It’s difficult to sleep with so much on the mind, and even more difficult when you’re filled with anger about not being able to fall sleep. With my duvet wrapped around me last night, I turned my alarm off completely, deciding to get into work whenever I woke up, knowing that I’d need the rest to focus on a persistent network issue. After trying to fall asleep for an hour without success, and feeling like I’d waste the rest of the morning, I got up very frustrated. Those who know me, know that five hours is considered calamitous. I cooked a heavy breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, knowing that I’d still have time to get to work early, a bit of sustenance to get me through the rest of the day.

The main problem I’ve been facing for the last week has been the setup of a VPN for a new out-of-office sales rep we recently hired. It was the perfect morning to get to work early, because I could work on the server for about an hour without having to worry about affecting any client computers. I traced the problem to an outdated version of the firmware, and crossed my fingers (after my last flashing disaster) as I burned the latest version. This was at 7:00 in the morning. I spent the next 13 hours trying to figure out why internet access stopped working within the range of internal IP addresses .1 to .36 (which makes absolutely no sense without being a power of two, and especially odd when we had no DHCP ranges set).

This meant carefully learning the existing structure of a network I didn’t set up and figuring out the Windows internet protocol. I’ve had no formal training in being an MCSE, so a lot of the day was spent reading through white papers and technical notes for a possible DNS/DHCP/IIS/firewall/RRA setting I may have looked over. Network service slowly degraded throughout the day as I began troubleshooting, including a simultaneous crash of the main custom software on every system, a loss of dynamic dns addressing (which brought our new online service down), until I couldn’t even find the network address of the router.

When you’re filled with angry perseverance, you get a lot done. If only other people could understand that. Wearing a face of determination means I don’t have time to be pleasant, or have a lunch, or listen to innane stories of your grandchildren.

On the walk to work, I had already decided that as soon as I got off, I was going to play some table tennis at one of the bi-weekly sessions, vision blurred, eyes drying, as tired as I was, and passing out after dinner. This obviously didn’t happen. I’d been seriously planning on going since last week, but things just kept getting in the way.

Until the last 15 minutes, the only thing I could think about was whether I’d have to pull an all-nighter, and whether or not I’d even be able to solve things if I did. That’s the risk of tech support; the solution can be as simple as it is elusive, and there can be no progress until the very last tweak. Halfway through the day, I already decided that I’d call an external network specialist to help if I didn’t get anywhere by tomorrow afternoon. I was too tired to worry about not getting the network up before the next business day, which would basically bring the company to a standstill, and too tired to be angry at everything that was going on. After figuring out our network structure, three calls to tech support, and learning internet protocol theory from the ground up, I finally figured out that all I needed to do was do a hard reset of the router, and configure everything from scratch.

It was probably the most difficult day I’ve had since I started the job, but I knew that if I could get through it and fix the problem, I’d be able to get through anything that could be thrown at me. Not only did I get the web connection working through the entire subnet, I also got the sales reps laptop to connect to the VPN through dial-up. Yesterday was a late night, getting a website done for a client friend. Tomorrow’s another 14 hour day, and even though I’ve known about it for a month, I don’t think it’ll make it any easier.

I realized that I only really feel lonely on days like these, when my body aches, my mind loses focus, and all I want to do is have someone else take care of me. To have someone else decide what to do, because I’m too tired to decide for myself.

Stepping outside, hungry and exhausted, I put on a wintery playlist for the walk home, since it was two hours past sunset and the fall nights are getting frigid. The first song that came on was Explode by the Cardigans. I’d been saving this song for months now, skipping it every time it came on so I wouldn’t get tired of it.

Today I finally deserved it.

I’m lying down, naked from the waist up, giggling uncontrollably. The nurse dampens some tissue with rubbing alcohol, and rubs down my torso methodically. I feel it evaporating off my skin, staring at the ceiling, unsure of anywhere else I could appropriately keep my eyes. Suddenly, there’s a sharply dragging pain on a small area, and I see her making quick, short arm movements in one direction.

“Ow, what is that?”, I ask jovially. I’m still giggling, a result of my nervousness. She picks up on this.

“It’s sandpaper. Haven’t you ever been exfoliated?”

The sandpaper removes the dead skin, making the electrodes stick better.

“Are you telling me that this is going to make my chest glow, and reduce the appearance of any lines and wrinkles?”

She playfully returns, “On these five spots, yes.”

Afterwards, I’m told to sign a form with a short explanation on what is being done, that acknowledges my understanding.

Holter monitoring provides a continuous recording of heart rhythm during normal activity. There is no discomfort associated with the test.

I’m given a journal to record any abnormal heartbeats, whether it’s a skipped beat, an extra beat, or an irregular beat, but for the 24 hours that I’m wearing this device, I don’t write in it once. It’s a guessing game for them, to sort out the what’s normal and what’s not. After any test they do, urine, blood, stool, holter, they say the same thing: we’ll call you if anything shows up in the results.

They always say, no news is good news.

It’s been a long week, although it was technically made shorter from the long weekend. Three cancellations in three nights. Nothing’s working out. I left work early yesterday because my eyes stopped functioning. The previous day I’d worked a full 14 hours.

I used to get angry or frustrated at things like this, but now I find myself cold and emotionless, accepting things as the way they are. The advantage is that I’m a much more stable person. It isn’t even any attempt to be stoic, but I’m sick of all the bullshit.

All I want is a break, just one thing to go my way.

Please?

I caught my father after a shower. How formal the word, father. Like addressing a character in some Elizabethan play. His hair was mussed, wild, even thinner than before. He’s been going gray since he was 15, and every couple of months he colours it black again. It works for him, taking at least ten years off his age. People don’t really know how old he is until he tells them that I’m in my twenties.

The bacon they serve me for breakfast is dry, dull, devoid of soft fat, or grease that pools in the waves of each strip. A result of his heart condition. No more cheese, red meat only once a week.

Even my mothers’ delicate hands have deeply withered, though they remain soft from her attentive care, which include varying sorts of designer hand creams and specialized lotions that follow her everywhere. My parents have long stopped wearing their weddings bands, but she wears one of my grandmothers rings, a beautiful old-fashioned cut on a clamp mount, left to her in the will. I remember my grandmother pinching my cheeks, holding my hand, her skin loose but, like mom, supple as a softened chamois.

I see this ring on my mother, and realize that she’s getting older too.

This was my elementary school. The Catholic institution I attended during the first few years of moving here. Where I used to offer best-friend status for a mouthful of Big League Chew. Old, familiar four-square courts are still painted on, unmoved. The T-ball poles are rusted out and missing their tethers. Countless feet jumping, running, skipping during recess have caused the pavement to warp and crack. Even the old portables are anything but, their familiar beige tones still inhabiting the back of the school, built out of concrete and plastic foam when the town was budding, and the classrooms couldn’t handle all the students. Walking up the wooden stairs, I bet they even have the same groaning creaks.

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