World Health Organization worries about H2N2 virus causing influenza pandemic

When Celeste starts to feel a flu coming on she tries to psyche it out. She repeats three times throughout the day, “I will not get sick.” Sometimes, after a few days of this healing practice she announces that she beat it. Most of the time after a few days I’m getting out the humidifier, heating up the chicken soup, stocking up on cough drops and Nyquil, and looking forward to my own round with the bug for we share everything.

Why do I tell you this? Well, it might be the only defense that many of us, myself included, have against a potential pandemic influenza virus that is threatening the world. Something stewed up in the poverty stricken villages of central China or in one of those nasties that we hear about coming from a chicken coop in Vietnam? No, this isn’t a new pestilence, the oft predicted avian flu pandemic; it’s one we’ve known about for at least 50 years, probably much longer.

Emma Ross with the AP reports that the World Health Organization (WHOops) announced that Meridian Bioscience Inc. near Cincinnati has shipped out strains of a previously isolated virus to almost 5000 labs. Most are in the US but many aren’t, vials were sent to eighteen countries altogether.

This strain caused epidemics for many years and the virus caused a pandemic in 1957 that killed 1 to 4 million people. Klaus Stohr, the WHOops influenza chief or the Big Sneeze, says that the decision was “unwise” and “unfortunate.”

Really?

If we’re familiar with this bug then why worry about it? Well, the vaccine hasn’t been included in flu shots since 1968. Anybody born later, like me, has no immunity whatsoever against it. And we know from the flu shot shortage last year that it takes time for inoculations to be prepared. I guess somebody decided in 1969 that enough’s enough and the bug had been defeated. Plus, they probably told themselves, nobody would be stupid enough to ship this out to 18 countries.

Rest assured, though. The folks that made the mistake are rushing to rectify it. They are working to destroy the vials and don’t expect that this will spread. Given their track record I’m certainly reassured.

My prediction? If no one gets sick, this small article on the last page of section A of our local paper will be the last I hear of this. If somebody does get sick, then we’ll worry about it. In the meantime it’d be better to spend time doing things like wringing our hands over Terri Schiavo or calling special Congressional hearings over steroid drug use among professional ball players than trying to do something to prevent this kind of mistake in the future.

If the word pandemic doesn’t make your blood run cold, if just for a second, either it already got you or you’re a politician worried about the latest public opinion polls.

It probably will blow over but in case it doesn’t, remember Celeste’s cure: “I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not…” It might be your only defense.

Depressing depression

I’m feeling pretty down on myself lately. I know that I’m depressed – clinically that is. There’s really no question about that. I have good days and bad but the trend is increasingly downward. I’ve read the signs, the list of symptoms that the American Society of Psychologists, or whatever the proper name for that group is, and I must say, as modestly as possible, I scored quite high.

So, I sought help.

The only mental health facility in town that my insurance covers is a place called Community Counseling Center. After hesitating for months, I finally called them. I felt like crying when I did. I remember when I was a kid I was constantly getting an upset stomach. I threw up so often it’s a wonder that my esophagus wasn’t eaten away by stomach acid. Anyway, I remember bursting into tears every time I’d tell my mom that I was sick. I never knew why. I considered it from every angle but I just couldn’t make sense of it. But there it was. I cried when I told my mom that I was sick.

So when I called the seemingly annoyed receptionist and found myself having to tell her why I thought I needed to see a counselor, I thought that I was going to cry. I still don’t understand it. What, am I so full of my own self pity that I’m driven to tears by my condition?

Anyway, I set up an appointment. I forget her name at the moment but they set me up with a woman. I wouldn’t mention it, actually I was glad it was a woman, but the receptionist asked me if I was OK with a woman. It was strange, like it was a given that I’d be OK with a man but a woman? Well, we’d better clear that with him first.

Through all of this I never felt crazy or that I was being stigmatized as a lunatic. No, I felt like one of slimy, self-pitying heaps of disgust that regularly show up on Springer and Oprah talking about their feelings. I felt like trailer park entertainment. I felt like those stupid kids that have meetings where they talk about how each other made them feel on the Real World or in impact groups or in group counseling. Do you get the picture? I’ve never been able to quite put my finger on the feeling but it inspires me to shower in really hot water to wash the filth away.

Anyway, they gave me her name and set up an appointment. The first thing that I did was to search for her name on Yahoo. I wished that I hadn’t. I quickly learned that, politically, she was the polar opposite of me. A woman I can handle, but a Republican? Brrrrr!

Luckily I had a week to reconcile myself to this truth and I did. I imagined sessions with her where my political position would come out – “I don’t know, doc, I’ve just been really depressed since Kerry lost. It’s like I’m an outcast in my own country and the majority is hostile toward me” – at which point she would kick me out of her office. But I got over that. I have customers that are Christian conservative and occasionally send me emails dripping with Jesus’s blood. I simply delete them and move on. I’m sure that she’s a professional, I told myself, and she’ll do the same.

So, I showed up the first day. The receptionist was still annoyed and told me to sit down. I did and waited about 5 minutes to make sure that they weren’t getting the inevitable paperwork together for me and that they had actually forgotten about it before I went to the desk and asked. Caught in a mistake, she was suddenly very nice and accommodating. I filled out stacks of paperwork, most of it repetitive. When I finally finished, I still had to wait another 20 minutes or so.

Finally, with 15 minutes left before I had to go back to work, Madam Counselor decided to grace me with her presence. So, I started miffed at her. She had a large bandage on her neck with a hint of blood having seeped through. She apologized for it but didn’t explain it. It was very distracting.

So we got into it. I told her why I thought I needed help: mild depression and anger management. I was quick to tell her and, now, you, that I’m not a violent person. I internalize a lot and I know that it’s going to slowly kill me. People usually do a double take when I tell them that, at 32, I have hypertension. My diet isn’t perfect but I’m sure that this anger thing is a big part of it.

So we talked about that. I was quick to qualify every word that I used that I thought carried baggage. I explained that I didn’t want her to get the wrong impression, that I wanted to very clear and that it sometimes takes me bit to get my ideas across, especially when I speak. I had even considered writing her a letter before meeting her but that would have made me want to shower in especially hot water. She laughed and assumed an attitude reminiscent of a wise grandfather character from a Disney film. She gently explained, and took far too long to do it, that I wasn’t crazy. That wasn’t my concern, see above.

If her politics didn’t tip me off, which they didn’t, this should have. She wasn’t the one for me.

But I pressed on. I had to leave for work shortly after but we made an appointment to finish up in a couple of weeks.

She was late for the second session as well but we still had enough time to get through the initial interview. She concluded that my root problem is social anxiety disorder. She agreed that I have mild depression and could use some help dealing with my anger in a healthier way. But social anxiety disorder is the real problem. Now, she told me, she could put me in an anger management course and would take 6 – 8 sessions to work through but it would be very difficult for me. That seemed curious since she says that social blah blah blah is the real problem. But for that she wanted to give me drugs. I made it clear from the beginning that I didn’t want drugs. She made it appear that drugs are the only real answer.

I found a better answer in the exit door and with just a few steps I had removed one source of stress from my life. For now I will continue to seek therapy from Drs. Bushmill, Walker, and Guinness with occasional restive cures at Newcastle. This therapy had gotten me this far…

A nicer kind of rejection

Well, I received my first personalized rejection in the mail yesterday. To date, I have only been getting form letters, most aren’t even signed.

What I received was a form letter, about five lines printed at the top of an 8/11 page. On the bottom the agent added a handwritten note that said while my idea is intriguing, my book is simply too short for her to try to promote. I’ve always known it is a little light, the final draft is only 46,000 words. The first draft was well over 100,000!

It’s a bit a quandary. The story is told. It doesn’t need to be longer. (She asked for 90-110K.)

On the other hand, it’s no quandary at all. If the question is “do I make it more salable or do I respect the piece,” I hope that I would choose to respect the piece. But if the question is “do I make it salable or respect the piece,” where respecting the piece leaves it unsalable, there doesn’t really seem to be much of a choice.

Don’t get me wrong, if I ever get to the point that I’m working with an editor I’m prepared to slash here and add there as they ask. What I’m talking about in the paragraph above is adding material that is, in fact, extra. I’d have to double the length of the book and that would mean adding a lot of unnecessary stuff to the central plot.

From the Depths

Every now and then I think of my lonely little blog sitting out here in the nether regions of the web, neglected and almost forgotten by its creator. Does it have existential angst? I doubt it, but I do feel guilty for neglecting it. Fortunately, it’s patient and always waiting for me when I come back to it.

So, news from my life: I am still trying to get my book published. I finally decided to name it Macbeth’s Witch. Actually, this was Celeste’s suggestion and I liked it. So, I can’t get her to read the damn thing but at least she named it.

There was one agent that I really hoped would pick me up. Of the ten or so queries that I sent out, she was the only one to respond with a manuscript request. Actually she only requested the first 30 pages but I was really excited. I was sure that she would be blown away by my story and would snatch me right up. Instead, she rejected it. This is the perfect addition to an already horrible week. So, I did a bit of searching on the internet last night for a good writer’s conference where I might be able to impress an agent. I came across this article. It really got me to thinking. Basically, I am a completely forgettable person when you meet me. I am constantly being overwhelmed by doubt and self loathing and in social situations I look at my feet and mumble. People quickly lose interest and find somebody articulate with which to spend time. I’m not worth the effort for most. So, I’m in a roomful of writers, all exactly like me, and I think that some agent is going to be impressed with me? Not likely. My only hope is to gain some publishing credits THEN start querying agents again.

So, this morning I sent a query letter to a very small publishing company that is owned by my alma mater. I still live about 5 blocks from the school and one of their stated goals is to publish works by local writers. I think that I have a decent shot to get published by them.

And, I plan to set my novel length works aside and try to work on some short fiction until I hear back from the publisher. This way if I’m rejected I can quickly start trying for publication in magazines. It’s going to be a long, long road.

So, why was this a horrible week? Well, you know all of those little things about your job that really bother you? That little thing that your boss does from time to time that seems to serve no purpose but to remind you who’s the boss? Or that co-worker that really knows how to push your buttons? Or that stupid mistake that you made six months ago and you swore you would never repeat but you know that you will eventually? Now, imagine all of that coming down on you in one stinking Monday. That’s how my week started. I don’t live for the weekend anymore. I’m lucky if I can crawl to the end of the day intact.