Risk Management

I have struggled with how to write this post. I have thought about the issue from a multitude of different directions, and I still have 10 puddles of discrete thought, and no idea of how to collect these thoughts into one body of water. And I need some help.

1. In my professional life, I spend a large part of my time managing risk for the organization I work for. Managing risk is handled in a variety of different ways, through policy, through training staff to be aware of and address risks, through computer systems that flag certain things or don't let staff perform certain functions, through identification, through common sense. Much of what I do is about identifying a risk, quantifying it, and determining what, if anything, should be done about it.

2. How do we quantify risk? We use a measure of Probability (P), Impact (I) and Cost (C). In other words, we take the likelihood that this will happen (P), the impact to the organization (I) and then we try to figure out what it would cost the organization to fix it (C). Which turns the entire question into a number and a mathematical equation, that we can apply some certainty too. Part of the risk tolerance business is trending. Just getting a number doesn't help much. You need to compare the number against something. Options include doing nothing, using another solution, outsourcing the work to someone more experienced. That's how you take the risk number, and start getting somewhere with it.

3. What does the risk number actually mean? If I told you that there was a risk of 1 in 1800 that an asteroid would hit the earth and wipe out your entire country, you are very likely to shrug your shoulders and say 'oh well, gotta go sometime'. This is because while the I (wipe out your entire country) is very high, the probability (1 in 1800 chance each century) is very low. There are much more likely things to happen. If I told you that the probability that you would change jobs is very great, but in all likelihood you will make more money when you change jobs, you are also equally likely to shrug your shoulders. The P is great, but the I is likely low.

4. So, I come back to my conversation last night - where someone asked how likely it was that "it" would happen again. It, of course, meaning, will another baby die. 30% I answered. I have a 30% chance of developing pre-eclampsia between 23-26 weeks, before the threshold of "real" viability. Which means, a 30% chance of another baby dying. Invariably people respond that "oh, so a 70% chance of another baby living - that's good news, focus on that." And invariably, I want to scream.

5. Part of it is the numbers. I am 60 times more likely to loose a baby. The average woman has a 99.5 percent chance of being presented with a screaming, wiggling baby at the end of her labour. I have, at best a 70 percent chance, and that doesn't take into account the risks of a premature baby. You see, if we say the impact (I) is "dead baby", and my probability is much greater, it's just not something I can ignore.

6. So then, we might ask what the medical experts and I can do to reduce either the probability or the impact, or both. That's what you would usually do to manage risk. And the answer is: a whole lot of not much. Low Dose Aspirin, which might help, although there are no large studies. There are also no large studies about the risk of the drug to a foetus. Blood pressure medications, which don't halt the progression of the disease, but may buy some more time. Diuretics, which may help my kidneys. Magnesium Sulfate, which prevents seizures and saves lives. Serial ultrasounds, which will at least tell us if something is up. Putting me on bed rest. "We'll watch you very closely", the Doctor's say. And I have this wonderful and terrible image of roadrunner watching Wylie E. Coyote going over the cliff with the acme jet engine strapped to his back. Really, not a whole lot of things to do. And it's not that my doctor's are bad, it's just that truly, there isn't much they can do about a disease that they don't know how to cure, because they don't know what causes it.

7. I come back to those words, "a 70 percent chance the baby won't die". And I have heard this from so many people. Now, some of them are the "sunshine and roses" brigade, any disturbing news upsets them, so they focus on the positive. I have to confess, I'm generally speaking, a focus on the positive kind of person. Up until the moment that they told me that they had to induce me, I was positive, I held on to Gabriel living. I would rather dwell on the good than the bad. But in this case, the risk is higher, and the bad, well it's just so very bad, and it's a bad I know so excruciatingly well.

8. Now, I want to take their heads, and beat them around a bit. I want to tell them, if you think a 70 percent survival rate is so wonderful, you take a look at the three people you love most, and tell me which one you think should die. And I will happily tell you that "hey, at least the other two lived!". Because these odds, they totally suck. Totally, absolutely, completely.

9. And I don't know why their optimism bothers me. Obviously Mr. Spit and I have looked at the odds, and we are willing to try again. Obviously we are hopeful for that screaming baby. I don't think we are blindly stupid, ignoring the risks. But we are obviously hopeful that this time it's our turn to win on the giant roulette wheel of life. (In which your odds are 35:1)

10. But please, and this is the help part of the question if you are still with me. What do I say to people who only talk about the 70%? How do I communicate how concerned we are about the 30%. How do I communicate that my risk is way higher? Should I even do that? I don't want a medal for getting pregnant, I don't want to be told I'm brave, but I do want everyone to know it won't be easy, and it may not turn out as planned? I need people to understand that everything is not "ok", and it may not turn out well, and I have a much higher risk of it not turning out well.

Am I loosing my mind for expecting, hoping, wanting people to understand this?

'Fess Up Now (And Winners!)

The first thing to announce:

And the Winner of Whinge-For-All Thursday is:

Heather!

C'mon down to the winners circle. (And send me an email with an address I can send the hat too!)

I'm sitting at work, listening to my iPod touch, and I'm wondering. What songs do you have a secret affection, that you would die if your spouse/children/friends knew you listened to?

Here's my list to start you off:

1. Mambo Italiano by Rosemary Clooney
2. Downtown by Petula Clarke
3. I'm Too Sexy by Right Said Fred
4. Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton
5. Mama's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys by Waylon Jennings
6. Garden Party by Ricky Nelson
7. Life in a Northern Town by The Dream Academy
8. I'm With the Band by Little Big Town
9. I Drove All Night by Cyndi Lauper
10. Dancing Queen by ABBA
    
    Tell us now, what do you listen too, that you can't believe you like?

My Favourite Things

Because it's the Thursday after Whinge-For-All Thursday, and it's tradition. And I like tradition - I'm an Anglican.

My Favourite Candy (In no particular order):

1. Bridge Mixture
2. Licorice
3. Crunchie Chocolate Bars
4. Salt Water Taffy
5. Those hard raspberry and black currant candies that you used to be able to get in tins, but alas, I can't seem to find any more.

What's yours?

I'll announce the winner of Whinge-For-All Thursday tomorrow morning. As soon as I can find my cat to pick a name.

A Moment S'il Vous Plait

It started, possibly last night, when arriving at home at 10 pm to a house of dogs that were hungry, and a cat who was mad, and a husband out of town, that I realized that I had neglected to go and get more blood pressure medication. Which I expected would be a problem tomorrow. Unsurprisingly no one magically left an Atacand (16mg, please) on my bathroom counter. It was, indeed a problem this morning. It is still, indeed, a problem now.

Possibly, it started this morning, when I checked my email, and Amazon was offering me a deal on my planning and executing my summer divorce. 30% off. Great. I wasn't planning a summer divorce. (Winter is so much more conducive to bitterness anyway). Why couldn't they offer me a discount on something that I might find useful? Like a book on how to solve all your knitting projects. Or how to make your dishes do themselves?

They were forecasting a 30% chance of rain this morning, as it started to rain. I love it when they tell you it's a possibility that it might rain, as it's raining. I love Environment Canada. Great folks. What's next? .3 milliseconds warning before the tornado touches my house? If that would take care of the dog piddle puddle in the bathroom from a mastiff who is displeased that her daddy isn't home?

I spent 20 minutes in a meeting, explaining with the supervisor, or I'm sorry, let me spell that correctly, the stuporvisor, that when the post it note slapped right on the front of the research says that this won't be mentioned in the briefing note, and explains why, it is, under *any* circumstances unreasonable to ask why this information isn't in the briefing note. Why? Cause it makes me wonder how you find your way home every night. Oh, your husband drove you? Good, cause you might make it back tomorrow. To further torture me.

I spent my time, thinking about the blogger baby shawl, for the mother, who is ahem, further ahead in this whole pregnancy thing than I thought she was. Which means that I have a shawl due in about 2 months, and it's a few hours of work. The thing is presently not behaving, and while I know the lace pattern was for socks, and I am knitting with something that is the equivalent of dental floss (but a lot more expensive) the pattern should still work. And it's not. And it looks profoundly stupid. And not just because it's small. Blocking will not help this.

I took my knitting, just now, to the Second Cup Low Altar of Caffeine, but what with the blood pressure that spiked up after my two latte day yesterday, I had to have decaf tea. Which made the guy who makes my "usual" laugh. At me. Who had no caffeine. And was looking like a drowned rat. Because it was pissing rain. And I sat down with my decaf tea. (Tea, I can hardly bear to speak the word. Not coffee, not blessed elixir, tea. Pah!)

And I reach into the knitting bag, and I pull out blogger baby shawl (all 3 inches of it) and I realize that I only have one needle. And there is no way I am going to knit this thing on one needle. One Needle = crochet. Two Needles - Knitting. Which means walking back to the office, in the pissing rain. To get the shell I am knitting. You know, the one that I am in knitterly denial over. Of course I can get cotton to stretch 6 inches across my body. Yep, blocking will take care of this. (If you aren't a knitter, pretty much all you need to know is that I'm living in a fantasy world here, and I'm not sharing the drugs). But, to take the edge off, I am going to keep knitting. I am going to magically shrink or increase 6 inches. I am that powerful.

And someone, I'd like what's behind door number two. Door number one is not so great.

I think. Just Maybe. I. Am. Having. A. Moment.

Go do your grammar homework. One person got the predicate right. No one has the subject right.

And I and me, and lose and loose drive me crazy too. To and Too also drive me crazy. And don't get me started on impact as a verbal!

Wednesday's are for Grammar

About a year ago, I found myself explaining to my supervisor that "that word is an adverb. It must end in -ly. I'm sorry, but that's the grammar rule".

Her response: "Don't use big grammar words with me."

Gerund. Possessive. Ampersand. Predicate. Appositive.

Subjunctive voice. Co-ordinating clause.

We had another discussion the other day, supervisor and I. I know that possessives with an 's' are complicated. It's just that I think that you should put your big girl you-know-what's on, and deal with them.

I'm maybe a little grumpy. So I decided, because I can't teach her grammar, I'll teach all of you. Because really, it's not about education, it's about power and control and frustration. And I'm sorry, but until I get it out of my system, well,

there will be grammar lessons.

You might learn things. At the least you will be able to drop "gerund" into a sentence and amaze your friends and astound your family.

Today's Lesson:

Subjects and Predicates

Really, they aren't scary, class. Honest. They are even fun (1). They form the backbone of every sentance. And every complete sentance has a subject (or maybe two) and a predicate.

So, what is a subject?

A subject is the thing(2) in a sentence that takes the action - you could call it a receiver. It acts, is described or is acted upon. You could call it an actor too. It's what or who the sentance is about.

So, in the sentence: "Mrs. Spit was grumpy with her boss."

Can anyone tell me what the subject is? Anyone? (I'm looking at you LoriBeth!)
Yes, that's right. Mrs. Spit is the subject. She's the person who's acting, or in this case, feeling.

Ok then, if you have subjects down, what is a predicate?

A predicate is the part of the sentence that takes the action, the description, or is acted upon. It tells you what is being done to the subject, it describes the subject, or it tells you what the subject did. Back to our example:

Mrs. Spit was grumpy with her boss.

What's the object?(3) Anyone? Class? (I'm looking at you now Aunt Becky)
Yes, that's right - "was "
was tells you that I, the subject, experienced feelings of grumpiness.

There are simple subjects (Mrs. Spit) and compound subjects (Mr and Mrs. Spit or the very pretty Mrs. Spit)

There are simple predicates (was) and compound predicates (was grumpy).

So, we have the subject - what or who the sentance is about. And we have the predicate, the information about what the subject is feeling, experiencing or having happen to them.

Your homework:
*Insert groan here*. Find the subject and the predicate of the sentence, and identify if they are compound or simple subjects and predicates, in the comments.

The smarty-pants, Mrs. Spit, is a really good grammar teacher.

A really big star for all of you who get it right. And, as an additional bonus, if there is a grammar question you have always had, feel free to ask away. It can be next week's lesson.

*****
(1) ok, I'm exaggerating, maybe just a bit.
(2) this is highly technical grammar language. We will talk about nouns and verbs at a later date.
(3) Yes, you get extra points if you tell me the object is that Mrs. Spit should drink more whisky sours. Extra extra points if you send her whisky.

All Beautiful Things Live in Memory

I believe that even if every single person forgot Gabriel, even if I forgot, God would still remember the life that He created, the life that He received back. But, I am struck by the power of memory. I am struck by the deep yearning humans so often have within them, to remember. To honour. To proclaim the worth of a life. To celebrate how we were touched. To instill memory. I believe that it is a sacred trust to keep a memory alive.

The Inuit in Canada's north use things called Inuksuit or Inukshuk's as markers. You see them on the frozen tundra - solitary clumps of stone, often looking like humans. I was about 7 the first time I saw one, in Yellowknife to visit family, and my uncle took me to them. He talked about how the Inuit used them, to mark something. Direction, a path, a food cache, a good hunt. In the frozen tundra that is so very flat, it's easy to get disorientated. An Inuksuit is a sign post. A physical sign of something that has happened, been discovered.

It interests me in the Old Testament, that every time the Lord did something for someone, every time He showed himself to a person or a group of people, or every time the nation of Israel celebrated a victory, a lesson learned, a loss, He commanded them to build an altar. Out of rock. A solid and impermeable thing to mark what had happened. And when you read the OT, you will see reference to earlier altars, still in use. I sometimes wonder if these are the earliest recorded sacraments, an outward sign of an inward grace. A reminder that when things change in our hearts, we should change ourselves to accommodate our hearts. A physical reminder of an emotional change.

I have been thinking about why we planted a tree for Gabriel. For a long time, I couldn't tell you. I didn't know. I knew that it mattered, I knew that I wanted to, I knew that it was important, but I couldn't translate these feelings, longings into words. And words matter to me. Explanations matter to me. I like to know why I do things. I use words to describe, to explain, to bound my feelings, my thoughts.

We are moving on, Mr. Spit and I. Sometimes slowly, sometimes haltingly, often not sure what's next. But moving on. We are writing the end of a chapter. Gabriel will continue on in the book. He will always be a part of the cast of characters that is the story of my life. But he is no longer the main character, the only character. I can be Gabriel's mother, and the mother of another child. There will be paragraphs that belong to him in the new chapter. Parts where he is spoken of more than others. We will not leave him behind, he is part of the story.

As I pondered this business of moving on to another chapter, I realized what the tree was. It was my altar, my Inuksuit. It was the marker that there had been a baby, his name was Gabriel, and he is in heaven. It marks too, that I am here on earth, and Gabriel and I are on separate paths. I have a life to live, commitments to meet, things to do. I am still a wife, still a friend, still an employee, still a volunteer. I am still far from heaven.

I am also still Gabriel's mother. I cannot leave him behind, but I can close the chapter of the book. I can set Gabriel down, in a way. I can realize that our path's have diverged for now, and they will re-unite in heaven. I can leave him at the tree. I can allow the tree to remember for me, to mark and honour for me. To be the outward sign that something happened when Gabriel was conceived, something happened in those long months that he grew in me. Something happened in those altogether short moments that we were together. I changed, accommodated, became a different person.

All beautiful things live in memory. That's what Gabriel's tree is for. It is the living memory of what was, so that I can move into what will be. It contains within its sap, its leaves, its roots my memories, my sorrow and my grief. So that I can be whole.

Monday Miscellany

- I'm thinking of getting my ears pierced again. I used to have them pierced, but I found that the backs of the earrings would dig into my neck when I was on the phone. Comments?

- Before I started blogging, I read about 8 blogs.
- Yarn Harlot
- Crazy Aunt Purl
- Natural Mommy
- Stirrup Queens (I call it the Mother Ship)
- Rocks in My Dryer (stopped reading a while ago)
- A Day Late and A Dollar Short (knitting sale, you should look at her blog!)
- Felix Hominum
- Pearls

- At the start of NoComLeaveMo, I moved to Google reader. I was probably reading about 20 blogs.

- I checked my Google reader today. I am subscribed to 86 blogs. And I read them all. I'd say that's a success.

- On that note, I'd like to update my blog roll. I won't even aspire to be Lolly, but I will add you, if you either pick a category that already exists (and if you'd like to be remembered with your wee one's name, let me know that), or by picking a category of your own. Because, I am not very creative that way. Leave notes in the comments, or drop me a line.

- And FINALLY, a reminder. Whinge for All Thursday. You know, that thing I knit a hat for, with my own two hands. We are doing very poorly with the comments, dear readers. Tsk, tsk. If you haven't gone to whinge, would you please?

- And where is JuliaS? I love her whinges about her very sweet husband that steals her towels, and can't put the toilet paper rolls on right! Oh JuliaS? Where art thou?