pound.

It was my mother who came up with the name, observing Puppy, who had found a comfortable spot in the middle of the yard in which to chew the tennis ball to shreds as best he could.  The two colors of brown in his thick fur coat were like deep, rich coffee and creamy milk chocolate--our very own Mocha.  Even up to and after the surgery he had my final summer in my parents' house, everyone from family friends who had known the dog for years to his veterinarian made the mistake of assuming, with the feminine "a" sound ending his name, that Mocha was female.

After we had Gunpowder put to sleep and moved five hundred miles north to Cincinnati, a somewhat older me took it upon herself to train Mocha in basic obedience.  I spent hours with him in the backyard, a measuring cup full of his kibble sitting on the patio and Mocha on a leash.  He tried dutifully, as best he could, to understand my commands and to do as I asked, seeming to want nothing more than to please me.  To this day, I could walk into the house, tell Mocha to sit, then to stay, then to come after I had walked a suitable distance away, and he would come running, as weak as he must be now, as quickly as those crooked legs would carry him.

I spent one night, several years ago, trying to sleep through a violent thunderstorm while lying on my back on the sofa in the living room, one arm around our miniature dachshund and the other slowly scratching Mocha's head, reassuring both of them that I was there and they were safe.  Mocha was terrified of thunderstorms, as well as projectiles coming anywhere remotely toward him and any other loud noises.  We used to wonder whether the neighbors or someone had thrown things at Mocha as he spent long days alone in the backyard while everyone was at work or school.  I cried to think of someone mistreating my precious Mocha bear, even as I laughed to see him duck and run to avoid a tennis ball flying twenty feet to his left.

The past few years, I looked forward to 6:30 at the Foster house, at which time the dogs were fed their dinner.  Both of them would prance and dance for their supper, but Mocha was especially endearing, bounding up on his hind legs to twice his normal height to express his joy and appreciation.  No matter how upset I had been that day, watching Mocha in his ecstasy as he received his everyday dry kibble always brought a smile to my face.  I smile even now, remembering the joy Mocha expressed in receiving a treat, or his dinner, or a small caress, or in being let back into the house on a cold night.

Mocha was the sweetest, most obedient dog in everything he did.  He hated having a bath or having his toenails clipped or having his thick outer coat  shaved to keep him cool in the summer.  However, he didn't fight these things, like his younger brother did.  He simply stood obediently and let my mother or me do whatever we needed to do, hanging his head in displeasure but never once actively resisting.  He seemed to love and trust us so deeply that he knew that whatever we thought necessary was best.

Last summer, one of Mocha's many fatty tumors abscessed, oozing pus and fluid all over his back.  The massive wound opened up overnight, and my mother had to work that morning.  When I woke up several hours after she left, I called my mother to tell her that I was worried and that I was going to take him to the vet.  Tim and I loaded Mocha carefully into the car and rushed him to Dr. Gary, who scheduled him for surgery a couple of days later.  My mother and I spent the next several days tricking Mocha into taking antibiotics and pain medication.  We poured sugar in the wound four times a day to try and prevent infection, wrapping his entire abdomen in an Ace bandage I washed every chance I got, but which became filthy with blood and pus and sticky, wet sugar immediately upon being replaced nonetheless.  For those few days and the week or so following his surgery, Mocha sported a pair of my brother's old boxer shorts, his beautiful bottle-brush tail poking through the fly as he pranced around the house, glad to be back about his business.

The morning of his surgery, I had to have him at the vet at 7:30.  Tim and I loaded him into the backseat of my car once again, and as I made the short drive, sick to my stomach, I tried not to think about the fact that I might not be bringing a dog home with me later that day.  Mocha was twelve years old, and I knew that the surgery, while not especially risky, might not end well for the old dog.  I still remember the look in Mocha's eyes as I handed his leash to the veterinary assistant.  He didn't want to go back into the stark white room at the back of the office.  He wanted to stay with me.  He could tell I was upset and anxious, and he didn't want to go.  I wished I had some way of reassuring him that I would be thinking of him and praying for him, and once again I knew that he trusted that I knew what was best for him.  I hoped I was right.

I waited all day for a call from the office, unable to focus on anything until three in the afternoon, when Dr. Gary called me himself to assure me that Mocha had come through the surgery splendidly, that he was a "good girl," and that he would be ready to be picked up in an hour or two.  I cried as I rushed upstairs to tell my brother the news, and we made arrangements to go and pick him up.  Coming home with one of those lampshade collars around his neck, I spent the next few nights sitting up with him, trying to convince him that going to sleep with his head on plastic rather than the soft carpet was not only possible but was also his only choice.  It broke my heart to see the way that collar broke his spirit, and I spent a greater amount of my time sitting in the living room, watching to make sure he didn't lick at the stitches in his eight-inch incision, so that he could have it off as much as possible.

I devoted my summer to taking care of my precious, precious boy, and a large portion of his side and back were still bare from where he had been shaved for the surgery when I left for college the first week of August.  At Thanksgiving, Christmas, and after my birthday in February I rushed the five hundred miles home to see my puppies, knowing that Mocha was sick and ailing and that I might not be able to spend much more time with him.

This weekend, that realization became painfully real.

Mocha has stopped eating, and I can do nothing but worry about him.  I know that he has grown old enough that he is simply letting go.  Mommy says he doesn't seem to be suffering; it simply seems to be his time.

I will be home Thursday night.  I have been praying constantly that I will have just Thursday night, just one more night to spend with my precious boy.

For all I know, I will wake up in the morning to a call from my mother telling me not to be in such a hurry, that my Mocha has passed peacefully in the night into a land of endless ham bones and always cool, clear weather, with never a thunderstorm and never a shortage of hands to love him, full of endless fields for running and all the cool water he can drink.  I know that that is where he will be, and I pray that he suffers as little as possible on his way there.  My beautiful Mocha has lived a long and happy life, but he has also been sick for several years, and I want him to suffer no more.

But please, Lord... one more night with my baby.  One more night with the dog who has been my ever faithful, ever loving companion for the past thirteen years.

I love you, Mocha my dear.  May you rest in peace.

In precisely one month, the dorms close for the summer.  Then, all that stands between me and the drive home is an audition.

So, in one month and a few hours, I'll be headed home.  For the summer.

Or, for about half the summer, anyway.  In July I get to come back and chill for a couple weeks and then teach!

But it blows my mind that the first year has gone so fast.

I'm going to miss the boy.  Haven't I promised myself, so many times, that I'll never do the long-distance thing again?

Oh well.  I guess this time, since it's just for a month and a half, it won't be so bad.

I kind of miss it, I'll admit.  I'm looking forward to reconnecting with the youth group and to taking my brother out to Dairy Queen or Sonic in the evenings and to cooking for and with my mother and to getting to spend my lazy summer days doing not much of anything but chilling at home.

Because this is the last time I'm ever going to be living at that house for more than, say, a week at a time for Thanksgiving or Christmas or spring break.

Next summer, I plan on either studying abroad or doing research, and the following summer is the same deal.

So, when I move more of my stuff down to Georgia in July, I really will be moving out of my parents' house.  For good.

And that's kind of mind-blowing to consider.

One month.  One month from now is the beginning of the end.

First, I'm going to take my religion test.  And then, I am going to allow myself to relax a little bit and allow my brain to recover from the past week or so.

Gosh, that organic test was murder.

So, I'm going to get some other, less scholarly things accomplished, instead:

• Clean my room.  Thoroughly.  (Still needs vacuumed, but otherwise looks good!)
• Read some Shakespeare.  I'm thinking The Tempest.
• Read The Truth About Forever.
• Ask the boy some awkward questions.  =)
• Decide whether I’d rather take Epidemiology or History of Rock, and whether I’d rather replace History of Rock with something else in order to get all of my requirements out of the way.  (Epidemiology!  And Biochemistry!  I'm going to die of science overload next fall... )
• Stay inside as much as possible due to the weather.
• Finalize some plans and secure some tickets for the Ohio trip next month.  (Next month?)
• Figure out how I’m getting to Pariah this weekend.
• Take the car for a drive to make sure she's still happy.
• Find out where there’s a blood drive on campus next week  Monday at the Georgia Center or at Brumby, or Tuesday at Aderhold (or, if I want to wait until Tuesday the 14th, at O-House!)
• Do as much of the above as possible while chilling at Snelling.  (I'm moving in, I tell you!)

Yeah.  That should do it.

I love campus in the springtime.  It's absolutely beautiful here.

I'm really frustrated with my advisor because he refuses to get back to me.

And it's cloudy and chillier than I might like.

But the grass is green thanks to all that rain last week, and there are flowers blooming and birds singing everywhere.

It's beautiful.

And I couldn't be happier.

I think I'm going to go sit out on the quad and memorize electrophilic substitution reactions until my brain bleeds.

I dislike when I type out a rather long, scathing post and then forget to save it as I'm trying to save it under a different time stamp in a semi-stupor at 4:30 in the morning.

Oh, well.  Another time, perhaps.  I guess that's what I get for staying up past five two nights in a row when I have a big organic chemistry test on Wednesday night.

"That's a badass tenor line!"

I couldn't be happier.

I know I say that every time, but it's true.

And this time, I'm determined to stop overanalyzing everything and just enjoy the ride. 

<3

"I'm starting to become really homesick and discontent.

"I hate it here.  I honestly do.

"I miss the heat, the charm, the speech, the grits, the hospitality, the conservatism, the traditionalism, the beautiful houses, the mountains, the beaches, the South.

"I hate levy failures, racist bigots who don't realize Ohio (especially western Ohio) was as much a hotbed of anti-black sentiment as South Carolina, cameras that don't really catch wrongdoers, stupid classes, stupid teachers, stupid Buckeyes, people who don't understand because they've never been South, liberals who think they're "scene" and "hip" and "modern" because they're "bisexual" or "open-minded," insurmountable bias, Ohio's (unconstitutional) method of funding public schools, high college tuition that says if I don't get a scholarship I'm stuck here in the heartland for four more years, the moral and linguistic and emotional decay of my generation, Mountain Dew, junior high school...

"But most of all, I hate how freaking cold it is here.  Good gosh."

--Thursday, January 18, 2007

Yay, Georgia.

I can't lose that scholarship.  Back to o-chem.

...and I couldn't be happier.

I don't understand.

I'm not a liar.  That's one thing that I have never been.  And it bothers me fundamentally to know that you think that I am.

I can't prove to you that I have told you the truth to the best of my ability and knowledge.  I can't prove to you that I have always had the best of intentions.  I can't prove to you that while, yes, I have said and done some stupid things, I never once set out to hurt you or anyone else intentionally.

So you'll keep believing that you're infallible and I'm terrible.  And that's okay.  I just wish things could be different.

I wish I could let you know how much you hurt me with a couple of comments you made yesterday.  Your words echo in my head, and each time, they cut me like a knife.  If I told you, you'd only tell me how much I hurt the two of you.  But, dear, two wrongs don't make a right.  We can't keep bringing up the past, or we'll never get anywhere.  If we both don't agree to apologize for hurting each other, there's no way we can ever work this out.

If you're willing to put this behind us, I'm willing to listen.  It's your move, and the ball's in your court.  I'm in pain, but I'm not angry.  So, it's up to you.  We've got a couple of things to discuss, but if you want to make it work, I'm willing to work with you.

And just so you know, he's not involved.  Quit making him into an issue, because he has nothing to do with it.

Hey unloving, I will love you.

Jesus, I'm ready to come home.

I wish I were still home with my mother.