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sarahzipp · 5 years ago

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Author’s note: This post was written in the summer of 2017. It’s taken me nearly three years to grow the courage to post it publicly. Time heals all wounds! I hope you enjoy.

Waving goodbye to Amsterdam, our home for 3 years.

Did you know – moving a family of four and two pets to a foreign country is hard. In fact, it’s a giant logistical nightmare. I did. I learned that lesson, I learned it so hard 3 years ago moving to the Netherlands and muddling through immigration paperwork and not having a bank account because we don’t have a BSN yet (it’s like a social security number) and we can’t paid and we can’t get a BSNt….and so on and on and on. It’s a doom loop. It’s a doom loop in Dutch. But moving abroad has become like childbirth to me, after a couple of years I forget the pain and do it again. And there’s a lot of crying. And nobody sleeps.

But this time it would be in English, and therefore much easier, right? We’re only moving about an hour’s flight away, how bad can it be? Besides, we’re seasoned expats, wiser and more experienced now. Step 1 – book flights. Several times a day flights buzz between Holland and Scotland. They’re cheap and plentiful. No problem! Wait, what? We can’t fly the dog on EasyJet or any of the quick jumpers into the UK. Hmmmm. Look, a fairy! I mean, look – a ferry! They have a kennel. Perfect for a multi-species move. Yes yes yes! Let’s move by ferry. How cool and adventurous. It’d be uber Zipp-like to move to a foreign country by ferry. We shall invade Scotland by sea! Neat-o.

Our previous experience with boats in Amsterdam gave us undue confidence. What could possibly go wrong?

So, we just book the tickets, 2 cabins for us + my mom (who so graciously/foolishly agreed to come visit/help us not commit acts of homicide while we pack and move). Check. Next we book the dog into the pet hotel. Check. Great. Now just notify them we are bringing Kitty as a carry-on (like we did on the plane when we moved to A’dam). Wait, huh? Why is it not allowing us to add the cat. Try it again. What if we depart from Rotterdam? Ugh. Call them. Sprek je Engels? Huh? We can’t have the cat on board without a car? But we don’t want to keep the car. We want to sell it so we can buy a UK car with a right-side-of-the-car-steering-wheel when we get there. It’s going to be difficult enough unlearning how to drive American-like in the UK. Oh, shut the front door! Are we really going to keep an ailing French mini-van with a passenger-side window that won’t roll down and a steering wheel on the wrong side of the car for a 5lb cat? Yes. Yes, that is exactly what we are going to do. Because life. Because family expatting is a series of maddening choices and ridiculous adaptations. It’s a relentless state of absurdity. Because that’s how Zipps do. No creature left behind. Check.

Ok, transport of humans and pets secured. Now what about our stuff? Step 2 – pack up and go. This time around, in the most adulting moment of my life thus far, we hired actual professional movers to pack up our shit. Why not? My employer is paying relocation expenses. Well done, Dr. Fancy Pants. I thought we were well organised. We laughed at how much we’d accumulated in 3 years. Wasn’t it just yesterday we packed ALL of our belongings into 9 Army duffle bags and boarded the plane to Amsterdam? Yeah, we moved our entire family across the Atlantic packed into 9 bags. Nothing more. And one half of those bags was my Ph.D. fieldwork papers. (Fun tip – we precisely weighed each bag by using the scale at the vet’s office where we went approximately 743 times trying to get the appropriate Pet Passport for the dog). Now, the movers handed me the inventory list – 100 boxes. 100 boxes? WTH? No matter, it was all out of sight, out of mind for now. See you on the flipside, boxes of crap. We’re down to the bare minimum. T-minus 9 days to departure. Just a few more issues to tidy up, then it’s time to kick back, relax and enjoy our final week in the lovely city of Amsterdam (stay tuned for a post, eventually to be written, on my deep, warm and conflicted feelings about life in the ‘dam and saying goodbye to my favourite city in the world).

So, we calmly went about packing up our Dutch lives. Er, rather, we scrambled every last minute, failing to find more than a few fleeting moments of peace in our last days there. We sold stuff on a thousand different marketplaces. We patched holes and fretted over which dishes were ours and which came with the apartment, etc. because our skeevy landlord will try to cheat us (separating expats from their security deposits is a hobby of Dutch landlords). I remember the feeling 3 years ago, whilst scrambling to pack up our American lives. Just get to the airport. Once we get checked in at the airport, we can relax. Breath. Panic. Breath. Repeat.

Delierious with joy over are good choices, smart planning and simple lifestyle. Also pictured: cat that almost ruined everything, twice.

We tried, desperately, to capture the final bike rides and boat rides on camera. Fleeting moments of exquisite presence. We tried to celebrate, laugh, hug, cry and properly say goodbye to our family of expats. We tried to make space for our girls to spend those final, fleeting days with their buddies. Good god, we have been through some shit with these people over the past 3 years. Expat friendships, for big and little ones, are bonded in a crucible. Never forget this place. This stuff has been magical. Breath. Have presence. Enjoy? Pack, organise, DO SOMETHING. Did you cancel the internet service? Pay the parking ticket? How do we forward the mail? Notify the Belastingdienst? Sprek je Engels?

And that’s when we noticed the cat was missing. Yes, the cat. The cat that caused us to keep the car. The car that caused us to pay a shit ton more for the ferry. The ferry that will take us to Scotland. The Scotland that will distill the whisky. The whisky that will taste so good when we drink it. But I digress . . . the next few hours were a furious chaos of packing and loading and searching for the fecking cat. The children are weeping for the cat. My mom is organizing a search party while I cooly ignore this tangent of madness, because I am confident the cat is simply hiding. “The cat is missing, mom. Start acting like it!” my sweet youngest daughter screams at me and slams the door. I ignore her and discreetly throw out bags of forgotten little toy scraps that no one will remember so long as they aren’t seen during the throwing out process. Hours later, the cat is found hiding under a bed. I smugly chastise my panicked family. They fail to thank me for my calm resolve.

In spite all of our diligent #adulting, expensive movers and good intentions, here we are, literally running from the apartment with armloads of shit dumped out from random drawers whilst the landlord arrived from the other side of the building for our final check out.

It was like a scene from a Benny Hill movie, I’m sure. Cut to scene – exterior of building, black and white at 1.5 speed: Zipp parents frantically scrambling and stumbling out the front door, arms laden with useless plastic items, while the Landlord calmly strolls in the back door, clipboard and magnifying glass in hand. Cut to shot of kids, pets and granny in the car screaming, crying and flailing wildly. Cut to Aaron opening driver door, pointing forward confidently and saying: Onward march – take to the seas! (in the captions). Can you hear the music?

People overuse the term, “stuffed in like a can of sardines.” This is not one of those times. We stuffed said crap into every nook and cranny of our van. So, there we were; 4 Zipps, my mom, our old dog with bad gas and a cat. Everyone but the driver had items crammed under and around her feet as well as on her lap/between her body and the door or other passenger. I am not exaggerating. It felt difficult to breath in there. When we finally pulled up to the ferry door, I yelled at my children – “act natural, pretend like you have plenty of room! And for God’s sake, don’t mention the head lice!” I thought we might be over the weight limit or something. I knew we were technically one centimeter over the height limit, although I was sure the massive weight load was compressing us down at least that much.

We love our pets, Nana is losing her mind!

Jonah (the dog) smells funny

Pipsqueak the Mighty

Maybe if the kids just smile at the check in guy they’ll let us go without any questions. I really don’t know, the whole thing was so sketchy because we weren’t sure if our car was too tall with the roof carrier on top and we were still recovering from some confusion regarding the pets on board (Fun Fact – Our 70lb geriatric labrador was perched up on a stack of luggage in the back of the van so high he could not get out on his own accord. So while we were waiting in line for the ferry (for hours) I had to unload and load him in “gently” whilst containing the stack of threatening-to-spill-out luggage with one knee. It was a long line. He had to get checked in too. My “gentle” level decreased with each outing). For once the gods smiled upon us and no one asked questions. We rolled in and were literally the last car on our platform. After a brief game of where-the-hell-is-the-cat-that-required-us-to-bring-a-wrong-side-of-the-road-driving-car-to-the-UK?, we deboarded the van and checked into our cabins.

My mom has never in 12 years of grandmothering ever chosen to not spend more time with her grandkids. But that night, with her head bent in (what I think was a bit of shame or guilt) she asked if she could have the key to a cabin and stay alone. Without her grandbabies. Yes mom, save yourself. We broke the Na-na. My mom has never before or since rejected a moment’s time with her dear little grandchildren. I rejected the urge to jump overboard.

Ferry of Doom or Ferry of Freedom?

But we made it. We were on the ferry. Breathe. Deep sigh of relief. Enjoy the ride. It was fun and adventurous to travel by ferry. I highly recommend it. 15+ hours later, with minimal sleep and a deep sense of relief mixed with sadness, we calmly exited the ferry. Just a wee three hour drive to our new home. Left, left, left. Remember to drive on the left, honey. We inched forward in an endless procession of vehicles exiting the ferry. Last in, last out.

That’s when Aaron turned to me, panicked face – “oh shit, we’re out of gas!” In the mayhem getting to the ferry, we forgot to fill up. OMG. We cannot run out of gas on a ferry or in the border patrol line. No exaggeration at all, we were on E. It gets worse. When we finally got off the ferry, there was a line of cars snaking its way to the border gate. We would never make it. This was a trail of tears, eeking forward a car’s length every 5 minutes. It was a minimum hour wait and we had a maximum 15 minutes of fuel.

One last time, I un-gently unpacked the dog from the back of the van to walk him. A border agent passed and I tearfully pleaded our case. “Well, we don’t need a broken down vehicle holding up this line.” He was so kind, really un-Dutch in his kindness and willingness to help. Within minutes, we were ushered around the line to front. We pulled up to the border entrance window. Wait, oops. The driver is on the wrong side. Ha ha ha! I was in the passenger seat. Let me just roll down the window to hand you the passports…oh, yeah. The window-roller-downer is broken. Ha ha ha. Aaron, if you just pull up a tad, I can open the door. Oops, sorry everyone in line behind us! Here ya go, border patrol lady. I stepped out and handed the agent our clutch of passports. “Your Visas haven’t yet been processed, so you’ll need to re-enter another time.” Wait, what now? We can’t come in? We chatted. We worked it out. Kindness and understanding from her and her colleagues that I cannot understate. Sorted, as the Scottish say. She let us through, although I’m not sure we entered 100% legally.

Bumbling and fumbling, we crossed the finish line to begin again. Stay left, keep the rubber side down and journey onward. Love, trust and (Gaelic) pixiedust.

Welcome to the United Kingdom. Mixed emotions.

Zipps invade Scotland by sea Author's note: This post was written in the summer of 2017. It's taken me nearly three years to grow the courage to post it publicly.

#Dutch #Family #Moving #Scotland #travel

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therealdragonnerdagain · 8 years ago

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To the people who wanna talk shit about this blog in the forums . . .

Couple years ago, I said that Mass Effect 3 would have been perfect if not for that shitty ending.

I said that because I would have been willing to overlook the garbage that was in the rest of the game if the ending hadn't been such shit.

But anyone who actually read most of my Mass Effect 3 posts here would know that I complained A LOT about the whole of Mass Effect 3 -- specifically Shep's auto-dialogue, the botched Mass Effect 2 romances, and Kai Fucking Leng.

Mass Effect 3 also had some really gross stuff in it, like FemShep taking advantage of her rank to basically rape Vega (because I guess the writers thought male rape was funny) and all this other shit.

Yeah. Mass Effect 3 had its fair share of problems. The Ending was just the icing on an already sour cake.

Also, I understand what a "protagonist" is, asswipes who love talking shit about this blog.

I didn't mean that Solas was actually the protagonist. I meant that he stole so much of the story, he might as well have been the protagonist.

This was done to the point that Corypheus wasn't our enemy, he was Solas' enemy -- we and Corypheus just didn't fucking know it.

This was done to the point that it was never our Inquisition -- it was Solas' Inquisition. This is something the Inquisitor can even SAY during Tresspasser "Was it ever MY Inquisition?" Of course, Solas denies that he was ever really in charge, but he was in the background pulling a lot of strings, even if he didn't have the final say.

Also, people are saying Solas won't even be important in DA4, so we Solasmancers should stop bitching.

Well, if Solas isn't important, then why weren't we given the option to deal with him in Trespasser and end his story there?

We are given the option to murder knife, join, or spare Morrigan and Anders (the other "evil" apostates) but we are not given the option to deal with Solas in a similar fashion? That's bullshit.

And if Solas isn't that important, it will just be a symptom of yet more sloppiness on Bioware's part.

See, all this happened because

1) Bioware did not have a plan from the beginning. They didn't plan for this series to be more than one game, then couldn't decide whether or not to bring the Warden back -- because some people had a dead Warden (myself included).

They got around this by inventing Hawke, who was then supposed to pick up the rest of the series as the main protagonist, leading the Inquisition and so forth.

But things changed AGAIN. Probably because lots of fans didn't like being forced to play a predefined, human character. Dragon Age 2 was nothing like the first game we all loved. Dragon Age 2 was basically Pseudo Final Fantasy, with it's own Cloud (Fenris) and everything.

So Bioware tried to go back to its roots with Inquisition, scrapping Hawke as the protagonist and inventing the Inquisitor, yet ANOTHER human noble character.

People didn't like being forced to play another human noble. Most of us (myself included) got into this series because we loved choosing who we were. I have always identified with oppressed outsiders (because I am an oppressed outsider) so I always play elves. I did not wnat to play a human again.

Bioware listened and added multiple races, but by then it was too late: the series had become a butchered clusterfuck, a thin shadow of what it had been.

2) The second reason all this happened? EA thought it would be great to take an rpg with depth and maturity and water it down into some streamlined mess. Somehow, they equated butchering a story with appealing to a wider audience and gaining more money.

So we have this MESS before us today that is Dragon Age (god, I fucking HATE EA), where every protagonist after the Warden has a clusterfuck story where they never defeat their own arch-nemesis and instead pass them off to some other hero.

I'm sorry, but Solas DOES belong to the Inquisitor as a villian. Just as Corypheus *really* belonged to Hawke (because Inquisition was originally a continuation of Hawke's story).

Just as we would have been pissed had Hawke stepped in at the last minute to kill the archdemon, thus stealing the Warden's enemy (who we worked so HARD to defeat) from them.

The Inquisitor is *not* coming back as a protagonist. Bioware has denied the arm has anything to do with it (they don't want to look ableist but being anti-indigenous is fine and dandy!) but no matter the reason, the Inquisitor's story is over and they are not going to be the protagonist anymore.

This means I don't get to end Solas' story as the Inquisitor.

That SUCKS.

That's like . . . ending Morrigan's story as Hawke, even though I romanced Morrigan in the game before and had history with her (and I did on two playthroughs romance Morrigan, so I waited for Witch Hunt just like everyone else).

That's like . . . ending Anders' story as the Inquisitor, even though Hawke had personal history (including betrayal) with him.

Remember what it was like after DA2 dropped? Remember all the gamers who HATED Anders and were foaming at the mouth about his betrayal? Imagine for one SECOND if they were not given the option to deal with Anders as Hawke and he instead carried over to Inquisition? As will Nerd Rage, the outrage would have been perpetual and unending.

And yet, I, a Solasmancer, am expected to just accept the way the story was handled, without criticizing it or even lamenting it. I, a Solasmacer, am expected to just . . . quietly accept something I don't like.

I suppose Nerd Rage is purely reserved for straight white homophobic dudes who want to kill Anders because he hit on them once.

Why are Solasmancers ridiculed and mocked for wanting to end Solas' story AS Lavellan? Why in FUCK is that such a god-awful thing?

It pisses me off because I already decided -- long before Trespasser was released -- that I would no longer be buying anymore Dragon Age games. Their anti-indigenous hate-screed (on top of the over-all sad dumbing down of the game into an MMORPG) had already convinced me to quit the series. So learning that my character would not get a proper ending to her story until the next game was beyond annoying.

But whatever. Go on mocking me on fextralife and bsn and whatever forum you like.

What I can't understand is why people even pay attention to my blog. I am just one fan ranting bitterly to myself about how a video game disappointed me.

I'm just one fan. I'm not hurting anyone.

And I'm allowed to have whatever fucking reaction I want to these games.

I'm allowed to have an opinion.

Hard to wrap your head around, I know.

EDIT: And to Steel Can.

I have watched for years as you behaved on the forums like a racist asshat about people of color, hiding behind your hatred of the Dalish to justify it. I wish you’d just shut the living fuck UP.

NO. The Dalish don't expect nor force city elves to worship their gods when they join them. Play a Dalish in Origins sometime. You might actually learn something -- not that you care to learn that you’re wrong.

You're trying so DESPERATELY to justify the religious oppression of the elves. You're trying so DESPERATELY to justify the shitty way Lavellan was treated for her beliefs by everyone in the game -- even her friends -- by building false equivalences (the white man’s favorite passtime) and pretending the elves are just as bad as the humans.

But they're not. This is something Manifest Destiny, racist white men, would have you believe. They need you to believe it in order to justify history’s crimes. They need you to believe that indigenous people were violent savages who warred upon each other, so this made it “okay” and even “good for them” to be invaded, enslaved, and oppressed.

I mean, it’s not like white people didn’t treat the Irish and the Scottish like garbage or anything. White people were always good to each other. They never tortured each other in dungeons and beheaded each other over loaves of bread . . .

Dalish elves were not forcing anyone to their religion when they joined their camps. Pol never gets vallalsin in the ten years he’s with the Dalish. Because he doesn’t have to. When you meet him in Origins. he is being taught to hunt and survive. The Dalish Warden tells him to just make himself useful, and he is welcome. No religious conversion required. He is not forced into elven religion.

And even if Pol was forced:

Nothing can justify what was done to the elves.

Nothing can justify imperialism, invasion, genocide, cultural genocide, and slavery.

Just as nothing can justify what was done to real indigenous people.

I bet you hated the Thalmor in Skyrim and sided with the Stormcloaks to protect their religion even while hating the Dalish -- a people facing religious oppression -- in Dragon Age. Because only white men are allowed to have cultural, religious freedom, and any culture that’s not white isn’t worthy of respect, right?

But why am I wasting my time, Steel Can? Your sorry racist ass will never understand. You enjoy shitting on real indigenous people and using Dragon Age to justify it. Because Bioware's racism gave you the tools to do so.

That does not make you or Bioware right.

Also, Red Crossing started when two HUMANS killed an elven woman while trespassing on Dalish land.

#kiss my ass #dragon age #solas #bioware critical #dalish rant #solas rant

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michellelinkous · 5 years ago

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‘It is so good to have victories’

Don Force never expected a hero’s send-off.

But as he left the Spectrum Health intensive care unit, music played and staff members erupted into cheers.

It was a one-bed parade, with Don as the only attraction.

“They were lined up and down the hallway, hooting and hollering,” he said. “It was cool.”

After 10 days battling COVID-19 in the medical ICU, Don achieved a victory worth celebrating: He was off the ventilator, breathing on his own and moving to a regular hospital room.

And that was a moment to savor, not only for Don, but for his many medical caregivers.

“It is so good to have victories,” said Bobbi Jo Whitefield, BSN. “It is incredibly heartwarming.”

Don and his wife, Cindy, credit his progress to a team that stretches from the hospital staff in Grand Rapids, Michigan, to their family and friends in Howard City, and even to heaven itself.

“I think it is wonderful. It shows the power of prayer,” Cindy said. “And it shows he is strong-willed and he is fighting.”

Don, a 60-year-old retired tow truck driver, developed a cough in late March. He didn’t think it could be caused by the novel coronavirus at first.

“To tell the truth, I thought I was doing real good staying away from people and washing my hands twice as much as normal,” he said.

One evening a new symptom developed: Don had trouble breathing.

He told his wife, “You got to call someone. I can’t breathe. I feel funny.”

When the first responders arrived, they put him on oxygen and rushed him to Spectrum Health Butterworth Hospital.

At first, Don went to a medical-surgical unit on the ninth floor. When his condition deteriorated, he transferred to the ICU with acute respiratory distress syndrome.

Visits via iPad

In the ICU, the staff put him on a ventilator for support and to keep healthy levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide in his blood, said Stephen Fitch, MD, a pulmonologist with the ICU.

For up to 16 hours a day, Don lay on his stomach, in a prone position.

“In people who have lung injury, they often will have improvement in oxygen levels in their blood if they are put on their stomach,” Dr. Fitch said.

Because of state-required restrictions on visitors, Cindy could not be by her husband’s side.

His nurse, Alyssa Wilson, RN, brought an iPad into the room so Cindy could visit with her husband through video.

Even with Don sedated and on a ventilator, she said, “I could tell it was him. I could see his chest going up and down and see that he was breathing. He was being watched over really good.”

As his condition slowly improved, the staff weaned him from sedation.

“I could tell he was determined to get out of the ICU, which was kind of cool,” Wilson said.

One day, she raised the hospital bed so Don could see Cindy on the iPad during their video visit.

“If you can hear me, I love you,” Cindy said.

Don responded with a thumbs-up.

Welcome back

Once Don could again breathe on his own, he graduated from the ICU with the victor’s send-off.

To his surprise, the celebration continued when he arrived back at the ninth-floor unit where his hospital stay had begun.

Staff members, excited to see him return, lined the hall and cheered as the Rocky theme song “Eye of the Tiger” played.

Whitefield greeted him at the elevator and introduced herself as his nurse. And when she said she was pleased to meet him, that was an understatement.

“To see someone healing and recovering and able to come back to our floor in stable condition is such a tremendous thing,” Whitefield said. “It gives me goosebumps.

“We got to care for him again and get his legs about him, so he could go home.”

The ninth-floor unit team plans to host a graduation celebration for every patient transferring in from the ICU, said nurse manager Lauren Nichol, MSN, RN.

“It is so meaningful for patients and for our team,” she said. “It’s a time to reflect on what we have accomplished and really celebrate each and every patient we have made a difference with.”

In the ICU, also, each recovery from COVID-19 is a cheer-worthy moment.

“It’s such a huge lift for the team that has done such incredible work—the nurses, the respiratory therapists, the environmental services workers and all the staff,” Dr. Fitch said. “So many people are trying to make sure we are ready to absorb this unprecedented situation.”

Looking forward to home

A few days after he left the ICU, Don achieved his next victory—discharge from the hospital. He transferred to Mary Free Bed Rehabilitation Hospital for therapy to rebuild strength lost during two weeks of hospitalization.

“It has been quite a journey for him,” Cindy said.

“It was tough,” Don said. “A couple of times I thought, ‘Are you done with me now, Lord? Or have you got more work for me to do?’”

Now he has his sights set on the day he can return home to Cindy. And he looks forward to spoiling his cat, Deeks.

For others, he has a word of caution about protecting themselves from COVID-19.

“Take it very, very seriously,” he said. “When they tell you that, they are not kidding.”

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‘It is so good to have victories’ published first on https://smartdrinkingweb.tumblr.com/

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gordonwilliamsweb · 5 years ago