thorvalson.net

Between the Worlds

2011-08-16T03:35:00.004-05:00

Well, this is a new record. Three months without posting. It's no wonder my brain feels as though it's about to explode.

In synopsis, I broke my arm. Got it fixed. Had the cast removed. Am recuperating well. Note to self: Polyurethane wheels - old school - next time trying on roller skates. Duly noted.

After spending two months in the "fast track" section of the ER, it is altogether stimulating, infuriating, stressful, educational, sad, gross, inspirational, and illuminating to be back in the main department. In other words: situation normal. I once wrote a poem that included the phrase "snap like sternum." After a recent 16-hour shift, which included two virtually dead people within an hour, I have a new understanding of that phrase. 'Nough said.

I've moved into a home which is coming along much more slowly than I'd like, but is proving to be every ounce of the comfort I've been looking for. It's a labor of love, but it's so amazing to simply weed the garden, light a fire, sit in the hammock on the back deck and watch the stars move across the sky. Simple pleasures are everything these days.

I lost a friend several days ago, one who had fought sarcoidosis (a lung disease which essentially turns the lungs into fibrotic masses, not conducive to the exchange of oxygen, which is, as it turns out, pretty goddamn important). As the case would be, lung transplants aren't quite the efficient procedure for one whose lungs have turned into calcified masses. So it seems the bitch of attempting to survive becomes the impetus for a quick death. Congratulations! You've got new lungs. Bad news? Everything else got fucked in the process. Still reeling from the irony of it all, refusing to delete his phone number from my list of contacts on my cell phone. Still stubbornly hoping to see his name on the greaseboard at work, hoping he'll come in with a mild exacerbation of breathlessness, all the while knowing it's over and he's gone. Still having a hard time accepting that, accepting the fact that I will never again bump into him in the main lobby when he's exiting physical therapy at the same time I'm coming in to work. He may have been okay with it, but I'm finding I'm not. At least, not as okay with it as I thought I was.

My daughter is entering 5th grade this year. New school building, lockers, boy crushes and all. I'm both excited for her transition into preteen-dom and horrified at the prospect of having her hate me within the year. It's all I can do just to show her as often as possible how much I love her. I fear I am doomed to repeat my past as an angst-ridden teenager, only now through the actions, emotions, and struggles of my little beanie burrito. History repeats itself. I pray to a god I don't believe in that her transition into adulthood won't be as tumultuous as mine was.

And I'm going to be a stepmother soon. This is completely foreign territory.

Everything is on the line, and yet there's a sense of peace in knowing that I'm heading into the future with someone who is unequivocally THERE. Which is another foreign concept.

Is it possible that things will turn out okay?

Is it possible that life and love have taught me enough to bear the burdens this transition implies? Without driving him crazy?

These are questions I deal with every day, questions every human being deals with every day. There really is not much difference between me and the homeless woman who shows up in the ER looking for help and a safe place to sleep.

The proof is in the pudding, and although it curdles from time to time, I find myself in a place that is safe, secure, loving, passionate, and warm.

How did this happen.

Date Night

2011-05-16T22:36:00.008-05:00

"If you could just sign your name here and provide an address... We'll be sending thank you cards for your attendance."

No problem! Here ya go!

"That'll be $150, please."

I look over at my date, whose eyebrows are now rising against the raised ceiling of the venue we've entered.

I look back at the door-woman. She looks at my date, and then back at me.

"How did you hear of this show?"

Um.... Not to sound like a douchebag, but.... my boyfriend's in the band.

She waves us in after accepting my donation (150 bucks is a bit steep for 3 songs for my ten year old, but I'm not going in without paying something, either)...

Do you want a glass of water? Some milk?

"No."

Do you wanna go up front?

".....Yeah..... 'My boyfriend's in the band'...." she says with a snicker. We laugh. She gets it. We laugh at the realization, that a line has been crossed, that she's suddenly privy to conversation that had previously been ignored, or at best, misunderstood. We're playing on the same level, suddenly. I explain: I wasn't trying to take advantage, just trying not to pay 150 bucks for a show we'd only catch 20 minutes of. She rolls her eyes. I ask, "Well, do *you* have 150 bucks?" Her eyes cast downward. "Alright, then. Let's go in."

So we do. And she actually *likes* it. She thinks the lead singer is funny, and laughs when she recognizes the guitarist, wig and all. He plays a brief solo. "Is that him?" Yup. She smiles, curious, and dare I say... proud.

They take a break, and he shows her around backstage.

"I'm on stage! Can they see me?"

Yes, Madi. You can see them; they can see you.

She giggles.

We leave early, stopping at the Palomino for some take-out dinner on the way home. I used to work there. She used to come with me to work for a few hours at the beginning of every shift, waiting for her dad to pick her up. And would stand beneath the bar, which stood a full six inches above her head, and ask me to ask Bill, the bartender, for some cherries. And he'd give her four toothpicks full, with oranges and everything. The menu's listing of tater tots used to read "tater nuts" in honor of what she called them when she was only two years old.

And there we were. And she asked for quarters to play pool while our food was cooking, and she asked me to play with her, and I did. And she used the cue and everything. We talked of math, the geometry involved in shooting pool, and I thought, "This is what I want you to learn at this age. The connection between boring school stuff and how it might serve you in everyday life."

And when we came home, she told me she wasn't sure if she believed in God. "Sometimes my dad and I kind of make jokes..." and she ducked her head, as if waiting for the invisible lightning bolt to strike her down.

And all I can think is... Who is this beautiful, intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate girl, and how many days will fly by so fast before she's standing before me, arguing politics and defending herself against the questions I pose regarding her latest relationship.

Answer? My daughter. And not enough.

Hold tight to what you've got, Milwaukee. It changes so fast.

And, Madi? I'm more proud of you than you could ever imagine.

Dear ER...

2011-05-11T02:11:00.007-05:00

Well, babycakes, it looks like we made it.

I never would have imagined a few years ago that we'd even know each other before I'd gained more experience with your type, and yet it's already been a whole year that we've been together. I'll admit, it's been a struggle. For example, today's debauchery - had it happened in our honeymoon phase - would surely have forced me to totally break up with you. This being our anniversary, however, I'll let it slide.

In spite of your negative qualities, you have introduced some wonderful people into my life, friends that I hope to still have in my life even long after I've given you your sweater back. You know I'm only with you because I love your friends, right?

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll never leave you. This is probably the most.... wait. Lemme think about that.

Nope, it's not even close to the most destructive relationship I've ever been in.

Still.... you stinker, you.

So here's to Us. Here's to you challenging me to the absolute end of my wits, to teaching me how to say Fuck You in the smartest and most polite manner, to failed IV attempts, to the subtle application of empathic hands, to knowing better, knowing when, knowing how, learning, growing, moving forward.

Next year at this time, you will no doubt insist that I take the next step in our relationship: triage. I have to admit, I'm dreading it. But I know the next year will afford us more opportunities to grow together as a couple, giving me the strength I'll need to take on your most heinous attributes.

We're far from Bogart and Bacall, but we're not exactly Sid and Nancy, either.

Just make sure you get that nasty stuff on your dick checked out. We can work around it as long as you're honest with me.

Love,
Steph, RN

Dear Madi,

2011-05-08T13:54:00.003-05:00

See? I changed the spelling for you. Personally, I've always preferred "Maddie," but it's your name and you'll do what you like with it.

That seems to be the theme, these days: you, growing, changing into who you will become; me, struggling at times to let you do this without my input. It's harder than I thought it would be - simply allowing you to be who you are instead of trying desperately to shape who you will become. Too many parents these days raise their children in fear of how the world will corrupt them. I have to remind myself that these corruptions existed when I was a kid, too, and somehow my generation turned out alright.

And you're doing alright, too, in spite of how many hours of tv or internet I lazily allow. I can't really tell you to get off the damn computer when I spend so much time on it myself. And honestly, reruns of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on Netflix are probably teaching you more about morality, friendship, and sticktoitiveness than you'd ever let me lecture you about. At least, that's what I tell myself when maternal guilt looms too heavily and persistently over my heart.

I remember when you were born and I thought, "I couldn't keep hamsters alive when I was growing up. How the hell am I going to pull this off?" So far, so good. There are things I'd like to do better, but many things I think I could do worse on. I hope you agree. Currently, my Mommying philosophy is to take it a little easier on you and myself and just let these days with you, these precious hours when I'm not working, be what they are: slow. Lazy. Lovely.

Know you have shaped me as a mother just as much as I've influenced you, if not more, and the lessons you've taught me are just as crucial. We've raised each other to some extent, and I'm so grateful for the gifts of your beauty both inside and out.

Now go clean your room. ;)

Love,
Mom

Distillery

2011-04-10T00:27:00.004-05:00

Within the next month, I am to distill two particular experiences of my choosing into two separate stories detailing my growth as a nurse.

There are days I don't know up from down, days that compress hour into hour, lifetime into lifetime, days that crush and compress and condense every sound into one aching and continuous roar so loud, so BEEPing, so wailing and cacophonous I can't even hear myself think long enough to distinguish the puking from the crying, let alone imagine how I'm going to help fix it.

There are days I feel like an assembly line worker, churning out product, fixing this, adjusting that, and calling out for the next person in line. Someone literally pisses on us, and we put on a new pair of scrubs and march straight back into that room.

There are days I hate the American health care system and the fact that I'm at the front line of it. There are times that someone tries to end their own life and we're the ones who just barely save it, hooking them up to machines to keep them alive long enough for their loved ones to decide what to do, how to cope, how to wrap their brains around what has already happened and yet is seemingly prolonged by "life-saving measures." And we count the drips, do our math, hook it all up, plug it all in, warm this, ice that, knowing all the while that the person connected to it all is now just a body; the person is gone, the essence of that human being is irretrievably lost.

But we do it anyway, because people need it. The living need it.

There are days I'm floored by how easy it is to speak to people on their own level, to relate to so many different walks of life.

There are days I'm shocked by how wrong we all were, by how much an allergic reaction can look like a heart attack, how easy it could be to be presumptuous, to make a decision, to do one thing or fail to do one thing that makes all the difference in the world to those who sit in the chairs in the room, looking at us with that helpless stare, asking what this or that number means, asking what happens next, when we are no more in control of the situation than they are, and we're watching those numbers flip just as closely.

There are days the docs challenge me to learn something I didn't know; there are days I wish they'd just give me the orders and give my brain a rest. There are days we teach them something they didn't know, and we nurses celebrate those moments - the moments in which we become We instead of Them and Us.

There are days I feel respected and smart; there are days I feel like I'm stomping through water, my knees lifting achingly, hopefully toward open air for the freedom and lack of pressure to simply take another step, to move forward, forward, forward.

There are days I'm grateful we're able to speak to people frankly, and days I'd do better to remember proper adjectives.

There are days I wonder where the rest of my life went - my child, my personal life, my outside interests - and know the people around me are thinking the same, and that we've all made the decision to be here, together, in this room, cracking ribs, emptying catheter bags into specimen containers, filling tubes and jars with blood and spit, writing orders that mean the continued or ending life of someone's sister, someone's dad, and I wonder what the hell is wrong with all of us that we've chosen to do this, to be here.

It's still, a year later, one foot in front of the other. Baby steps to the elevator, literally. I drive to work in silence - no radio, no CDs - because I know the next 10 hours will be nothing but sound and suffering. I take deep breaths and revel in the silence, trying to make myself feel at one with the traffic around me. Lockstep. Part of a bigger picture.

I can't fix the health care system. I can't make your wait any shorter; it's not in my power to give you health insurance and a primary care physician and the money to pay for such.

It is in my power to tell you that your diet of McDonald's and Parliaments is not conducive to improving your current state of health (or lack of).

It is in my power to tell you that doing cocaine, even just once a week, for years on end is what has led to your ongoing bouts of chest pain and shortness of breath.

It is in my power to tell you that this is an Emergency Room and if you are not having an Emergency (defined as Risk of Loss of Life, Limb, or Eyesight), then you'll have to wait.

And it is in my power to tell you that I'm no better than you are, that I smoke and drink and fuck and swear and make mistakes just like you do. I just happen to understand the consequences, biologically, a littler more clearly. Do I make better decisions with this knowledge? Not always. So let's figure it out together.

Most importantly, it is in my power to be here, to learn more, to grow. A year ago, I never thought I'd have the privilege of working in the environment I've grown to love so much, in spite (and because) of its challenges.

Yet, here we are.

Two experiences?

Are you kidding me?

33

2011-03-26T12:07:00.005-05:00

It's amazing what a little sunshine can do. I don't think I've ever returned from a vacation before feeling so rejuvenated. Maybe it's the contrast between What I Do at Work and What I Do When I'm Not There that did it. In previous years, in previous jobs, the line between Work and Social Life was far more blurred. I worked with friends I knew socially. I drank with the people I served. I spent my off-hours, too often, sitting at the same bar I tended.

Now? There couldn't be a bigger difference between Work and Not Work. This is a hospital! And this is me on the beach, in the sunshine, in the moonlight, with the only sound being that of the Gulf of Mexico lapping at my toes. No confusion there. Yes, I spend social time with some of my coworkers, but... the change in atmosphere between Work and Social Time is so obvious that it makes each of the experiences more intense, more fulfilling.

Whatever the case may be, I got off that plane in MKE on Wednesday and felt fulfilled. None of those, "oh, shit, here we go again," back-to-reality doldrums. I made an executive decision to continue my vacation state of mind for as long as possible, and so far? It's working! Spring is here, along with its bipolar weather patterns (this snow today can, however, admittedly, suck it), and I'm reveling in the simple joys of housework and motherhood. Madi got her hair cut yesterday, a ritual that only accentuates this happy sense of renewal. I painted my fingernails with pink sparkly nail polish I'd purchased for her at the salon while she sat in the chair, smiling at the growing mound of brown and pink hair on the floor.

I'm not sure what's going on here, but I feel like I'm on the cusp of something big. I'm truly happy with where I am in life, and closer to the people I'm sharing it with. My relationships are more sincere and more honest than they've ever been. Suddenly, it seems there is no proverbial other shoe to drop. Life happens, shit will happen, I know. But it's such a powerful realization, to recognize exactly how much in love I am with my life, with the people in it, with what I do to help sustain those people, with what they do to help sustain me. The future is on my doorstep, and there's no more grasping at thin air to try to catch it, pin it down, secure it, prevent it from somehow escaping.

The Future is now, it's already happening, and it's just me, my family, a pair of ridiculously huge leopard-print Jackie O sunglasses, and this stupid smile on my face that secretly loves the waiting, the mystery of What Will Happen Next, the security of knowing it's within my own power to help create it.

"How long?"

2011-02-08T02:48:00.004-06:00

(written, due to intubation/inability to speak; frantically gesturing):

"How long?" (gestures toward ventilator)

No, nonononono! You've only been here three hours. It's Monday, February 7, 2011. The Packers won the Superbowl last night. There was a fire in your apartment. Do you remember?

(nods 'yes'; attempts to sit up and speak)

Don't try to talk - you have a tube in your throat that's helping you to breathe. If you try to talk, you'll keep gagging. Just relax. I know this sucks. We'll get the tube out as soon as possible. We just have to make sure your lungs are alright. You might have inhaled a lot of smoke and heat; it may have damaged your lungs. I promise you, we'll get that thing out as quickly as we possibly can.

(blinks, tears run down the side of his face, nods)

I'm so, so sorry. But you're doing alright. Your vital signs are great. It's only been a few hours; don't worry. You're going to be okay.

(I lean over him, pat his chest, rub his head)

(He nods, grabs onto my arm, pulls me toward him to embrace)

You're going to be okay.

(nods)

I'm going to give you some medication to help you relax and sleep. You're not meant to be awake while you have this tube in - I'm sorry you woke up. I'm going to give you this med, and you're going to go to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be in the ICU. The fire department and police are trying to contact your family. I tried to call your wife, but there was no answer. I think the number was your home phone, and, well, the fire...

(nods)

Was your wife at home with you?

(shakes head, 'no')

She'll come to see you soon. Go to sleep now, okay? Just rest and relax. You're going to be just fine. I promise. You're doing great.

(nods, holds my arm in a half-embrace while my hands do the work to sedate him)

***

I push 30 mg of propofol and hold his hand until it goes limp again. On the way to ICU, he awakens again (jesuschrist, how many meds will it take to keep this man sedated...), sees the tech, looks frantically around at his surroundings until I bring my face into his field of vision.

***

You're okay. We're going to the ICU now. Remember me? I'm your nurse. From the ER. You'll have a different nurse in the ICU, but you're going to be alright. Okay?

(nods, goes back to sleep)

***

There are nights I bring my work home with me, and this is one of them. I know he'll be fine. I don't make promises I can't keep. But the sheer look of terror on his face, not knowing whether he'd been out for hours or months or years... My biggest fear in life isn't cancer or heart disease; it's locked-in syndrome. Being fully alert, disoriented to time, and unable to communicate.

My prayers tonight are for him, for his wife. He could be a complete asshole in his normal waking hours. I don't care.

Sometimes the hardest part is never knowing the context of the story, the beginning, the end. All we see is the middle, the emergent, the life-or-death moments. I hope people realize that those moments aren't shared solely by the family.

We share them, are changed by them, are moved and transformed, too.

Dear Maddie,

2011-01-29T00:18:00.004-06:00

I'm sorry. I should have said, "Madi." The honored change in spelling of one's nickname is, I realize, highly important at your age. Which is now 10.

I won't waste your time or embarrass you too much with the memories of your birth. Know that it seems both yesterday and longer than ten years ago. You are simultaneously my baby, my little girl, and the grown-up You all in one. I can see hints of what you'll be like as an adult in your tween self, and I cannot tell you how beautiful and amazing I think you are and will be.

Your kindness with your friends, your love of laughter and seemingly endless pursuit of all things fun, your sweetness, empathy, your intelligence and street smarts... It's so wonderful to witness all these qualities in you, the innocence you still possess, the simple love of life.

I can't take credit for who you've become. You are your own human being, and at your age, are growing ever more responsible for your own experiences.

A bit of advice, as you near your teens (please - humor me):

Hang on to that sensitivity of yours, but don't let it overwhelm you. Be confident in the knowledge that you are an incredibly kind human being, and know that you can't please everyone all the time.

Be yourself, because you're the only You there is in this world, and she's pretty damn cool.

Focus on the positive things in life. Disappointments are everywhere, but try to find the beauty in the challenges of your life. Think of them as triple dog dares, and see how easily you're able to overcome them. I know you can do it.

Most of all, know how very much you are loved, by more people than you know. I haven't always been the best Mom, but I am whole-heartedly, happily, gratefully yours. Thank you for teaching me patience and for showing me the incredible rewards of selflessness.

You are even more beautiful, inside and out, than I ever could have imagined. My beanie burrito, my little Bug, my world, my life, and my heart. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh - keep kickin' ass. You do it so well. I am so proud of the person you are.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Love always,
Mom

Borrowed Steel

2011-01-27T05:00:00.005-06:00

This week has been absolute murder. Two massive heart attacks on Sunday, an unexpected code in the most isolated section of the ED on Monday, and tonight was just.... blecchhh. Ten hours of running my ass off for people who really didn't need it, just to make room for the people who possibly really *did* need it... thankless, endless...

I got home and realized all I'd eaten today was a hospital-made tuna salad sandwich. And that I got shit for sleep last night. And was subsequently in an utterly foul mood.

Shortly, sweetly: It's a rare thing in life to find someone who finds even your shittiest of moments endearing. I don't know how many profanities spewed from my lips in that brief venting session, but I do recall the forgiving look on his face.

The guilt is overwhelming at times - the feeling that in the effort to care for so many others during my working hours, I've bled myself dry of any inclination to feed the ones I love most with the attention and respect they deserve once I've come home.

Then she says, "Mom, I've been with you at work for an hour, and I'm tired. You still have nine hours to go. Sheesh."

And he says, "I was driving today, when suddenly it hit me."

And somehow, it works. I don't know how. Part of me is waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. Things fall apart. In my previous experience, letting go of the guard is a direct path to humiliation, heartbreak. Being on the other side of the nurses' station, so to speak. Things fucking up in my personal life at this point would mean the loss of not only my love, but my best friend. The risk we've taken is so enormous. And I'm a selfish, tired, ornery human being. The fact that I even write this shit speaks to a certain level of narcissism. It's harder and harder, as I get older, to accept that someone - anyone - could really know me that well and still accept me. The cracks just keep getting deeper, and I'm not sure if caring less what other people think is a sign of maturity and self-respect or simply apathy, self-preservation, in response to what I do, see, hear, smell, and live every day at work.

In so many ways, I am so unworthy of the many blessings in my life. I wish I had more to give to the people I most want to give to.

And in so many ways, I'm so tired of analyzing and am working toward simply believing that maybe it's possible that I can be an ornery, overworked, exhausted shell of a human being at times, and yet still be worthy of using his arm as a pillow, of being a mother to a girl who is on the cusp of so many beautiful, terrifying things.

Ten years. Ten years since Dad died; ten years since Maddie was born. I have crow's feet, cavities born of her birth that are long overdue for attention. My car is the ultimate metaphor of my life, even still (my poor cars...): running on empty, in dire need of an oil change, but still, somehow, getting me from one place to another.

It's a crapshoot, really. I don't know how the fuck I got here.

But I'm so grateful. I am so, so grateful.

Dad. 10/19/1941 - 1/21/2001.

2011-01-21T02:27:00.008-06:00

Ten years ago this very moment, I was on death watch with my family. My brother and I tried to encourage my mom to sleep, saying we'd stay up and/or get up to give my dad his pain meds. Earlier in the day, my dad had driven his truck for the last time, under the influence of massive amounts of oxycontin, to purchase lottery tickets at the local hardware store - a trip that normally took about twenty minutes. This time, he was gone for over an hour. My older sister had gone with him, so the rest of the family - my mom, younger sister, oldest brother, and I - weren't too worried, but still... It ended up that he had wanted to take a little drive through the neighborhood. Kirstin, my older sister, later said Dad had taken the back streets and drove 15 mph the entire time. Including a portion of the drive on Harrison Avenue. A main thoroughfare of Rockford, speed limit 45 mph. And there's my dad, jacked up on oxy, driving 15 mph in the middle of the day.

After an hour had passed, someone looked outside and realized that Dad was parked back at home again. He and Kirstin were in the truck, talking. I don't remember how long they sat there, in the truck, outside in the freezing January temperatures, but I do remember my mom throwing Dad's clothes and blanket in the dryer to warm them up for him once he came back inside. He was 59 years old, about 5'6", and weighed 112 pounds. I was 22 years old, 5'6.5", and weighed 140 pounds - nine months pregnant.

Joe, my dad's longtime friend and coworker, came by that afternoon. I remember my dad trying to convince Joe to take his tools. Dad had been a mechanic for over 35 years, had taught Joe everything he knew about business ownership, and Joe absolutely refused to inherit Dad's tools. At the time, I thought it was a form of denial. In truth, Joe probably had newer, better tools than Dad, but knowing Joe, it was most likely a matter of humility.

Joe left that evening, and Dad eventually fell asleep on the couch. Everyone in the family was hopeful, optimistic - it was the first day in weeks that Dad had gone without even a singular nap. We thought maybe things were taking a turn for the better; maybe he'd be around for the 4-6 weeks we were told he was expected to live. At some point, my brother and I tried to wake Dad for his meds. I remember lifting him from the couch, trying to arouse him. My brother took one arm; I took the other. He couldn't stand, let alone walk. We called the hospice nurse. The rest of the night is kind of a blur.

I do recall Dad reaching out at one point, with one arm. He said, "Tell Mother to pull the car around," or something to that effect. His mother, my grandmother, died in 1993.

Sometime the next morning, on the 21st of January 2001, my dad's face started twitching. He was comatose by this point. We all tried to troubleshoot. His pain meds had just been increased... Was he in pain? Was he dreaming? Was he uncomfortable? What could we do?

Everyone was exasperated. Sleep deprived. Grieving the loss of someone who was still only barely alive. Mike and I both wanted a cigarette.

Then we looked at each other.

A cigarette! He wants a cigarette!

I grabbed a Lucky Strike nonfilter from the pack on the living room table, stuck it in my dad's mouth, and Mike flicked a lighter nearby, close enough so Dad could hear it.

"There ya go, Dad."

He took a long deep breath, exhaled, and didn't make a peep after that.

My little sister, Jenny, and I decided to go for a walk. I was determined to try every wives' tale in the book to get my labor started before Dad died. On our walk, we wondered aloud whether or not Dad would be alive by the time we made it around the block. We joked that he was the type of man who never wanted a fuss - he'd die when no one was looking.

I remember picking up the pace on that last stretch of the block, coming down Seward Ave., looking at the houses of the Goethes, the Schultz's, the Holidays'... all the families we'd grown up with. Hoping we'd make it back in time.

He was still breathing when we walked in the door. I said, "Ha! Caught ya! You can't leave now! We're back!" We each gave him a kiss on the forehead.

He was gone within the hour.

***

I'm sure I've told this story before, here on the blog. But there's something about remembering, something about telling the story over and over again, that helps to heal. It's been 10 years now. Ten. Years. When my father died, I was a newly divorced, pregnant girl in college at UWM, studying everything I could get my brain around because I wasn't sure what the fuck I wanted to do with my life. And somehow, miraculously, thankfully, Dad was okay with that.

I'm okay with the fact that my dad's gone. I've had a long time to get used to it. But it still rips me in half to know that he never saw the best years of my life, never got to see me truly grow and flourish, never got to see my daughter, never knew me in nursing school, let alone as a nurse - a profession I never would have followed through with were it not for his death, for the nurses who stood over him, who helped us and taught us how to help him live as he died. He never saw me truly in love, in a happy relationship, with little to no drama.

I know if he were here, he'd be proud. I know he and I would have a shot and a beer together and compare his stories from the Air Force to my stories of the ER. I know he'd approve of my significant other, he'd love the Bears/Packers rivalry and find peace in the fact that we've found peace in each other. I know he'd know I'm taken care of, and would be grateful that I have someone in my life who both takes care of me and knows when to give me a swift kick in the ass. I know he knows that I know how to take care of myself regardless. I know he'd respect me and continue to give me a hard time about the things I need to work on. We had a mutual respect and forgiveness for and of each other by the time he left. I know that.

There are a lot of things I know about my dad.

It doesn't make me miss him any less.

It doesn't even begin to fill the void.

In Which I Get All John Lennon 'n Shit

2011-01-04T03:41:00.005-06:00

It is possible to get to the point where you cease to care. It's called "burnout." Or perhaps, more simply, "Monday." The new nurse in me brings you warm blankets, dims the lights, offers distraction and fluids until the doc comes in, while the emerging emergency nurse in me curses our health care system and wishes you'd realize this is a fucking emergency room - not the Holiday Inn.

The holidays were a blur of work, arguments with various family members (both blood and extended) regarding said work, and general stress. Don't get me wrong - I love Xmas Eve with my family - but this year, that wasn't possible. Neither was Xmas Day. And from my last post to this, I was hoping to just hit the fast forward button and be done with it all.

Hallelujah! Jesus' purported birthday is over! Can we just get back to normal life now?!

I think it's the sense of urgency that bothers me. Urgency, and consumerism. I love my family. I'm pretty sure they know that. Also, I have been - until very recently - historically, demographically, and perpetually Broke. This welling sense of obligation that occurs in the month of December, to purchase trinkets I can't afford, does nothing but piss me off. For the last 10 years, I've (for the most part) made gifts in lieu of buying them. This year, said gift (which shall remain detail-less due to the fact that my family and I have yet to exchange gifts) was also extended to a coworker, for whom I was designated her most voluntary Secret Santa. On the day I brought said gift to work, a few coworkers noticed the package on the break room table and picked up the box. And shook it.

"It feels like there's nothing in there!"
"Merry Christmas! Here's a box of air!"
(laughter)

I spoke up from the other side of the room and said, "It's handmade. Please don't shake it."

Silence.

And that's not even the shitty part. The shitty part is that I took the gift back home with me that night (because the recipient, I was told, would not be working the next day), and proceeded to supplement said gift with day-after-Christmas sale items (yummy, nice items, but still) from a local (retail, corporate) store. Then I unwrapped my handmade gift, wrapped the Bought Items individually, and presented them the next working day with my handmade gift tied to the wrappings.

She liked the gifts. Didn't even mention the one I'd made. So maybe I have some work to do in the area of craftiness.

The point is, I gave my time. And I absolutely despise the notion that a Christian holiday (AND I'M A FUCKING ATHEIST!) is so seldom celebrated with works of love and all too often with works of the wallet.

So, again. Hallelujah. It's over. A new year has begun - another rite of passage that, as a service industry worker of 17+ years, I absolutely dread.

I love the passing days of January, those days in the late-first and second weeks, when everyone finally chills the fuck out and gets back to what matters to them, when everyone realizes they don't need spa packages or video games or expensive shiny gadgets to know that they are loved, that they love the people in their lives, that the best times spent together aren't because We Should but because We Genuinely Want To.

So here's to chili, to Sunday football, to impromptu drives back home. To long days at work, to people who listen to endless diatribes about said days and love us anyway, to siblings and mothers and fathers and friends we call because We Want To; not because It's Christmas. To simply Being, not Trying. To Accepting, to Worrying, to Pulling Our Hair Out and letting it grow again. To blood that's thin enough to flow and thick enough to last. To crying on shoulders and laughing inappropriately. To admitting defeat, to rising to the challenge. To movement, to forward motion, to self-forgiveness, awareness in general.

To burnout. To absolute exhaustion and the peace that comes with knowing You Did Your Best.

To telling off the bad guy or just meeting their stare, knowing they've neglected to make their own bed while criticizing yours.

To making your own bed with fresh sheets and blankets for someone you love.

To letting it go. To letting it all just be.

Happy New Year.

"She's lucky I'm spiritually fit today." - Jennifer Kast

2010-12-19T20:54:00.004-06:00

A couple of old friends stopped by unexpectedly today. Rockford friends, people I've known since I was 15 & 17 years old, respectively. Once upon a time, I couldn't write of my Rockford friends without grief; they were all the walking dead. When I met them, they were babies. We were babies. And for years, I watched them all commit the world's slowest suicide. I left that town, left that group of people, not only for fear of what I might wind up becoming, but out of sheer terror at the sight of watching them all slowly devolve. Corey: so electric, oceanic and bold. Stew, with her fiery hair and attitude that has now been honed to such a sharply, lovingly pointed Truth. Eddie, our very own Ponyboy gone horribly awry for so many years. And now it is the same group of people - some, not all - who give me so much strength, who remind me of who I am, where I come from, the experiences that helped create who I am now, for better or worse.

It's so good to hear, from those who knew me at my worst, that even at my worst I was worthy of love, of affection and friendship. And to share those feelings with each other, to sit as adults, nearly two decades later, to see the people I recognize as my friends beneath the lines on each other's faces, the physical and emotional scars... To have accepted each other then and to accept each other now, to speak in the silent communication we're still so fluent in, despite years of separation, is so incredibly validating.

Some may say we never had it, that the friendships forged at that time were only based on a common interest in self-medication, numbing ourselves. I say that it's been 17 years since I met Corey, since I met Stew and Eddie, and the fact that we can still come face to face with such brutal and open honesty is the biggest and only affirmation of true friendship I need.

The last few months have been brutal. In January, I start a new schedule - four days/week as opposed to five - and I am so looking forward to having that time to reconnect with my daughter, to bring lunch to Jeff, to have coffee with Tracey and simply enjoy the simplicities of daily life outside the ER. This entire experience has been so illuminating and at the same time, so isolating.

Balance is what's on the menu for 2011, and so far, it's looking good. I'm turning myself inside out to get there. The innards are gross, they're a hot bloody mess sometimes, but we're getting there. All of us. My old family and new. Myself included.

It's all just part of the process, and the Process is never-ending. We bitch and moan and white-knuckle it through the bad times, but at least we have Time.

Check, check one, check, check....

2010-12-01T02:16:00.009-06:00

*thumpthumpthump* Is this thing on?

A coworker asked me other day how the blog was going..... EXACTLY! Which is why I felt it necessary to check in.

In short (ha! is it ever?), I am completely overwhelmed in the professional department and completely underwhelmed in the motherhood department. My hours require me to forfeit nights home with Maddie anywhere from 5-7 nights/week. When you add in her school schedule and my autonomy (on-call) shifts, this means I frequently go 7-10 days in a row without seeing her. True, her father has been great about bringing her into the ER on those longer stretches of time so that I can take a 15 minute break to have some hot chocolate with her and check in on how her life is going, but.... it's not enough. She's going to be 10 next month. I ran a pregnancy check on a 10 year old at work tonight. 'Ick' doesn't even begin to cover it.

Work is work. It's hard, it's emotional as hell, it gets harder as the days-worked-in-a-row stretch even further... but I'm still proud to say I work at the busiest ER in the state, with the best people on earth. We lost one of our doctors this past weekend to a sudden (and as yet unexplained) collapse. She was one of my favorite docs. Compassionate, no-nonsense, strategically and not overzealously potty-mouthed, hilarious, brilliant, warm, and an amazing resource to me over the last six months of my employment there. In spite of her 20+ years of experience in the ER, she never made me feel like shit, like an idiot. And I loved her for that. She was an exemplary role model not only in terms of emergency medicine, but as a mother and a human being. It didn't strike me how much I'd miss her until I walked into work tonight for the first time since she died and truly felt her absence. Every step from my car to the ER felt like my feet were encased in concrete. For the first time since my father died, I felt myself calling upon the spirit of a deceased loved one, asking for help just to get me through the fucking door.

I know this is touchy-feely asinine bullshit, but can you just pretend to be here for a second and get me inside among others who are also missing you before they wind up calling a first response on my panic-attacking ass. Hold my hand, Katie. Remind me to be strong. To put one foot in front of the other, because I have feet, because I have a body attached to them that is living and breathing and somehow still whole. I'll buy you a drink later to pay you back, really. Thank you.

It's true: there are no atheists in a foxhole.

And you leave a big, big hole, my friend.

***

So that's where I'm at. If I'm quiet here these days, it's because I'm trying my damnedest to hold it together until my work/life balance is, well, balanced. I have a great job, amazing coworkers, a whole new family of friends, a steady paycheck, health insurance, a (knock on wood) functional vehicle, a roof over my head that will soon be expanded, and the support of the most quietly steadfast, salt-of-the-earth partner I've ever known. My daughter occasionally recalls that I am not solely, essentially, at heart, the Evil Person Who Forces Her to Clean Her Room. We put up our pathetic little Charlie Brown Xmas tree over the weekend, and I was so grateful for that tradition, that stupid little marker of another year gone by, the fork we place at the top of the tree in place of a star, an ornament given to me by my mother, a fork I ate off of as a child, to remind me that family, love, food, shelter, togetherness, are all that matter; that through this stupid, mottled, tarnished piece of silverware, my family is still one; my father, still alive, in me, in this piece of shit tree from Walgreen's. 1978. Baby's First Christmas; a pearlescent bulb. A silver sphere from my great-grandmother. A reindeer made of wine corks to remind me that This is What Happens When You Have a Broke Gay Uncle Who Likes Wine at Christmas. Teddy bears with drums I sewed by hand at age 10? 12? A tree made of baked clay, painted by my daughter at age two.

We've dragged this sorry ass piece of shit Xmas tree from our shoebox apartment on Marshall St to its slightly superior neighbor in the same building, to a house with a man who for whatever reason moved on from us, to this place, this apartment, to our current lives, our current selves. Maddie, a nearly-10 year old. Me, an emergency department nurse, and somehow still - if only by a thread, it feels, at times (it's a strong thread, steel and platinum, woven, intact, an AVM gone blissfully, miraculously right) - her mom, her co-conspirator in all things nail polish and rock. And us, still moving forward, still calling on the spirits of those who gave us these treasures, these trinkets on the tree, to keep us moving forward, one leaded foot in front of the other, marching lockstep toward something better, the best we've ever known.

***

"If you can't pay the rent
go off to work with a proud step,
and remember, my love, that I am watching you
and together we are the greatest wealth
that was ever gathered upon the earth."
- Pablo Neruda

***

"It's time to meet your makers." - Fugazi, "Latin Roots"

2010-11-10T02:56:00.008-06:00

Witness: JVD, charge, shock, agonal.

Agonal.

File under: gratitude. Reclamations, declarations. Papers to be signed. Possessions accounted for. Tags, toes, teeth, bags. Lives sealed neatly - and with love, I swear it - in stark white sheets and zippers.

Your dead do not go without pieces of us. We mourn with you.

It seems this place, this blog, is one I visit less and less frequently as of late. Days are passing like water. The leaves drop, exacerbations rise. People go on exotic vacations and arrive wearing golden hues draped over the pains in their chests. We're pale and Wisconsinite, doing our best. Pushing the buttons. Manning the sails, towing the lines.

Your kid comes with a fever that lights a fire, revives us all.

Your biggest fear is the safest thing we've seen all night. I just want to hold him, but my stethoscope is so cold against such aching and sensitive nerves. What a blessing this is - the pain, the ability to feel it, the ability to heal - though he unequivocally hates me right now. What a blessing.

A memorial service was held tonight for someone I knew - though not too well - who went too soon, but hopefully with a sense of happiness, the happiness he knew, the peace he sought. I hope he went down with a smile on his face and without regret. Jubilant. Celebratory. Electric, and then quietly.

My life is good. It's challenging, overwhelming. Heartbreaking. Ecstatic. Grateful. Careful. Humble. Afraid. Determined. Supported. A house of cards, a bar of soap. Temporary. Strong, while it lasts. Until. And always, stupidly, haphazardly, accidentally, blissfully optimistic.

I hope yours is, too.

Hush, now.

2010-10-28T02:32:00.004-05:00

My boyfriend, a friend, and I were exchanging photos of our kids tonight, and I'm completely flabbergasted by how quickly the time has gone. I remember our friend telling us he was expecting. I remember caring for my niece, Ava, for her first overnight stay at my place in Milwaukee when her parents still lived in the 'burbs of Chicago and afternoon coffee with my best friend meant a two hour drive. So many thoughts go along with this - sadness for unexpected and unintended heartaches, gratitude for my little sister and her little ones and the joy they bring me from such a frustratingly close (yet so far away) distance across the state line, the simultaneous shock by and acceptance of how very, very unanticipated life's changes occur. My mother is an official Jet Setter. My family seems so far away from right here, right now, working 50 hours a week and barely scratching in enough time to simply give my daughter a back rub the one or two nights a week she's now here.

Last night, I gave an immunization to someone who'd thrown their fist through a window and lied about their behavior.

Tonight, I cared for someone who genuinely needed a crapton of medical and nursing support.

Honestly, none of it means shit because I can't be there for Maddie as much as I want to be right now.

Afterwards, I stood by a fire, drinking a glass of wine, marveling at the fact that my daughter is now in 4th grade. Her school pictures came out two weeks ago, and in them, she looks as though she'll be ready for college next year. So grown up. So pretty. So uncomplicatedly, simply, beautifully, Maddie.

It's time for readjustment. It's time for hunkering down, for scarves and silent nights on the couch, watching the moon carve its path across the sky. For going back to school, finishing my BSN. For a new couch. For quiet, simple nights with people we love. For quiet.

For quiet.

"Thy firmness makes my circle just/And makes me end where I begun" - John Donne

2010-09-28T00:57:00.007-05:00

In 2006, I went to Door County in a burgundy van with a man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with. We spent the majority of the weekend hanging out with a mutual friend, which was fun, but left me feeling as though we'd missed an opportunity for some much-needed (in my mind, anyway) Alone Time. In 2007, we repeated the trip, for which I jumped through hoops to clear my schedule of three jobs' worth of work, only to have the trip cut short by two nights due to his insistence upon returning to his own responsibilities at work, which had been taken care of (or so I'd thought) before we'd even left town.

In 2009, I went to Door County in a black BMW with a man who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. We stayed in one of the nicest hotels in the county - two bedrooms, two floors, a fireplace, a private jacuzzi. I spent our one full day there soaking up sunshine by myself while he swore at the computer for six hours about the internet connection not being fast enough and the fax machine in the office not being functional. Because he'd brought work with him. Which is the one thing most people (including me) come to Door County to avoid.

We managed to have a good time between the four-lettered words, but I'd decided before we'd even gotten to Sturgeon Bay that This Was Not Going to Work.

***

In 2010, I went to Door County in a burgundy van with my best friend. We brought my daughter. My little Bug enjoyed a weekend vacation with her mother for the first time in her life. She ate candy and ice cream, filled up on hot chocolate before finishing her breakfast, played on three different playgrounds, fed goats and lambs, and came home with a smile on her face and a new kitten, which is now keeping her up late, waking her with foot scratches and playful pats on the nose. She crawls into my bed, hoping to avoid his loving midnight crazies.

Our Solomon passed away over a year ago, and although we miss him, I know he's happy that we eventually adopted a little brother. Jackson Bailey. As with so many human relationships I'm surrounded by, I only wish they'd known each other in life. But our new baby is handsome, a green-eyed, grey-chested black baby wrapped in curious wonder, fresh with the farm air he was raised in, baptized and dried in a two-tone, glittering, 1952-meets-1983 kitchen by the hands of simplicity, humor, and love.

"Part of me feels like I want to know more, and part of me feels like I already know everything." - Maddie Larsh, age 9, 9/27/2010.

The 411 on 211 and more.

2010-09-14T18:54:00.007-05:00

Six-thirty came all too soon this morning, and with it, the reluctance to pull myself out of bed in order to spend 8 hours discussing domestic violence. Good morning! This is what it looks like when someone's kicked in the back by a cowboy boot! Exhibit B! Electric cord bruising! Exhibit C! Strangulation marks! Sexual trauma! Oh, the stifling, putrid smell of forensics in the morning...

As horrible as all of this sounds - and it is - it was so empowering to dedicate an entire day to identifying the exact resources we, as nurses, can offer to our patients, particularly through the ER. Equally astounding was the willingness of people in the class to share their own stories, from personal experience, from the experiences of patients they've served.

The truth is, we can't "fix it." Like alcoholics and those addicted to drugs, an abused person has to come to terms with their situation on their own time and deal with it according to their own schedule and will. The most difficult part of this process for those of us trying to "help" is dealing with our own judgment of what's going on - either behind the scenes or else right in front of us. We think she should leave him. We think he shouldn't be allowed to visit in the hospital. We want to protect her, to protect the kids, to press charges, to get him (or her, for that matter) the hell out of there, stat. Preferably in handcuffs.

But the "rehabilitation" system isn't designed for rehabilitation. Often, offenders come out of jail or prison even more abusive than they were going into the system. And the people we were trying to help wind up being victimized even further, if not through direct abuse, then by the mere thought or threat of it.

It brought a lot to the surface for me, personally. My father's verbal abuse when I was a teenager (for which we did later make amazing, genuine amends). The sexual abuse I survived, twice. The implications of both of those things on the formation of my own self esteem (or lack of) as a teen and young adult, the decisions I made that I now know were so directly linked to having been exposed to those experiences: moving out at age 16, being promiscuous and confusing sex with love as a teen, looking for approval and acceptance among male friends pretty much my entire life as a result of having been used and/or abused by males in the past, feeling judged and distrusted by female acquaintances - and most importantly, choosing to enter into and remain in abusive relationships that I wouldn't have tolerated if it were happening to, say, my best friend, or a family member. And not just once, but many times over. The "what if" mentality. The excuses we make up to pardon the people we do or did truly love because of their redeeming qualities, because of that one time he did or said that thing that struck so deeply and so lovingly in us. "It only happens when he's drinking." "It only happens when he's overworked." "It only happens when maybe I wasn't be as sensitive as I should or could have been." And then, just as difficult to deal with: the judgment we face by admitting our willingness to have "put up" with the abuse, by admitting shitty decisions we made as a result of having chosen (by whatever logic or lack of) to believe the bullshit. By forgiving those who have trespassed against us, to the shock and disgust of those who've possibly never lived through the experience themselves. That last one in itself can be a total mindfuck, and enough to keep quiet about our experiences.

Maybe he has a point. Maybe he's right. So-and-so said I was a ____. I've heard this before.... and that other guy said.... and they weren't all just boyfriends or would-be boyfriends. They were family members, they were teachers, they were cops.

If it walks like a duck/slut/doormat....

What a visceral and freeing feeling it was to realize I've come out of that cycle, if only out of sheer luck and half-consciousness. Holy shit! I don't put up with that crap anymore! Exhibit A: A restraining order - never filed, but filled out - on my microwave, just in case. Maybe it's my thirties. Maybe it's finally being sick enough of the drama to just walk away without feeding that stubborn part of me that wants to have the last word, or to somehow magically heal the person who's abusing me and/or themselves (because, more than likely, they were abused themselves, and yes, I have a soft spot for that). Maybe it's recognizing that there are people out there who can't or won't do the work for themselves and depend upon others' compassion to relieve them of their own insecurities - and finally being able to say when is when. Knowing my boundaries. If not for my own sake, then for my daughter's.

In any case, I'm grateful.

That said. If you or anyone you know is living in fear...

*****

Sojourner Truth House: 414-933-2722
Milwaukee Women's Center: 414-671-6140
Task Force on Family Violence: 414-276-1911
Elder Abuse - Department on Aging: 414-289-6874
Alma Center (treatment for abusers): 414-265-0100
Hmong American Women's Association: 414-289-6874

Aurora Sexual Assault Treatment Center (for acute, current abuse): 414-219-5555
The Healing Center (for survivors of past or current abuse): 414-671-4325
Safe Mom Safe Baby (pregnancy/postpartum): 414-219-5909

Or, dial 211 for access to health information on any topic, including links to the above resources.

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE
National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN [Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network]):
1-800-656-HOPE

*****

Live healthy, Milwaukee.

That most subtle citation...

2010-09-14T02:14:00.004-05:00

It's only been nine minutes, but it's nine minutes he didn't want. I assure his daughter (granddaughter?) that we have to do what's necessary to sustain human life, until someone with authority says otherwise... She's wearing scrubs and assures me that she understands, but that this isn't what he wants.

We stop. And for a moment, everything stops. Time itself. Her face is in her hands, shocked and sobbing at the sight. I get a warm blanket for him, to keep him warm and to hopefully prevent the family from seeing the rigors of rigor mortis.

Yesterday, a large part of my boyfriend's family was killed in a car accident by some road raging asshole. Four out of five died; the last one is in a drug-induced coma, teetering on the edge.

I can't help but think of what I would want if it were me. If my husband and child were killed in an accident, I'm not so sure that I would want to wake up.

We hang onto the humor because it keeps us coming in the door every day. We check ourselves and each other, making sure we're each paying close attention to the needs of the people who truly need us, and even to those who would probably be just fine.... probably... just in case.

He says he served in Vietnam. It's a side note, but one I thank him for as I escort him to the exit for discharge. I just happened to have watched a documentary last night on My Lai. Images flash. Maybe he never saw anything so serious; I thank him, anyway. He shakes my hand and smiles, and I'm thankful that he's come through relatively unscathed. There's a mutual unspoken appreciation of each other's presence. These are the moments I cherish.

Every day, someone comes through the door that reminds me why I'm here. Multiple people. And every day, I hope that my care, my interventions, are enough. I hope that my dad is resting peacefully, and that somehow, his spirit is alive and content with the person I've turned out to be.

Someone asked me tonight, in reference to people-reading, "Do you think it's because you're in your thirties?" And I answered, no. It's because I've worked service industry for 17 years, because of waiting on and anticipating the needs of people of all walks of life. It's because of what my father taught me.

As sad as I continue to be that he's not here to see all of this, I know there are people living better lives today because of what he taught me.

Life is short.

Hug your kids. Love your parents. Curl up to your spouse. All it takes is one persistent cough, one swollen leg, one asshole.

Never an illness, nor the absence
of grandeur, no,
nothing is able to kill the best in us,
that kindness, dear sir, we are afflicted with:
beautiful is the flower of man, his conduct,
and every door opens on the beautiful truth
and never hides treacherous whispers.

I always gained something from making myself better,
better than I am, better than I was,
that most subtle citation:
to recover some lost petal
of the sadness I inherited:
to search once more for the light that sings
inside of me, the unwavering light.

- Pablo Neruda

The Proverbial Brick in the Face

2010-08-20T02:16:00.018-05:00

I've become convinced that the universe is conspiring to deliver me a few messages. Specifically, three:

1. I shouldn't leave my house. Should I decide to leave for reasons other than work, work will somehow weave its way into my daily existence (see #s 2 & 3). Something wants me to stay home as much as possible, and it's even making my body sick in order to tell me so, forcing me to lie in bed and take care of myself, something I am loathe to do, only because Taking Care of Myself takes work, and I'd rather be out having FUN! with friends and loved ones and FUN! with my daughter, for whom summer has passed far too quickly with far too few FUN! events with her mother.

2. I need to take care of myself. Last Friday night, I had more drinks than I'm willing to admit (ahem, six), of more variety than I should account for (ahem, three: beer, wine, liquor - YEAH! WOO! WAY TO GO! What am I, 19??!!). I only share this as a lesson to the rest of you: people in their 30s and over should not imbibe in this manner, lest our bodies remind us in the most direct, painful, and stupefying way that we are officially Too Old For This Shit. Namely, we come down with a mysterious viral illness a few days later, which culminates in a fever that lasts two and a half days, manifesting itself in excruciating bone aches so bad that we lie in our bathtubs at 3:30 a.m. (ibuprofen? HA!), literally crying from the pain and the wish to fall asleep, which then leads to a mounting overall negativity that has us convinced that a) our lives in general just suck and being in pain sucks, b) no one cares, and, c) our best friends have moved on with their lives and no longer want to hang out with us, and, d) our boyfriend is secretly plotting a midlife crisis that involves lots of hot chicks, fast cars, and bachelor pads loaded with free porn because we're all sickly and gross and pathetic and really, we don't want to be around ourselves, either, so why should he. This forced self-imprisonment for two consecutive nights then leads into a progressive feeling-betterness, making us think we're all better, which leads to having a glass of wine after work - JUST ONE FREAKING GLASS OF WINE, CAN I HAVE A SOCIAL LIFE, PLEASE - which goes down fine (except for the random person who walks up and says, "Hey! Can I ask you a question? Am I bleeding?" and they are, and half of you wants some gauze and the other half just wants to tell him to look in a fucking mirror and take care of it himself) and the wine feels just fantastic until the next morning, when we are struck completely off-guard and suddenly by painful stabbing sensations in our intestines, forcing us to - yet again - remain at home, confined in our beds, until it's time to go to work again...

3. I was born to be a nurse.

We go to work, just for a few hours as a favor to a friend, which goes just fine, and then our boyfriend comes over (and how long am I going to continue this collective second-person shit? I dunno. Wishful thinking that I'm not alone in these [self]observations, I guess), with whom we have dinner at home and then decide to get out of the house for a bit. We decide upon walking (healthy! fresh air! exercise! enjoying the nightly-ness and all its nightly wonder!), and as soon as we turn the corner onto the main drag, our boyfriend suddenly says, "Guess you're nursing tonight!"

"Wha?"
(He points.)

Twenty feet ahead of us lies the body of a man, lying on the strip of grass between the street and the sidewalk, his head on the sidewalk and feet in the street, over whom is haunched another man (whom we later find out is a friend of said body). The Friend is holding The Body's head in his hands. The Body is not moving. We quicken our pace, mutter, "oh, fuck," to our boyfriend, and hurry to said scene.

The Body isn't moving. The Friend says, "It's alright."
What happened?
He fell.
Did he hit his head?
Yeah.
Sir? Hey! Hey, buddy! Can you hear me? (no response) He lost consciousness?
Yeah.
How long ago? (He's breathing. Pulse is there. Carefully looking for blood and feeling The Body's head for possible fractures)
Just a few minutes. It's cool. We were drinking.
He fell on his head and lost consciousness. It's not cool. He might have a problem. Hey! Hey, you! (The Body's eyes flutter) Hey!
(incoherent)
Hi! I'm Stephanie. I'm a nurse. Do you know where you are?
(incoherent)
Hey! Look at me! (The Body's eyes flutter open and shut again)
Do you know where you are?
Nnnnnn.
Do you know what happened?
Hnnnnh?
Look at me! (The Body's eyes open, wider this time. They're wandering independently of each other)
He's cool. It's alright. He just fell.
Hey! You fell. Can you look at me? (The Eyes open momentarily again, widening in the light. Pupils equal... I think... eyes still rolling...) You need to call an ambulance. Chances are, he's fine, but he could have a bleed. Do you have a phone? (The boyfriend says "here" and hands you the phone, smiling at the irony of it all)
He doesn't need an ambulance. It'll be fine. He lives, like, a half a block away.
That's great, and if he's fine, the paramedics will make sure he gets home. But he needs to be checked out. He should have a CT, just in case.
Heeeeeey!
Hi! I'm Stephanie. Do you know where you are?
Hunnh? Uhhhhhhh.... nnnnnnno.
Dude! We're outside _____. We just left a little while ago and you fell. Don't you remember?
Nnnnnnnno. (Eyes rolling independently of each other, then closing again)
Okay, I'm calling an ambulance.

We call 911, and MFD shows up within two minutes (love them) in an engine. The lights stir The Man who's lying on the ground.
You're ride's here.
Hahaha.
You're probably cool, but if you're not, they'll take you to the ER.
Iiiii thhhink there mmmmight be a problemmmmm.
Which is why they're gonna check you out.
Thank you.

We give report to MFD. A squad car pulls around the corner.

Do you need anything else from me?
Nah, we got it.
Thanks.

We continue our path down the street, holding hands. He tucks his cell phone back into his pocket, making sure the sound is on, just in case anyone from EMS calls wanting more information.

Told ya you were working tonight.
I didn't know what you were talking about! I didn't see him at first.
Ya know, you could have just kept walking.
The universe doesn't want me to leave my house. Every time I do, someone with a bleeding face shows up, or there's a body lying in the street. It's like, if I'm gonna leave, then I have to *work* to earn it. Do I have a fucking 'NURSE' sign flashing over my head? Last week: enemas. This week: random emergencies, everywhere I go. What the fuck.
You don't have to stop.
No, I don't. But then we'd spend the next two hours talking about, 'I wonder what happened to that guy,' and, 'I should have stopped,' and, 'fuck, I hope he doesn't have a subdural.'
Yeah.
Yes!

So he squeezes my hand and smiles. And I realize that, a boyfriend or two ago, this would have been a much different scenario, filled with anxiety and fuckedupness. But here we are, walking down the street, hand in hand, and The Man is being taken care of, and the boyfriend and I are once again just another random Milwaukee couple, walking down the street, enjoying the night air and conversation. I feel good, and in spite of the interruption, I think he feels good being with me. Maybe even proud.

You're a dork, he says.

And that makes me smile again.

The Pendulum, It Swingeth.

2010-08-15T22:14:00.004-05:00

Oh, there's been far too much going on over the last few weeks to ever possibly catch up, nevermind the fact that I'd rather not relive some of the key points. Namely, my boyfriend being diagnosed with multiple blood clots, which wouldn't be a big deal except for, ya know, the possibility of impending stroke, heart attack, or pulmonary embolism. Nothing says lovin' like Lovenox! *sigh*

The positive end of all of this is that it has inspired some changes in both of us and once again brought What Matters to the forefront of our daily existence. Not to worry - fart jokes abound - but there's definitely a (re)new(ed) sense of purpose and mutual care. Ah, mortality. You bastard old dog, you. Now leave him alone.

In working news, I'm now officially off of orientation. Tomorrow marks Day One of me wearing my big girl panties in the ER. Let's hope I remember where we keep the Depends before I saturate myself in the corner.

Maddie has a full-sized bed, thanks to my friend Nate, and I am now convinced that she is aging at super-warp speed. Seeing her 9 year old body enveloped in a bed the same size as the one I have is only reminding me how fast this time goes, how quickly she's grown, how smart and wonderful and hilarious this person I call my daughter is.

My mother is on a two-week tour of the British Isles, including Ireland (the descriptor "British" should be in quotes, here). I received a text from her a few days ago - "Leaving Cobh - love you!" - while I was at work. What I wouldn't give to have been in the position to bring her there myself for the first time. Taking comfort in noting that she missed much of the island, and there's still time left.

Life is short. Far too many reminders of this as of late, closer to home than I'm comfortable with. Here's to recuperating, to transitions, to keeping our loved ones as close as we can. And to impromptu guitar/ukulele jams. In sickness and in health. Amen.

Biology Lesson

2010-07-27T23:03:00.001-05:00

Apple:

Tree:

Class is dismissed.

Drawing the shade.

2010-07-26T18:33:00.005-05:00

Atropine, a drug used during resuscitation to inhibit vagal stimulation and stimulate SA node firing and conduction through the AV node, is derived from the plant, atropa belladonna, known commonly as Deadly Nightshade. The plant's genus is named after the Greek goddess, Atropos, meaning "she who cannot be turned." Known by the Romans as Morta, she was the oldest of the three Fates. Klotho ("spinner"; Roman: Nona), the youngest, spun the gold and silver threads of life. Lakhesis ("apportioner of lots"; Roman: Decuma), the middle Fate, chose the threads' length.

Atropos held the shears and decided when the threads would be cut.

***

References:
http://www.theoi.com/Daimon/Moirai.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atropa_belladonna

Image:
http://irrationalgeographic.wordpress.com/category/poison/

Last Call.

2010-07-22T18:30:00.003-05:00

I am now officially certified by the American Heart Association and the American Academy of Pediatrics to intervene with advanced life support should your child, or any child, show up in our ER. Or just pass out in the street.

It's not really a big deal - okay, maybe it is - but these little milestones, certifications and whatnot, are inching me ever closer to eventually becoming a CEN (Certified Emergency Nurse), and that excites me. I've never been one for little pieces of paper; it's the documented proof that I have at least a small clue as to what I'm doing that gets my motor humming. Lifelong learning, indeed. And it's a great prep for ACLS (Advanced Critical Life Support). All these "a" and "d" drugs get my panties all in a bundle: amiodarone, atropine, adenosine, dopamine, dobutamine... In real life, we're always consulting with each other, with online and written resources (evidence-based, of course ;) ), but it'll be nice when I can just rattle off weight-based dosages and drip rates like it's old hat. All in due time...

In the meantime, passing PALS (Pediatric Advanced Life Support) today required the successful coding of two (imaginary) kids (and the passing of a written exam). My instructor/tester was a woman I work with in the ED, so I was doubly conscious of her assessment of me, wondering whether or not she would, after my testing, feel confident coding a kid with me in the ER. My first "kid" was a baby in asystole. CPR: check. Oxygen, monitor, IV: check. Shocked him once. Nothing. CPR. Gave epinephrine. No change. Continued CPR. Shocked him again. No change. CPR. Epi. CPR. No change. At this point, she tells me I've passed. "....but.... he's dead...." "Yes. He is."

And, ya know? I was so grateful she did that. I needed that experience - even imaginary - to show me that sometimes, no matter what you do, they're gonna die. It still didn't stop me from wanting to do more - and in the real world, this cycle would have gone on much longer - but it still drove the point home. And I needed that.

So thanks, Z. For ever so gently busting my chops and reassuring me that life is life, death is death, and sometimes our machines and drugs just won't cut it. And at the same time, making sure I know what to do to try my damnedest before we make that call.

"So, how do you feel after passing?"
"Well, how do you feel about working next to me in a peds code?"
"Fantastic. Good job."

From a colleague, a "seasoned" nurse, a CEN... that's all the affirmation I need. Rock on.

Dark Humor

2010-07-20T22:04:00.004-05:00

The answers are different in some ways, but in the sense that they all come from somewhere beyond where you and I are currently writing and/or reading this, they're all so similar, and they haven't yet gotten old.

"Can you tell me where you are right now?"

"Right here!" "Over there..." "I can tell you where I'd like to be...."

Every day is a new puzzle. The pieces don't add up to what we thought they would, or the answer is the same but with a whole new equation. Reinventing the wheel, the Pythagorean theorem, every day, every body. Or we know where things are headed, but that direction leads far beyond what's possible to treat in the ED. And in the meantime, the patients, the families, sit and wait. Wait for results, wait for a room upon the order for admission, wait for an answer to the frustration that's been plaguing them for hours, days, weeks.

He was kind of a jerk, really. But he reminded me of one of my uncles, in that rugged, should-have-been-a-Scottish-highlander sort of way. And a little of my dad. Harmless flirtation, compliments that truly are only meant out of appreciation of whatever this man perceives to be beauty. And if bringing him a freaking sandwich, paying attention to his oxygenation, and remaining professional is what makes him feel among beauty, then I can do that. "If anyone touches that nasal cannula, slap them." "Yes, Ma'am." He winks. His family members chide him. I wink back. The language of strangers stripped of defenses, of nurse and patient, of connection between two human beings who wouldn't otherwise have met, most likely. He knows I mean business. I know that he knows. It's all good.

Take a few deep breaths. Drop the surface bullshit and keep focus on what matters: your daughter, a few feet away, tear-stained, and that annoying beeping that scares the shit out of her every time you fidget and displace your pulse oximeter. We can laugh, the two of us - there is humor here - but there are also other people who aren't ready for this, who can't handle the sight, the sound, the idea. So let's be real.

He knows. He enjoys the attention. This is lost on no one. And in the end no one cares, as long as he's stable and smiling.

Unity.

2010-07-11T20:17:00.005-05:00

Every day's a new adventure. The world, it turns out, is equally as small in the hospital as it is working in the bar. People who know people that I know, lives colliding. We talk about the service industry - bars, restaurants, policemen, nurses, gas station owners - and agree that all are special, all deserve respect, and all share a common sense of purpose.

She's been practically upside down for an hour, fluids like nobody's business, and we still can't get her pressure up. I'm watching her face, watching her neck veins, listening to her lungs, watching the monitor, watching the board to signal that an ICU room has opened up.

I feel so inadequate. We're doing what we can, I know. It doesn't help.

The bigger picture is looming, and I'm there for each still shot. Watching. Adjusting. Listening. Learning. Making a phone call. Taking one in. Taking it all in. Synapses firing a million miles a minute. Head on a swivel. I know the bigger picture is there, but every second right now feels like an hour, and the bigger picture will just have to wait until we get through this excruciating minute.

She's smiling, still talking, and this relieves me. I'm charting way more than I probably need to, but I don't want to miss anything, don't want to leave any gaps.

He knows my boyfriend's dad. Undoubtedly far better than I do.

It occurs to me that they don't realize we're going through this together. All of us.

On hope.

2010-07-09T19:22:00.004-05:00

He was just out for a walk. That's all.

The code was already over, lines were mostly hung, a bag of cooled saline floating high above our heads, beaded with condensation and glittering in the fluorescent light like a chandelier. I want to do something, to help. The help is welcomed. I feel useful, and the energy in the room is optimistic. Hearing is the last to go. Everyone's still talking to him as though he can hear us, and I'm grateful for and impressed by the professionalism of the people I work with.

The nasogastric tube doesn't want to advance past the endotracheal tube. A fellow orientee raises his head to provide a better angle. He's tall. I can't believe how much tubing I've gone through and haven't yet gotten a return, signaling we've reached his stomach. I'm apologizing to him out loud and advancing the tube as quickly and gently as I can, hoping he's sedated enough to have no recollection of this once he's finally awake again. And I'm pretty confident he will wake again, although I'm not sure where my hope ends and the confidence begins. Time slows to a drip. I'm not sure of anything except my fingers on the tubing and the coloring of his face. Someone calls out "65 over 40," and I push the tube faster, wanting to end his discomfort and obvious physical reaction as quickly as possible. A yellowish brown substance fills the tubing. We're in.

The cath lab team is here, and I'm charting the NG as we push him in his bed toward the elevators. I wonder where his family is.

A few hours later, over the speakers: "Code Four." Twenty minutes later, "Code Four." A few minutes after that, "First Response, Level One." All in the same hour. I'm not in on any of them, but the overhead speakers are on fire, calling for nurses, calling for doctors and PAs, announcing new arrivals.

I'm starting to get it now, to see the bigger picture. Someone's cardiac markers are done, and I mount the results and post it to the patient's chart en route to the Pyxis for someone else's medications. Keep things moving. Help as many as possible, as quickly as possible.

Someone asks me how and when my dad died, which is funny, because I hadn't mentioned that he had. The guy must have picked it up somehow. Intuition. I instantly respect him even more.

"Cancer. Nasopharyngeal cancer. Where your nostrils meet the back of your throat. 2001."

"How old was he?"

"59."

Only a few years older than the person asking.

"God. Way too young."

Things slow down enough to eat lunch. I send a quick text, a little reaching out to the world outside, then retreat to the break room to eat my leftover pizza from last night.

Silence. A two minute stretch of silence, for the first time since I punched in. Nothing coming over the speakers. Just the sound of the break room television and the whispering flipping of the pages of a magazine.

I hope his family has arrived, and my hope is a silent prayer.

I don't believe in God. My father only exists in collective memories. But hearing is the last to go, and I do believe in hope. And I'm grateful for that.

Stop me if you've heard this one before...

2010-06-27T14:36:00.003-05:00

Okay, I'm putting my money on (a) an irregular cycle, (b) adjusting to the new job, and (c) my daughter adjusting to the new job, but.... shit, this is way harder than I thought it was going to be. As I've said before, once I'm physically at work, I have a great time. I'm learning a ton, really respect and enjoy my coworkers, and am daily alternately (and sometimes simultaneously) freaked out, moved, and/or amused by one thing or another. But things with Maddie have been really hard since summer started. She's feeling resentful of my having to work so much and "ruining" her summer. She wants to sleep in, have sleepovers during the week, do all the things she's enjoyed every summer of her life, and Mom's gone and put a big stinkfest on the whole deal by having to work full time and put her in day care. All day. Five days a week. The truth is, I hate it as much as she does, but I've been trying to remain positive about it all and it's been getting harder by the day.

Literally every conversation we've had for the last two weeks has been an argument. If I take her to Rockford, we should have stayed longer. Even the fun things I've offered to do - play games, go for a bike ride, etc. - have been met with resistance. She's just plain pissed and doesn't want to be around me. She hasn't cleaned her room in three weeks, and I've been feeling too guilty to make her do it during the hour and a half we have between supper and bedtime. Yesterday, I broke down crying during a conversation with her en route to the grocery store (needless to say, the conversation was about her having to come with me to the grocery store). I finally just broke into tears. In the parking lot. She felt bad and started crying, too, which only made me feel worse. So we talked. And then I think we both felt better. We agreed that this morning, we'd do the laundry and clean her room, then go to the beach. Together. Even though it's sandy and sand is gross and walks are boring and the sun is hot.

So we did the laundry, I cleaned the house, she started on her room without too much protest, and I was really thinking that this afternoon would be exactly what she and I needed to recharge for the week ahead. Then the phone rang, and it was a friend she hasn't seen in a while who wanted to bring her with to Cedarburg for some festival for the afternoon. I caved in only after she reminded me that we can go to the beach for a walk any day, and the festival is only today, and she really really really wanted to see her friend, etc etc.....

I told myself it was fine because it had been raining all morning anyway... and now the skies have cleared.

I can't remember the last time I felt so disappointed to see the sun.

I promise her it'll get easier, and I don't know sometimes if I'm trying to convince her or myself.

Wah, wah. I know. My little girl is growing up and doesn't like her mommy anymore. Knowing this day would come doesn't make it any easier.

Balancing Act

2010-06-21T18:45:00.006-05:00

So, the great thing about entering the nursing field is that, well, I've entered the nursing field. I'm loving the career change thus far, all the perks it comes with - like decent pay, great benefits, and (so far) relatively flexible hours. But the honeymoon is winding its way to a close, already. I'm halfway through orientation (woot!), and now coming to the realization that, in spite of the many positive aspects, this, too, is in many ways a Job. Granted, an esteemed position within the most trusted profession in the country, but a Job nonetheless in the sense that I am working 40 hours a week and it is taking its toll on me already emotionally in terms of my relationships outside of work. Once I'm there, I'm there 150%. My shift was over by twenty minutes today before I even realized I had a life to go home to and other responsibilities to take care of, and oh crap! I gotta pick up my kid! But once I come home, bedtime arrives far too soon, and it's becoming really difficult to stay as connected as I'd like with the people I love most. It's literally: get off work, pick up Maddie, drive home, make dinner, do dishes, check the mail, put away laundry (or some such), tuck Maddie in, try to stay awake long enough for Jon Stewart. I know - "cry me a river," right? Try to bear in mind that although I've been in school for the last two years, most of the work I did was at home. During which time I then bemoaned the fact that I was "ignoring" my daughter while doing homework, in spite of the fact that we were physically in the same location. Point being, there's always something to bitch about, fear, etc.

All in all, there are pros and cons to every stage of this, I suppose. Right now, I'm really dying for some quality time with certain people, hoping they're not feeling as alienated as I fear they might, hanging on for dear life until this thing called orientation is done, all my online training, all the little certifications ("little" - ha!) and items on the checklist.... I've been working at home a bit too much, trying to get all these things done for the sake of knowing as much as possible as soon as possible (and just plain gettin' 'er done). I printed off a few interesting articles to read re: emergency nursing. The first one I picked up this morning during my one-hour study time before hitting the floor was specifically about new nurses in the ED: "Unrealistic expectations, high anxiety levels, and decreased self-esteem commonly cause inexperienced nurses to question the wisdom of their career choice" (Patterson et al, 2009). I feel ya, sister. I am where I want to be, no doubt, but.... wow, this is a lot. There are new challenges every day. Big challenges. The kind that make your head spin. I drive in circles down six stories of parking garage before I'm off the hospital property, and by the time I hit street level, I can't tell if I'm dizzy from the circles or just the day. On the way home, I mentally replay the events of the day - or try to - and most of the time my head is so full of information, my synapses still firing so relentlessly, that's it's all I can do to remember what I did ten minutes before I left the floor, let alone eight hours ago. I'm going at full speed, 100% all of the time, and it's mentally wearing me out. My biggest fear is that there isn't enough left of me at the end of the day for the people I love most. I fear they'll feel the effects, resent the fact that I'm not always 100% present in our day to day interactions, that they'll lose patience during this transition. At times, I'm sure they will. And so will I. My menstrual cycle's off, my brain is fried, my legs are sore... this last week, I've been nothing short of an emotional basketcase. Everything frightens me. I take everything too seriously. Intellectually, I know my parachute is securely attached, that Everything Will Be Okay, This is Just a Transition. It'd just be nice if my head could tell my heart that, let the ol' ticker chill out a bit. 'Cause right now it's about to beat right out of my chest, and I'm not sure most moments whether to laugh, get drunk, cry, or all of the above.

Bear with me, please. The Usual Me is in here, I promise. She's just tangled up in catheters and electrodes. She'll climb her way out; she will. This too shall pass.

Baby steps to the elevator. Good times, noodle salad.

Memmmmmriieeesss... light the corners of my miiinnnd....

2010-06-03T21:56:00.002-05:00

Well, the last holdout from my days of wine and roses (or Guns 'n Roses, or punk 'n prose, if you will) hath finally crept out of the woodwork of over a decade's worth of silence and independent growth. Mark Dosier, this one's for you.

I cannot even begin to describe all that I have seen over the last four weeks of orientation in the ER. Gallstones, kidney stones, fractures, feigned strokes, junkies, dying babies, post-myocardial infarction hypothermic therapy (translation: we cool the bodies of people who've suffered massive heart attacks and are subsequently unconscious and not breathing on their own in order to give the brain, heart, lungs, and other major organs a rest), rectal bleeds, post-manicure infected fingernails (nasty, trust me), cancers diagnosed in the ER, hangovers (seriously - fucking HANGOVERS), diabetic emergencies, dizziness, hypertension (high blood pressure), ectopic pregnancies (pregnancy outside the uterus, usually in the fallopian tube), psychotic breaks, lacerations, suicide attempts... All I can say is that I Am Home. I love the unexpected, the adrenaline rush of being on constant alert, of alleviating the pain of someone who can barely move because they twisted something in their back or are trying to pass a grapefruit through their urethra. I love it when a patient feels they can trust me enough to tell me what's really going on. I love it when the incredible team of people I work with all come together, regardless of differing personalities and therapeutic styles, to bring relief and treatment to someone who desperately needs it. I love it when the ER tech is in the room, already performing an EKG, when I'm still introducing myself and explaining the need for an IV and potential cardiac catheterization. I love it when the docs ask me what *I* think about what's going on, and when the interpreter gives me that knowing look, recognizing the universal language of human suffering. Because it means I can *do* something about it. Because it matters. To all of us. Working together.

I hear so many horror stories from nurses on various floors, complaining of overzealous preceptors, arrogant physicians, distant and uninvolved clinical nurse specialists. And I am with the fucking Dream Team.

And my daughter is healthy, and my family is whole, and I have never personally been happier.

Someone pinch me.

The Calm Before

2010-05-23T21:42:00.002-05:00

Weekend number two, post-employment, is winding its way to a close. It's about a thousand degrees in my apartment with nothing but the sound of whirring fans and intermittent Sunday night traffic. Tomorrow brings a new day of crises, hopefully none of them mine.

It's a strange feeling, one I'm still getting used to, being so intimately involved in the worst moments of people's lives and not knowing what happens after. I have minutes to assess their physical needs as well as every other aspect of their general health, minutes to figure out whether the person I'm caring for needs a hand to hold or not to be touched at all, distraction or validation, more morphine or less, heartfelt reassurance or the relief of humor. Once it's determined that there isn't an immediate life-threatening situation, there are still the emotions, the pain, to deal with. I'm only just beginning to understand.

In the moment, I'm too caught up in the physical action, drawing up medications, locating the nearest Foley, monitoring oxygenation and pain, figuring out how to work the hypothermia machine, to let the sight of a sedated, intubated patient get too close to my heart. But there are moments, the twitch of a hand, the look in a concerned wife's eyes, that stay with me long after that person has been transferred to ICU or sent home with orders for follow up care. And my rides home are either silent, windows open, no radio, or else blaring with the most life-affirming music I can find, one-handed, while the other steers circles out of the parking garage until my cell phone gets enough reception to make a call. Sometimes I don't even make it that far, smoking and making the call before I even get to the garage, taking ten minutes to reorient myself to the world outside.

I don't know what happens to them. Some of them will be back, and that's the only way I'll find out how they're doing. Some of them, I'll wish I didn't know.

Still, it feels good to come home to a healthy daughter, to the safety net of the people in my life outside the hospital, which now seems so narrow, so precious and fragile. I only dread Monday because it keeps me from seeing the people I love. The exhaustion of being on constant alert is already challenging me more than I ever could have expected, and it's such a good thing. Keeps me out of trouble. I'm even taking my vitamins again. Yesterday was the most fulfilling Saturday I've had in a long time.

Somewhere in this hot, dark night, a little boy curls up with his father. My grandparents are asleep in each other's arms. A neighbor calls out to her cat. My baby sleeps, the fan blowing her ever-growing hair across her developing cheekbones. The city sleeps up for Monday.

No sirens, no lights.

Just the sweetness of distant snores, the promise of sunrise.

Ancient Native Wisdom

2010-05-19T18:53:00.007-05:00

1. Sleeping person who ask for "dlllllAWWdidid" probably do not need dilaudid.
2. Person with no recent hospitalization and multiple bilateral AC puncture know *exactly* where come from. So do I.
3. Dig deep.
4. Less than 8: intubate.
5. Person who confuse insulins need vomit bag. Pronto, Hondo.
6. Nurse who say "I need some help in here" better freaking mean it.
7. "Head on a swivel. Head on a swivel."

Most importantly:

8. Nurse who take work home with her at night bring home to work in morning.

In short, in all seriousness, circumferentially, within and without, encompassing all aspects: I have never felt more fulfilled, financially stable, grateful, loving, or loved in my entire. life. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, I'd be at peace (not to mention, my loved ones would get a hefty sum. But don't go giving them any ideas). So grateful for this opportunity, and surrounded by like-minded people.

At long, long last: full circle. I'm home.

"...and such wilt thou be to me, who must,
like the other foot, obliquely run:
thy firmness makes my circle just
and makes me end where I begun."
- John Donne

Funny how the meanings of poems change after life is safely stitched up again.

Special shout-outs to Mom & Eddie: You are both with me every day, have literally saved my life and restored my faith in humanity, in myriad ways, countless times, over more years than I even remember. My head and heart are guided by the strength you each have within yourselves and have osmotically passed on to me; I look down at my hands - inserting an IV, holding the hand of a patient - and see yours. Thank you.

An Open Letter to the Former Vice Principal of My High School

2010-05-13T21:33:00.010-05:00

Dear Mr. Swinson,

May I call you Kent? We are, after all, both adults now.

Kent, Kent, Kent. 1995 was such a good year for us. You escorted me to all of my classes for nearly an entire semester that year, keeping me warm during those cold winter months. You sent policemen to my classes to ensure my safety, lest I hurt myself while under the influence of "dangerous, mind-debilitating drugs" (Rollins, "Blueprints for the Destruction of the Earth," 1987). You conducted random searches of my backpack and locker for paraphernalia when my teachers reported I was behaving strangely in class. I remember the sweet smiles I threw your way during these episodes, knowing full well I had quit using drugs of any kind the year before and that my "strange behavior" was due to the fact that I was actually, and finally, quite sober.

You read so many of my essays, written during countless hours of in-school suspension, odes to your supreme authority. You even sent me home to change clothes on one occasion, due to the fact that my ankle-length, mock turtlenecked velour burgundy dress might be "distracting" to my fellow classmates. Thank God you sent that policewoman to pull me out of the middle of a math lecture in order to impart your fashion wisdom, and to protect my peers from the shock and terror of a solid colored, nearly Amish outfit, which was clearly having such a negative effect on students' abilities to memorize the Pythagorean Theorem.

Oh, Kent. We spent so much time together.

Then I dropped out. Months later, I enrolled in summer school, caught up with classes, and returned for my senior year in the fall, fully intending on graduating. Two weeks into that school year, I became ill for two days, and - out of concern for my health, no doubt - you took it upon yourself to remove my name from the attendance lists and forwarded my records to the Department of Education, where I could access them (for a mere $2.95 - oh, the '90s!) should I have later decided to pursue my GED. You actually dropped me out FOR me! I didn't even have to sign any paperwork this time! So thoughtful of you.

I'm only writing to let you know that I did, in fact, receive my GED in December of 1998. After taking several Honors courses at UW-Milwaukee, I took a few years off of school to raise my beautiful and brilliant daughter, Maddie, now age 9. In December 2009, I graduated cum laude from nursing school. I was the Class Speaker for my cohort's pinning ceremony and will also be speaking, in effect as Valedictorian, at tomorrow's Commencement Ceremony.

I'd be utterly thrilled if you would do me the honor of attending this most ironic turn of events.

If you are unable to attend, know that I will be thinking of you, dearest Kent, while I address an audience of up to 4,000 people in downtown Milwaukee, celebrating the value of education, and casting a final and lethal verbal assault upon the ignorance, closed-mindedness, fear, and prejudice you worked so desperately to instill in me those many years ago.

Oh. And fuck you.

Most sincerely,

Stephanie J. Thorvalson, Auburn High School Class of 1996, ADN, RN
Staff Nurse, Emergency Services

All kindsa news today!

2010-04-27T18:08:00.004-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, after two years, three months (and a lifetime) of waiting, I've finally been hired in my first RN position. Which position, you might ask? Let me give you a hint: it's not missionary. Come on. You know I'm not that traditional.

You are reading the words of an official ER nurse. Not only an ER nurse, but one who henceforth will be employed for one of the busiest ERs in town (side note to my nursey friends out there: I know the "proper" term now is "ED", but the general public is more familiar with "ER." Plus, it just sounds cooler. I'm kickin' it old school like that). Two other ERs also extended offers, and I loved those places, too, but the busy environment of this one will definitely afford plenty of learning opportunities (read: diversity of patients and diagnoses). Not to mention, it's five minutes from my house and doesn't require a night shift rotation.

It's such a weird feeling. I'm jumping up and down (quite literally) while simultaneously shitting my pants and shedding a tear for the loss of the free time I've enjoyed the last three months. This is going to be a huge transition, not only into my new career as a nurse, but out of my previous full-time status as a mom. In truth, one is always a full-time mother, regardless of her job situation, but the hours at Maddie's current stage of development tend toward the on-call variety (god, could I sound more nursey?), either because of her slowly expanding autonomy or because she simply doesn't want to be seen with her mom in public. Because I'll be working full-time second shift (after 14 weeks of 1st shift training), she'll be at her dad's five nights a week now. He made the observation that this is probably harder on me than it is on her, and he's right. She spends so much time with him as it is (and right now, being 9 years old going on 17, probably prefers his company over mine), has her own room there, etc. Me, on the other hand? It's gonna be a while before I stop looking over my shoulder in the grocery store, terrified that she's run off somewhere and is lost, when in actuality, she's with her dad. I suspect this nagging feeling that I'm forgetting something will stick around for quite some time. Like, until she's 30.

It's a tradeoff, for sure. I'm trading time with my daughter for financial stability. There's just no way of looking at it other than that. But she's at an age now where I think she can handle it. I'm hoping this will only deepen her relationship with her dad and improve the quality of time that she and I do spend together. I get to be the fun parent! I can't imagine (knock on wood) that her room will ever reach the level of atrocity that today's earlier post detailed if she's only around 2-3 days/week. And after a year, I'll be able to pick up 12-hour shifts, lessening the number of days per week that I'll need to work. I'll have health and dental insurance, a 401K plan, and enough money left over to purchase a new car (by "new" I mean, new to me and younger than my daughter in years), save for Maddie's college education, pay for my own, handle a mortgage, and quite possibly be able to afford a vacation (or two!) a year.

And yes, I am talking myself into this as much as I am justifying it to you. Not that I need to. Just that, well, I need to.

Stay tuned for further developments. Hugs, words of support and/or encouragement, and the sharing of your own stories are most definitely welcome.

Here we go...

Dear Maddie:

2010-04-27T13:15:00.007-05:00

HELP!!!!!!

An Evil Witch Monster has entered the sacred confines of your room and confiscated all of your belongings!

We are being held hostage in the basement, without food or water - nay, without even sunlight to brighten up our darkness. We miss you and hope most fervently for your rescue!

To save us from the vice-like grip of the Evil Witch Monster (EWM) and bring us back to your loving arms, please follow these instructions very carefully:

1. Put away your clean clothes. All of them. Even the hang-up ones.
2. Bring your dirty laundry (in the garbage bag in the hall) to the hamper (this is of course optional, but only if you want your clothes to be washed).
3. You may notice a strange, vast, spaciousness on the tops of your furniture. This is called "surface." Please dust it.
4a. Remove the rug from the floor. Shake it out on the back porch.
4b. Vacuum carpet.
4c. Vacuum and replace rug.
5. Rehang all bags and coats.
6a. Organize your closet, making room for you to...
6b. ... put away your shoes and boots.
7. Maintain this state of cleanliness for 48 hours (which shouldn't be hard, as you will be staying at your dad's the next two nights).

If you are successful in your mission, we will be returned to you, one container at a time, at a rate of one basket every 48 hours. Failure to put away the belongings within each basket immediately upon its return to you will result in the recapture of said belongings by afore-mentioned EWM. You will not be afforded another opportunity to rescue another basket for another 48 hours.

From this day forward, any belongings that are not put away when you are finished with them will be confiscated in a likewise manner and placed in a basket in your room. If said basket is not emptied of its contents by bedtime, those items will be held to the 48-hour-hostage-situation standard. This includes items in your own bedroom, the bathroom, kitchen, living room, back yard, breezeway, and the EWM's bedroom.

Exceptions MAY include sleepovers, holidays, and whenever the EWM is possessed by the spirit of Your Loving Mother and/or suffers a temporary lapse of sanity (as is known to happen from time to time).

PLEASE HELP US! The EWM was initially quite rough with us, muttering incantations as she swept us into containers.... but now she just laughs and laughs. There is music coming from above us. We think she's actually dancing, mocking our pain. It hurts our feelings.

Please come soon... If we're not all rescued within the next two weeks (there are six containers of us, and you're allowed one container every two days...), we fear we may be donated to another child.

Love,
Your Stuff (including two of your American Girl dolls, your pillow, and Bunny)

p.s. The EWM says you can have your pillow and Bunny back tonight if you complete steps 1-5 above after school today.

p.p.s. This is your mother speaking. You're also grounded until your homework project is completed. I love you.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

2010-04-20T16:47:00.004-05:00

Aside from last night's guilt trip over the new job thing (hey - I figure if we never felt guilty, we'd be doing it wrong), things are really looking up professionally. The interview and shadowing experiences today were amazing. Not only was I incredibly impressed by the familial rapport between all of the staff, but they really made it a point to actually get to know me a bit, asked questions about my home life, how I plan to cope with the stress of being an ER nurse. The manager and CNS I met with today did an excellent job of detailing exactly how I'd be trained. So many jobs can be sink or swim: the ER is not the place for that. If I sink, someone's going down with me. So it's a great feeling, knowing that the higher-ups are just as concerned as I am about providing safe and effective, evidence-based patient care. I know it's going to be a long road, earning certifications, etc. - there's just so much to learn. Part of the appeal of the ER, for me, is that it requires such a broad and deep knowledge of just about every body system there is. I'll be expected to not only recognize the signs and symptoms of every pathophysiological problem from broken bones to infection to acute MI to gastritis to kidney stones to psychotic episodes, but how to begin treating those conditions autonomously before the doc even walks in the room. It's intimidating as hell, and I love that. All ages, all sizes, all cultures, all manner of acute and chronic diseases. It's not good enough to be a jack of all trades: I'll have to master them all.

I'm finding that my years of experience in the service industry are respected even more than anticipated: a manager shared yesterday that it's almost become a make-or-break issue with him in terms of hiring new nurses. Big score on my end. Something I only speculated about in nursing school (and was often met with patronizing looks) is proving in the real world to be a very important issue. Particularly in the ER. It makes so much sense if you have half a brain. For 17 years, my income has been 98% dependent upon my ability to keep a smile on my face no matter what was going on around me, to multitask in the extreme, to memorize bits of information and carry those bits around in my skull until they could be deposited onto a ticket or into a computer system while simultaneously collecting new data and reassuring table 12 that their order will indeed be arriving shortly. I've had to anticipate what people wanted, learn not to take things personally, master the ability to communicate quickly and succinctly with coworkers and get it right the first time, even put up with the occasional violence and body fluids. That said, how much better does it make me feel as a human being to know that, instead of contributing to the problem by feeding these people alcohol, I'm actually serving as that conduit between crisis and stability.

Another nurse came into the CNS' office to discuss a new PCA (patient-controlled anesthesia) pump they're using. The conversation was at least 50% acronyms, and... I knew what they were saying! How freaking cool is that?! The translation took me a moment, but (thirty thousand dollars and two years later - thanks, Bryant & Stratton!), I got it! Yay, me!

I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I am so anxious to just get in there and start doing this. Get my ACLS, PALS, and TNCC; bone up on EKGs and ABGs and all the other acronyms that come along with the job. Intubation! Running a code! Treating flail chest! Yeah!

The reality of ER nursing is, from what ER RN friends and potential employers have told me, often different from what one might expect. It's not all codes and heart attacks and blood spurting everywhere. Today, I saw a 20something woman who'd accidentally got artificial nail glue (i.e., superglue) in her eye, an 80something woman complaining of dizziness, two young adults with severe acute epigastric pain, and a young pregnant woman complaining of cramping and bleeding over the last week. And those are just a few of four times as many patients as were in the department over a 2 hour period. There's a phone behind the desk that rings with the music of my childhood - that distinctive, metallic ring that once only came from rotary phones - and every time it goes off, it signifies another ambulance coming in. By the end of my shadowing experience, I'd already begun to train my ear for the sound of that phone, of the charge nurse's voice announcing room assignment changes; my eyes for the sight of the board lighting up with patient names, nursing assessments and doctor's orders needed; my feet to the cadence of my preceptor's walk; my heart to the faces of the frightened patients, praying that that dose of morphine slowly trickling into their arm would relieve their pain.

I'm in love. I'm home.

Oh, life.

2010-04-19T21:16:00.004-05:00

Oh, interwebs. There comes a time in the life of a single mom in which it becomes necessary to return to full time employment, and for me, that time is yesterday. Maddie and I had a talk last night about my future employment plans, and she is none too thrilled at the prospect of me being gone 40(+) hours/week. I'm in a total mindfuck here. On the one hand, I've struggled for two years to earn this privilege, to be a nurse, to have the honor and the responsibility of caring for the well-being of others. On the other hand, the most important well-being in my life is undoubtedly that of my daughter, and it pains me to hear her say things like, "Mom, I am so not letting you take that job. I'd only see you on weekends, really. No. Way."

What choice do I have? Little, if any. True, I could work part-time, struggle to make ends meet, say goodbye to the hope of ever owning a home, and add just that much more stress to our family's financial burden. If I'm lucky, the cancer I'll inevitably inherit won't develop until after Obama's health care plan has taken official hold, and maybe I'll make it a few more years to see my daughter graduate high school.

I can't expect my nine year old to understand this, and I don't. I was only slightly older than her when my own mom went back to full-time work, and honestly? The only negative consequence I remember is coming home to a (brief) list of chores she wanted completed prior to her return home at 5. My sister and I fought endlessly over who would load, vs reload, the dishwasher. Other than that, I really liked the sense of independence that those few after-school hours gave me.

But the jobs I'm looking at are primarily 2nd or 3rd shift. 3rd shift is a no-brainer for me: I just can't swing it and maintain my sanity as a mom. I've worked 2nd shift for years and am comfortable with those hours, but it would require Maddie to essentially stay with her dad 4 nights a week. Which he is completely fine with. Me, on the other hand....?

It's not that I worry about her safety or well-being in his care. He's an amazing dad, no doubt about it. But I've been home with Maddie, working mostly only part-time, for nearly a decade. She's almost a pre-teen now. Approaching a definite turning point in her life. Need proof? Here's part of a conversation we had today:

"Maddie, you're nine years old. I want you to enjoy being nine years old and not have to concern yourself with matters that are frankly beyond your understanding."
"I know, Mom. I'm okay. And I am nine years old. But being nine years old is a little stressful right now."

If that doesn't break your fucking heart, you are dead inside.

My daughter has had so many changes in her life, changes that were beyond her control, major life events that I never would have wished upon her. Although she has no memory of her parents ever even being together, she has a very vivid memory of certain people - well, a certain person - coming into her life, assuming a specific role, and then vanishing into thin air. She made the comment yesterday that I'm choosing work over her.

Am I? There's no question that this is a necessary move. And I understand the whole "microwave generation" thing and my daughter's desire for immediate gratification. I also want her to understand that some things in life are worth sacrificing for, that quality time usurps quantity, in my book. True, I'll be earning vacation time and more money than I ever have, enabling us to take the mother/daughter vacations I've always wanted to provide for us, and eventually save enough to buy a home for our family.

But I'll be goddamned if this isn't the hardest decision I've made since I decided to bring her into the world to begin with.

In Which We Now Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming...

2010-04-11T20:25:00.002-05:00

So, I think I'm officially sick of all this time off. My new employer is taking their sweet time in checking my references and scheduling an appointment to check my hair for crack, and in the meantime, I am having altogether too much fun. Which is a great thing in moderation, but my sense of balance is definitely off. All play and no work makes Jill a dull girl. I can actually feel my synapses melting under all this glorious spring weather, the lack of anything mentally challenging besides sudoku, and oh yes, a bit of alcohol. Underneath it all is a river of peace, a gentle but powerful current I now know beyond any doubt is one of few things that has kept my nose just barely above water all this time.

I've avoided posting anything for a while, not because there hasn't been anything to write about, but because what I do have to write about deserves respect and quietude for a while. Irons in the fire (not to be confused with buns in the oven)...

I've seen a lot over the last two months. My career slowly unraveling its tiny shiny thread, linking me to a future that burns with a fire I can't help but want to leap into. Doors have opened in places I never imagined possible, never considered until they blew wide open with the force of a hurricane, and yet at the same time I've never felt so safe. The dust is swirling; the ten thousand things rise and fall without cease. I'm holding fast to the center. I've stopped asking 'why.' That's an answer I will never find, and even if I did, would feel so insufficient. It's a horribly bittersweet thing, to feel so much gratitude for so many things in the midst of so much suffering. But the heart cannot be helped, in spite of moral questioning. I'd give anything to restore peace, to have everyone happy and satiated and optimistic on their new paths. I've considered myself an atheist for years, yet I pray every day for the fulfillment, happiness, and peace of every individual involved, young and old.

My sweet daughter: your mother is far from perfect. I hope one day we will speak woman to woman and that you will understand. Your happiness and security are my bread and my bones.

To my best friend of twenty years, Tracey Johnson Gessner: I'm sorry for the ways in which I have failed you as a friend over the years, the times I've put you in awkward positions and made you question. There are moments that I question whether or not I deserve you as a friend, as a sister. I love you tremendously. There are no words. I hope you'll continue to stand by me in the months and years to come, in spite of my faults. You are my rock. Thank you for so much, for your quiet reassurances, your understated strength, your bottomless beauty, for everything. My sister, my friend.

"I don't find pleasant the reasons
my fortune comes and goes,
my vanity escorted me
toward unheard heroics...
As it was, I did little
or I did nothing, as it were,
but enter for a guitar
and leave singing with her."
- Pablo Neruda

Mockingbird, Wish Me Luck

2010-03-03T08:08:00.003-06:00

Well, here goes nothin'. My first interview as an RN is at 11 this morning, and I'm feeling surprisingly calm... The feeling is a bit similar to when I took the NCLEX (okay, I was nervous as hell for that one) or when I'd take huge exams in the sense that I figure if I don't know it by now, there's not much I can do about it. I've got a license, for chrissake. The State of Wisconsin says I know what I'm talking about. So why shouldn't I feel confident?

What a dizzying two and a half years it's been. School, the move, my ex, my other ex, Maddie asking about training bras and boys, medications, ups and downs with my health... and now this most recent lull. I graduated nearly three months ago. A full quarter has gone by, and I'm still relying on others for my financial support. I cannot emphasize enough the relief I feel at knowing that soon (hopefully), my mother can stop sending me checks to pay for my groceries. I can afford to sign up at the gym again. Maybe this year I'll finally be able to take Maddie on that mother-daughter vacation up north I've always wanted to do, or take her down to Charleston to see her cousins. Or just simply pay my freaking bills on time. As someone who moved out of her parents' house at age 16, it's been a really tough pill for me to swallow. But in that time, I've learned the measure of my family's strength and love, the quiet steadfastness of my daughter's patience and resilience; I'm more grounded, humble, confident, and self-actualized than I've ever been. And outside of my immediate family, I've had two people in my life who have ridden these ups and downs with me, babysat Maddie when I needed a hand, listened while I spilled my guts over six hours of conversation and an equal number of Guinness, brought me frozen pizzas for lunch or bottles of 7Up when my stomach wouldn't allow me to leave the house. Tracey and Jeff, you are my left and right hands. I don't know what I would ever do without you, don't know how I would have made it out of this alive, let alone happy and fulfilled. You are the salt of my earth, my saving graces, the calm and simple groundedness in my life. Twenty years and seven, respectively. Expect royalty checks as soon as I get this job. You guys really should have been paid for this shit. ;)

So onward and upward I go, portfolio in hand, crossing my fingers for a clear vista once I've reached the pinnacle. I only hope the interviewer can see not solely who I am, but the shoulders of the giants upon which I've been so luckily and gratefully elevated. I wish I could stuff all of you - Maddie, Mom, Dick, Jen, Trace, Jeff, Jan and Bill, Kate and Bill, Tricky, Becki, Geri, Justin, Eddie, Corey, and yes, even Ryan - in my pockets and bring you with me. Mere association with any one of you would be enough; I'm so lucky to have you all.

And to my sweetly layered little onion, growing, ever-changing, unfolding; the one green shoot I've managed to cultivate amongst so much manure in my life: Thanks for hanging in there, kiddo. I hope one day you'll look back and realize how much of this has been for you, how much I want you to see me as someone worth following after. I'm not perfect, but I am your mom. I struggle every day to be one you can be proud of. I love you, Bug.

"I believe in a thing called Love.... oooooh... GUITAR!" - The Darkness

2010-02-25T21:06:00.011-06:00

Wow, what a couple of weeks it's been. Personal circumstances, combined with an out of control youtube posting fetish on Facebook, have conspired to keep me a bit on the silent side here. Those of you who are friends with me on the FB, as we call it, are all too painfully aware of the effects that unemployment and said circumstances have had on me.

The job hunt continues. I had a phone interview last week and followed it up with a thank you call to the recruiter today, but other than that, no leads. I have good days and bad. On the good days, I fill out applications online, catch up on reading my nursing magazines and blogs, and feel generally optimistic. On the bad days... I geek out on Facebook and wonder if I'd be better off going back to my original career as a "gasoline dispensation engineer" (thanks, Dad). I'm drinking and smoking more than I otherwise would, but have justified that with an increasingly nasty running habit. Trace has been kind enough to give me free reign on her treadmill, and I've been taking advantage of it. Oh, treadmill, the things I will do to you.

The free time has given me a lot of time to think - at times, too much - about things in general, my new career, my health, the ever-changing dynamic between my growing daughter and I, and of course, relationships.

Now that the dust of my most recent failed relationship (I sense a pattern here...) has settled, my mind has cleared enough to make space for readjustment, renewed vows to myself in terms of what it is that I want, and that Anne Frank quote ("I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart") keeps floating around in the flotsam. A good friend of mine recently split from his wife and is rather bravely facing the bitchslap of suddenly co-parenting three children from separate households. Others have similar stories. There's something in the air, that late February thaw, the promise of spring, that makes people rethink their circumstances, makes us wonder what promise is waiting beneath the scum and slush of so much melting winter. Persephone makes her ascent, carrying with her the seeds of the underworld. We all look forward to the new year, the green shoots, but I suppose everyone's entitled to a souvenir. If nothing else, it reminds us where we came from, where we wish to never return.

In light of this pondering, I re-read my post from 4/3/08, and I'd like to present the newly revised version (revisions/addendums in italics; now with chrome!):

Dear Sir:

I've been doing some thinking lately regarding my personal life. Partially because, well, what the hell else is there to do in my free time, and also because, as a Woman In My Thirties, I have grown to worship at the altar of the almighty List. Plus, I read it in O Magazine. Revision: strike "Plus...Magazine"; that rag is a bunch of consumerist narcissism wrapped in desperate housewifery. Why the fuck was I reading that? "Find yourself; eschew materialism! Oh, and buy this five hundred dollar purse!" Ugh.

... If you happen to come across my path at a time in which I am more receptive to the idea of opening up my chest cavity for another potential round of This Is Your Heart; This Is Your Heart Cut Up in Little Pieces and Served Steaming Back to You Served in a Creme Brulee With a Side of Fuck You, it would behoove the both of us to keep the following parameters in mind.

1. Don't be crazy. I'm all for dark humor and a little inappropriate laughter here and there (please do), but let's draw the line at pathological reliance upon defense mechanisms. For further information, please refer to any decent nursing textbook, Chapter: Fucked Up Things People Do When They've Lost It, and use that as your list of "don't"s. Clause: If you are crazy, please notify me of this verbally or in writing immediately after introduction. Example: "Hi! My name is John, and I'm TOTALLY NUTS." Present documentation where applicable. Rinse and repeat.

2. Please don't be an alcoholic. I'm no prude, but let's not go overboard. I realize this is a lot to ask from The Drunkest City in the Nation, but a girl can dream, can't she? Related: please don't smoke. I completely expect you to indulge me in my occasional bad social habits, but I don't want to be tempted back into full-time status. Plus, you'll smell better and be able to spoil me longer.

3. I travel light and am usually a cheap date, but I've been lucky enough to be spoiled a number of times. Do take me out for a kick ass dinner every once in a while. I'm rough around the edges, but I purty up nice. The better the food and wine, the better the sex will be, but you'd better make it tonight because I'll be gassy in the morning.

4. Multi-media, excessive communication runs in my veins. You will not change this. In fact, if you don't love it, it's best we just part ways here and now.

5. Like sex? Me, too. Rinse and repeat.

6.
Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?
A: "But I'm already a grown up..." Or, "I am what I wanted to be when I grew up."
Get it wrong? Let's just be friends.

7. Evaluation of you as a potential step-parent is effective immediately. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in the court of Mom. Be good. I'm not rushing anything here, but I have to be honest. I am Woman, Hear Me Overanalyze. And trust me, my daughter's scoping you out, too. She's smarter than you might think.

8. You should be smart, too, so we have fun things to debate about. Know the difference between debate and arguing. Duh.

9. Did I mention the sex part yet? p.s. Bonus points added for effort, stamina, and/or natural born talent.

10. Be cute, but don't have more hair care products than I do. Keep in mind that I think Shane MacGowan is cute, and he's missing half his teeth. Make that three-quarters.

11. WTF, OMG, u r sxy: if u text me like this, I will shove ur cell phone up ur ass. In fact, don't text me. In my generation, people talk to each other. Using real words that come out of their mouths. I cannot be responsible for what might happen to you should you actually speak in this non-language. Ya know, this one can be struck. I've found that this sort of texting can be very useful when I'm doing really responsible stuff, like texting while driving, or when I'm busy but a prompt response is necessary. What can I say. I've evolved.

12. While we're on the subject of language, I believe there is no more versatile or visceral word in the English language than "fuck". If you don't like this word or any other of the four-letter variety, cover your ears and back slowly away. Bear in mind that I do know how and when not to use it.

13. While we're on the subject of beliefs, I consider myself an atheist with a good sense of spirituality. And I'm pro-choice. You don't have to believe what I do, but if you can't be cool with my friends - who are mostly African-Mexican hermaphroditic dwarves who voted for Nader - then we have a problem.

14. I like to laugh. Hard and often.

15. If you just happen to be a financially stable, brilliant but humble parent with a kid or two of your own, a successful doctor (medical or otherwise)(fuck that; just have a freaking job and wipe your own ass so I don't have to, at least, not until it's age or disability-appropriate), and cheese and beer connaisseur who loves both Fugazi and my mom, I wouldn't cry. You're probably considerably older than me, but won't condescend or hold this against me. As I won't hold it against you. Unless it's really funny.

16. I'm a little creepy sometimes. As my partner, you will be both creeped and amazed, and love this. Specifically, as a nurse, I have no problem discussing diarrhea, genital warts, and/or fourth degree perineal tears at the dinner table - although I will refrain when we have company (see addendum, No. 12). Strike "both creeped and amazed," substitute "amused." Also, keep in mind that it is my intended goal to work in hospice. Translation: I see dead people. Deal.

17. You cannot love anyone unless you love yourself. Above all, know this. Do this. Be this. Rinse and... You know what? You are this. I don't even need to say it.

So, not bad, eh? Little straightening of the curtains here, slip mat under the rug there, but all in all, I've come to a pretty satisfying conclusion: I know what I want. And I'll manage if it doesn't happen. The most important thing is that I still believe it could. In spite of everything.

Stephanie Thorvalson, RN: Now What?

2010-01-31T09:15:00.003-06:00

Patience is a virtue I do not possess, folks. I know, I know. It's been eleven days since I passed boards, and not that I expected a job to land in my lap instantaneously, but... come on! Eleven days is a blink of an eye, I realize, but considering it's been over a month already since I graduated, this down time is really starting to wear on me. I'm doing my best to enjoy the time, have bonded exceedingly with my books of crosswords and sudoku, and have been able to sleep in more over the last month than in the last two years. But I'm starting to get freaking BORED here! Reading my nursing journals and catching up on what's going on out there via nursing blogs is only whetting my appetite, contributing to my overall anxiousness to just get out there and start. doing. it. This one, Nurse Me, is the worst. Reading all of these ER stories is just torture. I wanna jump on the bed and do compressions! I wanna push the atropine! Come on! Pick me! Pick me! Ooh! Ooh!

Hasn't anyone decided, as a New Year's Resolution, to go ahead and retire anyway, despite the economy?

Won't somebody give a nurse's husband their job back so the nurse can cut back to PT and open a spot for me?

Please?

Thanks for considering it.

"Gopher: First thing to be done is to get rid of that bear. He's gumming up the whole project. Owl: Dash it all, he IS the project!"

2010-01-27T12:26:00.008-06:00

Don't think of an elephant.

Hard, isn't it, now that the task has been put to you. Thus, my dilemma. The minute I tell myself to do something in particular, or not to do something in particular, the immediate response of my brain is to pose alllll the reasons why I should do (or not) the precise opposite. Specifically, the moment I say I'm going to be strong and stick to my guns, the guns melt and vanish into vapor. And here I am, empty-handed, asking myself, "Now what?"

(“Before beginning a Hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it.”)

Answer? Friends, family, perhaps. People who will help me to stay on the right track. People who know me well enough to remind me of what my ultimate goals are when they seem so out of reach, or when I'm soooo tempted to slap a band-aid on a gushing head wound simply because the head is oh so lovely and I like to be helpful with the gushing and all and what? No band-aids available? That's okay! I'll just tear my clothes off and rip my t-shirt into strips! There! What? I'm naked? And it's January? But, look! The gushing! It stopped! Well, it... slowed... Oh, dear... And I'm naked... Damn, it's cold out here... AND WHY WON'T YOU SUPPORT ME ON THIS?!!!

("Did you ever stop to think, and forget to start again?")

Or here's another possible answer: ABCs. Airway, Breathing, Circulation. Airway comes first. Done! I've got one of those. Then Breathing. Okay, let's work on that one... THEN cardiac. Therein lies my problem. Always wanting to put the cardiac ahead of the stopping to breathe.

(Eeyore was saying to himself, "This writing business. Pencils and what-not. Over-rated, if you ask me. Silly stuff. Nothing in it.")

It's too quiet around here.

And Maddie and I have been reading Winnie the Pooh.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh," he whispered.
"Yes, Piglet?"
"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw, "I just wanted to be sure of you."

It is hard to be brave, when you're only a Very Small Animal.

(Ed. note: All quotes by A.A. Milne.)

I still get by.

2010-01-27T08:30:00.003-06:00

What is, What Ought to be

2010-01-25T19:08:00.007-06:00

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the bands which have connected her with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitles her, a decent respect to the opinion of that certain other requires that she should declare the causes which impel her to the separation.

I hold these truths to be self-evident, that all people are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

***

Forgive the lofty language, but I happen to be watching a documentary on Thomas Jefferson while concurrently contemplating yet another dissolution in a long line of dissolutions, partial and/or complete, in my most recent relationship as well as those dating back to the distant past. Hearing these words (edited just a bit for my purposes), I was really struck by how they apply to relationships, and to the dissolution of them.

Is it a coincidence that the above words, which I heartily agree with and which define me as an American, are the same words that make me an independent woman in terms of my relationships with men? Ignoring the irony of Jefferson's original words - the fact that these rights are mutually exclusive, quite possibly unattainable, and only guaranteed in his day to white, land-owning males over the age of 18 - and assuming it's true that these sentiments are to apply to the individual as well as to the many, is it too much to ask that these rights be applied to my personal relationships, 234 years later?

I don't think so.

Carry on, then.

"If it's a temporary lull/Why am I bored right outta my skull..."

2010-01-18T10:40:00.004-06:00

First, the good news: I survived my graduation party with no injuries to report, have since been to Florida and back, rinsed off my midwinter blues in the Gulf of Mexico, and developed a new sudoku addiction. In lieu of nursing texts, my nightstand is now stocked with candles, nicotine gum, and a book of crosswords. My sister gave birth to a healthy baby girl on the 7th and is healing and bonding as much as can be expected for a mom with a toddler in the house. On the other hand, my grandparents were in a car accident last week, which resulted in a temporary move to Rockford for the two of them, my grandfather at my mom's house and my grandmother trying to figure out how to feed herself with two broken arms in rehab. Could've been worse, and I'm grateful they're doing as well as they are, but I'm a bit worried about the strain it's putting on my mom. A weekend in Rockford turned out better than expected, but I'm sure I'll be going back again this coming weekend to hopefully ease the transition of my grandmother's potential discharge to my mom and stepdad's home. We're lucky to have each other, all of us, but I'm pretty sure that moving in with their daughter and son-in-law was not on my grandparents' To Do list for 2010. Meanwhile, the house in Paw Paw sits, empty of people, full of 60 years' worth of paperwork, memories, projects, and various debris my Depression-era grandfather can't seem to part ways with. It's a reminder of what's important, what isn't, and of how transient and temporary these little boxes we build to house our lives in really are, despite our best efforts to create a feeling of safety and permanence for our children, our children's children, and the ones who follow after that. When all was said and done, my own father's home is currently already on the market again, the owners who came after us unable to cover the mortgage, let alone properly nurture the earth, waters, and wood my father spent 30+ years cultivating. To everything (turn turn turn)...

In the meantime (ha!), my NCLEX date has been set for this Wednesday, offering a healthy dose of pre-test jitters mixed with an "Oh christcanwegetthisoverwithalready" semi-release. The feeling of accomplishment that came with graduation, the ability to officially call myself a nurse was quickly dampened by the realization that I'm not a nurse, not really, until the boards are behind me and I have a freaking job. Estimated applications filled number somewhere between 30 and 50, yet my phone and email remain eerily quiet. Assurances from friends in the field that I'll get an interview as soon as the initials "RN" are added to my appellation are appreciated, although they do little to pay the bills or alleviate the cabin fever I've developed. It's pretty sad, getting excited at the prospect of emptying my grandmother's leg bag, just to have an opportunity to exercise skills I feel are all too quickly slipping away, skills that were taught to me by a woman who passed away two weeks ago, too young, too soon.

So in short, this particular January has forced me to close my doors, but I'm not braced so firmly as to not crack open a window.

Bryant & Stratton College Nursing Cohort 11 Pinning Ceremony Address

2009-12-22T12:36:00.002-06:00

On my first day of clinical, which was the first time I’d been in a hospital since my daughter was born six years prior, when the elevator doors opened to the sights and smells of the rehab unit at West Allis Memorial Hospital, I turned to Martha Williamson and said, “If I pass out or start convulsing, my cell phone is in my right hip pocket. Call. Mom.” She laughed and assured me that, if I was indeed going to buckle under the pressure and have a heart attack, this was the right place to do it. Knowing, however, that you are mere floors away from the nearest emergency room doesn’t do much in terms of boosting your confidence when you realize that soon enough, you will be the one pushing the gurney, not the one lying on it in a narcotic coma, blissfully unaware of the mayhem surrounding you. You will be part of the mayhem, expected to maintain composure, calm the nerves of frightened patients and family members, administer medications, serve as the conduit of communication between countless healthcare professionals, and take lunch orders, all while your phone keeps ringing in your pocket, the HUC is calling you over the speakers, and you’re snaking a three-foot-long flexible tube up someone’s nose in an attempt to guide it successfully into their stomach - NOT the lungs.

Not many people understand how truly difficult it is to go through this process. Even with all possible variables set in the most positive of circumstances, even if everything went strictly according to plan, there are still no words to describe the roller coaster that is nursing school. Throw in the sleep deprivation, rising gas prices, a couple of wars, a presidential election, the school's accreditation process, and, oh yeah! ACTUAL PATIENTS with emergencies, kids, and neuroses of their own.... It's a whirlwind. It's a tsunami. And we go through it all crying, laughing, losing sleep and our hair, trying to maintain composure and a healthy electrolyte balance, juggling seventeen balls in the air, feeling that if we drop even one the whole system will collapse.

Looking back on our first clinical experiences, I think many of us are startled and relieved to discover upon reflection how stupid we must have seemed to our instructors, to our poor first patients. In those early days of Fundamentals, what tripped some of us up the most wasn’t the fancy jargon, the tubes and wires, or even the smell of C-diff emanating from down the hall. It was the simple, unsophisticated mechanics of nursing. Kneeling at a patient’s bedside, holding a Foley catheter bag of urine. You carefully inspect it. Lemonade. No blood. No “floaties.” Smells about right. Precisely 475 mL of clean and clear, apparently normal excretions. Now what? Can you just flush it down the toilet? Doesn’t someone in a lab somewhere need a sample of this? And the whole time you’re thinking to yourself, “I could be at home right now, reading Harry Potter to my kids. Instead I am here, contemplating this bag of urine.”

But you make it through that semester. You go on into Med-Surg, learning helpful catchphrases like “pink puffer” and “blue bloater” to differentiate between respiratory disorders. “High and Dry” isn’t just a song made popular by the group Radiohead: it’s what happens when a diabetic forgets to take their insulin. In pediatrics, those of us who weren’t parents already got to experience for the first time being defecated upon by someone too little and too cute to get mad at. Then there’s psych! How’s your poker face? Here’s a scenario: two wheelchair-bound patients are eating chicken and wild rice in the dining room of a group home. One of them begins choking on the wild rice, vomiting copious amounts back onto his plate. After the crisis is resolved, are you capable of stifling your own laughter when the schizophrenic at the table,
friendly, half-crossed eyes and says, “I told you, Nurse! That rice is just too WILD for him! It’s just too WILD!” And then there was OB. Know what this means? (hand gesture to assess cervical dilation). I’ll give you a hint: it’s not a gang sign.

Somehow along the way, the flotsam and jetsam of microbiological, pathophysiological, psychosocial, and mechanical information miraculously metamorphosize from a junk collector’s pile in our strained little minds to a comprehensive understanding of how it all fits together. Our brains and our sanity finally call a truce, and what began as a seemingly insurmountable stack of homework now settles in the cracks of our cortices, humming along busily, and with far fewer misfiring synapses. Things. Start. To Make. Sense. And the fear of making a mistake becomes overridden by a growing confidence as our instructors let us take on two, then three, then four patients at a time. Our minds start to open up to not just the nuts and bolts, but the true meaning of nursing: advocacy. Compassion. Accountability. Our senses of humor become permanently warped, and our memory banks become filled with the life stories of strangers, stamped with the images of open surgeries, of thirty people in yellow isolation gowns rushing into a room to code a patient while his confused and crying wife gets escorted down the hall, a six-year-old girl who bronchospasms after a tonsillectomy, stops breathing and turns blue right there on the table in front of you, and then fifteen minutes later is smiling through her tears at the promise of a popsicle. I can still smell that GI bleed, can hear the painfully sad sounds of an elderly psychiatric patient calling out for her mother. My hands still recall the hardness and coldness of that 86 year old grandfather’s watch as I carefully slipped it off his dead wrist moments before transferring his body to the morgue.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, you have all been there for us. I could easily argue that many of you deserve honorary degrees today for withstanding the psychological torture of having a mom, a husband, a daughter, son, or sibling in nursing school. Our schedules changed every three months, from day classes and evening clinicals to 4:30 a.m. alarms and 9-hour lectures. Some of us got married, had children and panic attacks, missed funerals and field trips, found we had lost our relationships or our jobs. This has not been easy for any of us here today. Even putting the clocked-in hours aside, there were still countless hours of reading, flipping through flashcards, staring wide-eyed and sleepless in front of computer screens, trying to muster the energy and optimism to eke out one more syllable of evidence-based practice, some sort of proof that we were still in it for the long haul, still learning, still putting one foot tentatively in front of the other. And all the while, you’ve been there. Cooking meals, picking up the kids from school, babysitting grandkids, changing your work schedules to accommodate ours, helping to pay our bills – or just paying the bills for us, period – being the reassuring voice on the other end of the phone, refraining from smacking us when we hit the snooze button for the fifth time. And it’s vitally important to all of us graduating that you, our families and friends, realize how grateful we are. Without your patience, your willingness to adapt, your ability to withstand both our long winded stories and our frustrated tears, we wouldn’t be up here collecting our pins and lamps and our little pieces of paper. Thank you for being such solid foundations for us, escapes from our studies, shoulders to cry on.

Looking forward, prospects are frightening. While we’ve been busy memorizing lab values and flushing IVs, the economy has been conspiring against us. Although there is still a nursing shortage, many of us are having a hard time finding jobs. We’re finding that many hospitals don’t want to hire us until we’ve passed our boards. Nurses who would have retired have stayed on, those who were working part-time have increased their hours to make up for the failing economy, and we’re here scrambling to pick up whatever scraps fall on the floor. The situation will turn around as the recession improves, but it’s going to take time. Time and passing grades on our NCLEX exams. Time we hope you can still afford to give us.

So the bottom line is that although we’ve reached a pinnacle moment here, it’s only one summit of a string of mountains ahead. There are still the boards to pass, interviews to be had, orientations and certifications to complete, and many of us will be walking out of these doors today and straight into further education. We are curious and ambitious creatures, eager to begin our practices and to help shape and shake up healthcare in this country, from the hospital floor into patients’ homes. A few weeks ago, we had a representative from the Wisconsin Nurses Association speak to us, and she made the comment that our generation of nurses is far less passive-aggressive than her own had been. We’re direct, unafraid to question doctor’s orders, willing to stand up to more experienced nurses who are inclined to whisper behind our backs. We’re kicking ass and taking names and we aren’t satisfied with, “well, that’s the way we’ve always done it.” Whether the current reform process amounts to any real differences or not, change starts at home, and there can be little doubt that today’s graduates will be making waves in our communities.

So to our families and friends: Thank you for being here today, for every day of the last two years, and for the support we’ll continue to need in the many long years ahead.
Thank you for showing us your strength, your humility, your compassion and your tough love. Thank you for letting us sleep that one extra hour, and for encouraging us to stick with it when we were certain we would – and sometimes did – fail. Although we maybe haven’t seen as much of you as we would have liked throughout this process, we have carried you in our back pockets, have walked through hospital doors with your love and support in our hearts. There hasn’t been a single IV hung, a vaccination administered, or a Foley bag emptied that hasn’t been influenced in some way by the imprints of your presence in our lives. You make us who we are, love us through the toughest of times. Thank you will never be enough.

To our instructors: Wow. Somehow you have managed to sculpt a pretty impressive pile of cocky and clueless students into a knowledgeable, respectable, and humble group of practitioners. Who would have thought that all of those tedious nursing plans actually taught us something! You have stretched your necks out on the line for us, whipped us into shape, steadied our hands, calmed our fears, and done it all with such grace under pressure, such class. Thank you for passing the torch to us, for being the platform from which we launch our new careers, for being our mentors, our friends, and now colleagues. In the words of Isaac Newton, “If I have seen further, it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

In closing, I would like to give a personal shout out to my classmates, not just for the opportunity to speak today, but for the friendships forged over the last two years. It’s a special kind of bond that forms when the first words we say to each other in the morning are, “Oh my god, finding that woman’s meatus was like hunting for Charlie in Vietnam. I’m going to have flashbacks for the rest of my life.” It’s a sick sense of humor we share, a defense mechanism we need to hold on to if we want to last very long in this profession. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve prayed together, broken bread together, even stuck each other with needles. I’m going to miss you guys so much. As my grandfather likes to say, “You’ll leave a hell of a hole.” So here’s to us. To holding each other up, to checking in on each other in the months ahead as we all step forward into a new form of ineffective coping, caregiver role strain, and readiness for enhanced knowledge. I hope you’ll all keep me in your thoughts the first time you catch a baby, heal a junkie, perform chest compressions or initiate chemotherapy. God knows your faces will appear in my mind.

And to my daughter, Maddie: you’re not the only one in this family who gets in trouble for talking too much at school.

Thanks, everyone, for listening.

Stephanie J. Thorvalson, ADN
December 18, 2009

Gettin' all verklempt up in here. Tawk amongst yerselves.

2009-12-17T10:27:00.003-06:00

I'm feeling a bit wishy washy here, kids. The pinning ceremony is tomorrow, the party is pretty much set up and ready to go thanks to Big, my speech is almost finished, and I'm only about 16 DVDs away from having copies of the photo montage video Jen and I created for the whole cohort. I went to school yesterday to sign my statement of graduation, my laundry's caught up to a reasonable level....

In other words, I've got relatively little to do other than sit here and reflect. Last night, I broke down in tears twice while out for dinner with Big, and I can't really put a finger on exactly why. It's all kinds of things. I've missed a large part of the last two years of my daughter's life. When I started nursing school, she was just starting 1st grade. Now she's halfway through 3rd, and growing up so quickly. We actually had a conversation about training bras last week. TRAINING. BRAS. Know what comes after training bras? COLLEGE. How am I going to pay for my own student loans and hers? *sigh*

And guess what? The economy's in a shithole quagmire! So much for the nursing shortage! With so many people out of work, nurses are postponing retirement and picking up extra hours to make ends meet, leaving far fewer opportunities for new grads like me to find work. Add to that the fact that many employers don't want to hire us until we've passed our boards.... I'm looking at March before I'll have a job. Awesome.

So what do I do in the meantime? Sit here in my bed, scanning job postings online, and trying to wrap my brain around this one simple statement: I graduated. Thirty thousand dollars, two psychiatric medication prescriptions, and two entire bookshelving units of reading later, I'm a nurse. My father is dead, my daughter is thriving somehow, I managed to get out of Rockford, several friends have succumbed to and kicked heroin addiction, I survived the worst breakup of my entire life, my hair grew out, I didn't die in an alley somewhere, my boyfriend is an incredibly loving and supportive rock of stability in my life, and I'm a nurse.

Holy fuck, I'm a nurse.

Shock and Awe.

2009-12-08T08:52:00.003-06:00

What better way to spend the first blizzardy day of the season than by catching up on all those little things that have been on a back burner for the last two years. Having all this free time now that school is winding down is already starting to make me a little antsy, but so far, I'm finding ways to fill the time. For example:

This, my friends, is a chore chart. And a 'wanted' poster. True, the Bug hath inherited many a pretty gene from her mother, however, her DNA is a bit lacking, shall we say, in the picking-up-after-herself department. I'd have published before and after shots of her room (which only yesterday ended its 3-week reign of terror on my psyche) if it wasn't for fear I'd lose my mommy license. I take full responsibility for the fact that the floor of said bedroom has not been seen in three weeks, and that this has been a relatively cyclical and common occurrence since I've been in nursing school. The guilt of spending so much time reading and studying (and so little time going to the Betty Brinn) softened my hard edges, wore me to the point of exhaustion, leaving nary an urge to spend our final minutes of the day together barking orders, kicking ass and taking names.

But, lo, the tide hath turned! All hail the return of the Hard Ass! I finally took the time yesterday to come up with this chart, with Maddie's help, and we're both actually pretty excited about it. She likes the sense of accomplishment she feels when I add stickers to the chart, and I'm satisfied knowing that expectations have been clearly outlined, along with rewards. I'm not big on grounding, taking away privileges, etc. Although I will if I have to. But for this kind of day-to-day crap, it's much more positive, I think, to offer rewards for good behavior than threaten her with exile when the laundry pile creeps toward the ceiling.

Next on today's list: organization of said bedroom! Now that I can find her desk, it's time to re-organize the drawers. Followed by the closet. Oh, the closet...

Really, this is all just an excuse to go to Target and buy a ridiculous amount of puffy unicorn stickers. But, ya know. Gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do.

Next item on the agenda: the craft cabinet!

Note: not a single mention of homework to do, papers to write, or clinicals to arise in the wee hours for! FREEEEEDOOOMMMMMMMM!

Nursing Nerdity

2009-11-19T08:44:00.003-06:00

Another busy week in nursing school! Monday was relatively quiet, little to report. Tuesday, however, I took on three patients at once for the first time (officially). Really eye-opening to experience first-hand the mental stress, time management, and safety concerns that arise when working on a busy med-surg floor. It's no small wonder that mistakes happen. That said, I managed to dot my i's and cross all my t's, in spite of two concurrent discharges and a code (wasn't my patient) that happened in the middle of it all.

Learning points:

1. Nurses really are the middleman between all the various health care professions, and sometimes the only ones who catch red flags. Had my first confrontation with a doctor who wanted to discharge someone the nurse and I both felt needed a little more time. He wound up discharging her anyway, but I learned the hard way that we can only do what we can do within our scope of practice, and that being an advocate means raising difficult issues even when the "easier" route may be to just go with the already prescribed flow. Again - dot the i's, cross the t's, document everything, and hope for the best.

2. Holy crap, a lot of people showed up for the code! Amazed at how quiet it was, despite the presence of around twenty people. So many bodies rushing around, pushing carts, donning gloves and gowns, and yet the only noise coming out of the room was that of the defibrillator, and finally one voice: "We've got a pulse. We've got a strong pulse." Amazing to see all the different departments that showed up within minutes: pharmacy, docs, lab, respiratory therapy, the chaplain, nurses, students... I tried to just stay out of the way, watching from just outside the doorway. A sea of yellow gowns, concerned faces fixed in expressions of intense concentration, the patient's feet at the bottom of the bed, jumping with each shock of the defibrillator. The patient was transferred to ICU, and within a half hour, we all heard another code called out over the loudspeakers. I don't know if he made it.

3. Portfolio Day at school yesterday. Started compiling evidence for two different portfolios: one for graduation, one for employers. Got some really helpful suggestions regarding my resume and had a blast, actually, doing mock interviews and sharing stories with other students about our internship and advanced practicum experiences. Really lit the match under my butt to get it together and re-vamp my application process. Have called the manager of a local ED in the hopes of getting a job there, and will be spending today working on homework and getting my resume out there. Absolutely cannot believe there's only four weeks left! Sweet jeebus, I need to find a job!

In other news, I'll be attending an inaugural storytelling event at Art Bar tonight. No plans to tell my own story - having a hard time coming up with an idea that fits the theme and wouldn't be too serious (I'd prefer to keep the evening light and entertaining, as I imagine that will be the goal of the organizers). Will definitely enjoy being in the audience, though, and looking forward to possibly participating at future events.

Back to the grindstone!

Nursing Nerdity

2009-11-10T18:50:00.005-06:00

Wow, what a day. Had two patients today, which turned into three when an interesting admit came in and my clinical instructor gave me the okay to take him on as well. The original two were stable, not much to report, but the third was transferred up from ER while suffering a heart attack. His circulation was so bad that we couldn't get an oxygen reading from the pulse ox; his fingertips were blue when he came in, and the cyanosis had crept up to his wrist by the time I left. Spent a lot of time talking with his wife and sat in on the consultation with the palliative team. The palliative doc was amazing, a great guy, one I've worked with before during med-surg clinicals when I had another dying patient. Wonderful sense of humor (only when appropriate, of course) and a master at relaying difficult and complicated information to the family.

Got to help with a dressing change for an open amputation wound (meaning the skin had not been sewn around the wound yet - the stump pretty much looked like a cheese pizza [and now that I've ruined pizza for you]...). Biggest wound I've ever seen. Clean and healing well, but holy crap. I can't even imagine being in that patient's position right now. Learned a few key things: 1) what a leg looks like when it's been sliced off (i.e.,what it should look like while it's healing), 2) I have a really strong stomach, and 3) I'm really good at nonpharmacologic interventions for pain.

Also got to start an IV, my second. Didn't go so well - veins were hard to find, and I was reluctant to move the needle around too much. Live and learn.

Looking forward to next week, and to hopefully landing a job in either palliative care or the OR.

Rock 'n roll.

Update 11/17/09: I learned today that the man discussed in the first paragraph passed away two hours after we left the floor. Rest in peace. SJT

Nursing Nerdity and Mr. Big

2009-11-09T17:59:00.003-06:00

Know what's awesome? Blogging from my front porch, no coat, on the 9th of November. That's what's awesome.

Know what else is awesome? The transplant unit I'm currently working on for my last clinical (well, last of my ADN - there's more school to come, I plan). Today, the first day on the unit, went pretty smoothly, and it looks like we'll have a good mix of transplants and med-surg patients to care for, which equates to a good learning experience. How quickly my skills have become rusty, though! It took me a good five minutes to determine whether or not I need to do anything other than maintain sterile technique and check the tip when removing a PICC line (answer: not really, other than put some pressure on it and chart). There are also some palliative patients on the floor, which excites me, as I still have a strong desire to go into hospice. The more med-surg I do, the more I want to beef up my skills and stay on top of it, but there's such an appeal in home care - the being on my own, driving to patients' houses, being in a home environment as opposed to the hospital. The outlook for nursing jobs in MKE is unfortunately not as wide open as I'd hoped when I started the program, but I have little doubt I'll be able to find something I'd like to do. There's just such a wide range of things that are available (although they're mostly 3rd shift...), and so much that I find interest in.

Graduation looms near. I'm starting to get nervous. The two days of clinical added to my schedule for the next month leave me with considerably less time for studying, writing papers, and putting together my portfolio - all three of which are things that absolutely must be done over the next week. This is in addition to optimally doing 50 NCLEX practice questions per night, paying bills, trying to keep the apartment in a state of relative cleanliness, and oh yeah! I should probably feed my kid. After I pick her up from baton, take her to gymnastics, force her to cooperate in personal hygiene, and help her with her homework... Her dad moved into a new apartment last week, and I promised to help get her room set up over there as well. In other words, I'm getting the feeling that I'm going to be mostly underground for the next five weeks, and one day I'll wake up and it'll be graduation day.

How did I get here again?

Meanwhile, the personal life has had its fair share of ups and downs, and I'm trying to just take it a day at a time. I've come to a few realizations: 1) sometimes - for my own sake, and for the sake of my best friend - I should keep my big mouth shut and give it a few days, rather than declare a stalemate; 2) I need to figure out how to assert myself in a way that doesn't involve OH MY GOD I AM SO BREAKING UP WITH YOU, because I really don't want that, because 3) in spite of the high drama we've had, the insecurities and discomfort and questioning, the fact remains: I really, truly love and believe in him. In us.

But I'm not one to settle for "because I looooove him!" as an excuse. There's no justification. Only bare bones honesty and the willingness (or lack of) to trust, to believe, to forgive and move forward. There's not much left to say, but a lot to be done. Which is fine by me, as I am tired of talking.

"More words count less. Hold fast to the center." - Tao te Ching, verse five.

Here's to doing, to action, to shutting the fuck up.

Soup of the Day: Bitchin' and Wild Rice.

2009-10-25T11:29:00.005-05:00

... and the battle wages on, the war yet to be won. But it shall be won, my friends! It shall. And thy humble writer will stand victorious upon the heap of two years' worth of studies, and sound my barbaric YAWP o'er the rooftops of Milwaukee.

*sigh*

Dudes, I am truly plodding along these last few weeks. After proactively compiling a checklist of Shit I Need to Catch Up On regarding school, the chapter numbers are too slowly having little lines drawn through them. It's not that I don't want to know this stuff. Her Nerdy Highness simply will not be satisfied until the knowledge bank is sufficiently fed, and yet the procrastinatey part of me (which does constitute a ridiculously high portion) is hoping that just having my books next to me, while I lay here in bed playing games on the computer, will be enough to magically transfer the books' contents into my wee little brain. Knowledge through proximity! Osmosis! Hear, hear! As I type, the sturdy box of Kaplan-issued NCLEX-RN medications flash cards sits on my nightstand, pristine and unhighlighted (the lid still squeaks with newness when I open it!), glaring at me, cursing me. "Why hast thou forsaken me," it cries. "Wherefore didst thou purchase me, when I long so for thy touch?" Oh, sweet Kaplan-issued NCLEX-RN medications flash cards... Soon. Very soon.

In all seriousness, you know it's an issue when your instructor, with whom you are friends on Facebook, makes it a point to use the term "senioritis" in her lecture, warning and tsk-tsking about it only days after you'd self-diagnosed with that term on FB (it was a cry for help, I tell you! One that didn't go unheeded - thanks, Becki!). Thankfully, I'd pulled my proverbial poop together enough to score a 90% on her exam that day; otherwise, I'd have been fully in the leaky doghouse... in the rain... howling... as opposed to lying on the floor at her feet, hoping for a forgiving little pat on the head, even if delivered with a roll of her eyes. Although she did specify that she could not - would not! - physically come to our houses and force us to read, I assure you her presence is felt at this very moment.

Meanwhile, the Bug attended a Halloween party at a friend's house last night, and afterward informed me that the 9-year-old present was "creepy" because she kept inappropriately trying to kiss her new friends on the cheek. I explained to her that said "creepy" 9yo actually has Down's syndrome, and then gave her a brief lesson on what that means. I'm really excited at the notion of bringing her with me to work one of these days, exposing her a bit to people with Down's and cerebral palsy (CP) so that she can begin to understand what these people can do and less on what they can't - and then hopefully pass that knowledge on to her friends.

Trace and I were able to go out together - twice! - this week, which was great. Although we see each other almost daily, it's pretty rare that we get a chance to go out on our own, sans kids. Friday night was dinner at Centraal, followed by drinks at the Palm. Last night, we took a quick hour-long dip in the dance pool, seeing a performance by Molly Shanahan as part of the Alverno Presents series at Alverno College. The 45-minute performance went by really quickly, a singular piece without intermission that left me feeling I'd seen something entirely new and stoked the little flame inside me that wants to (one o' these days...) sign up for the beginning modern class at Danceworks. Any joiners?

Research thus far indicates that my desire to work in ER may need to be postponed until I've become more comfortable in the profession. I interviewed a friend of mine who recently got her RN, and despite working in the same ER for the previous 10 years, she's found the transition extremely difficult. If it's been that hard on her - knowing the staff, knowing her surroundings, and being one of the top students in her cohort - I don't even want to imagine how difficult it would be on me. Rather than stock up on antianxiety meds and pray I don't have a nervous breakdown while trying to adjust, I think I'll go back to my original hospice plan, or look into pediatrics.

The group home experience continues to be both educational and rewarding. One of the residents continuously provides comic relief, and the fact that we're laughing with him (as opposed to at him) gives me enough peace of mind to share some of his wisdom. He's schizophrenic, and as such, tends to make associations that other people might not - and/or vocalizes associations that others might keep to themselves for fear of sounding like, ya know, a schizo. For example, one of the residents fed himself a serving of wild rice a little too quickly one night and promptly began choking. One second, I'm serenely feeding a resident with CP, asking him how his burger tastes. The next, I'm holding a towel under another resident's chin, trying to catch what he was suddenly regurgitating, flanked by another PCA and one of the owners. Mind you, this happens while the father of a prospective future resident is sitting ten feet away, observing, deciding whether or not this is the place he'd like his son to live. Thankfully, we all reacted appropriately and maintained the choking resident's airway (and what we could of his dignity) until the episode was over. Once the air(way) had cleared, I sat back down between said resident and the one I'd been feeding, and looked up across the table at (oh we'll call him) Stu, the afore-mentioned schizophrenic, to see how he'd reacted to the scene that had just unfolded in the middle of his dinner.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm doin' alright, Nurse." (He always calls me 'Nurse', despite my several attempts to get him to just call me by name). "Yeah, I know what you're sayin', Nurse, yeah, yeah. That was, uh -- that rice, you know -- that rice was just too WILD for him, you know what I'm sayin', Nurse? It was just too WILD."

I know what you're sayin', Stu. Duly noted.

Another pearl: A frequent topic of conversation with Stu is God. One of the PCAs told him one day that he could become an ordained minister online. He didn't believe her. Figuring it was harmless and might actually be good for his self esteem, and wanting to prove how easy it is for anyone - literally, anyone - to call themselves a minister, she helped him through the process one day. I've since been told that Reverend Stu has decided to dress as Jesus for Halloween. Also, he's now occasionally referring to me as "Sister," a reference I'm sure to his reverence, and one I find humor in, as nurses in the UK are still addressed as "Sister," a title that hearkens back to nursing's origins in the Church.

I am so looking forward to work tomorrow.

Checkin' In.

2009-10-12T10:23:00.004-05:00

Garsh dang it, I've been busy! Here's a brief update:

1. I started running! Check my mileage, read updates, etc., here.

1a. My ass looks great in running pants. Just sayin'.

2. Doesn't care if you think Obama didn't deserve the Nobel Peace Prize. I'm completely satisfied with the diplomacy and overall tone of his presidency thus far, and will give kudos to anyone who is capable of uniting people in the way he has. If the rest of the world just wanted to say, "Thanks for electing a peacemaker," I'm happy with that.

3. Where's my kid?! Mad's been with her dad since Friday. Every parent needs a break every now and then, but despite our bickering, I really miss her to death when she's gone.

4. Cell phones and washing machines do not mix.

5. Coming Friday evening: my friend Carmen's new studio! Don't know the exact address, but it's in the heart of Bay View, next to Number One Chinese Restaurant. Will post grand opening party time as soon as I find out the exact hours.

Nursing Nerdity

2009-09-29T08:49:00.005-05:00

This post is written mainly for my fellow nursing peeps, but anyone who's interested in finding out what exactly a nurse does or understanding the differences between types of nursing (ICU v. ED, for example) might be interested in checking out these sites. Because I'll be graduating soon (yikes!), I'm starting to spend a lot more time reaching out, finding out what I can on my own about the community of health care workers I'm about to join the ranks of. And because I have a blog, I figured other nurses must, too. I was right! Knowing these sites are out there gives me a sense of community with other nurses and, I feel, will help keep me motivated and strong when the "new nurse burnout" likely comes knocking.

The end of nursing school is only the beginning for most of us. The next year, our first year as RNs, is going to be extremely challenging. Not only are we expected to intervene according to the knowledge we've struggled so hard to gain over the last few years, we are intervening with real patients, without the benefit of an instructor nearby or the excuse we've all admittedly resorted to at one point or another, "Well, I'm just a student. I'm still learning."

News flash: hopefully, we will all still be students over the years to come, through our experiences, through organizations, through formal and informal education. I hope these links will gently open the door for us, offering us a window between our frying pan and their fire. Keep in mind that I haven't yet rifled through the archives of these sites - I can't guarantee that you won't read anything offensive to your taste, etc. - but at first glance at least, these appear to be helpful.

Stay positive! Stay focused! Stay together!

http://www.emergiblog.com/

http://www.codeblog.com/

http://www.nurseratchedsplace.com/

http://mediblogopathy.blogspot.com/

http://head-nurse.blogspot.com/

Update: Upon further review, the mediblogopathy site has not been updated since 2007. Oops! Sorry 'bout that.

Movin' on Up

2009-09-28T11:00:00.004-05:00

What are those things called... you know, those journal-like website things with the words and the postings and the... oh, yeah! Blogs. Wait. I think I have one of those.

Hello, there! Apologies for the extended absence here. It's not that there hasn't been anything going on, just that certain things have been preoccupying my brain and I hadn't figured out a way to write about them yet.

Like, for instance, marriage. There's been a lot of talk 'round these parts about marriage, and the talking that's going on reflects only about 10% of how much thinking is going along with it. Things like, are we ready for this? Do we live together first? If the "test run" of living together unmarried is a prerequisite to commitment, doesn't that perhaps signal that something is fundamentally missing - i.e., the willingness to truly commit for life? What does the Bug think about all this? What if What Happened the Last Time We Lived With a Man happens again? I've often said that I would never consider moving Maddie in with another man unless marriage was on the table. Well, here we are! And I find myself wishing for some kind of guarantee, scientific evidence that clearly states, in bold capital letters, YOU AND YOUR DAUGHTER WILL BE SAFE AND HAPPY WITH THIS MAN, TIL DEATH DO YOU PART. Whaddya mean I can't have that?! And of equal importance is the question, Where is Tracey going to sleep?

I think we both feel like we're in this awkward sort of in-between space. We're not living together, but he picks up my prescriptions. We're not married, but I have, when necessary, pooped in his house when he was home. We have no lifelong commitment legally documented, but he washes my underwear on a regular basis.

Wait a minute. He picks up prescriptions and does my laundry... I poop. Is there a pattern here? Kidding. Sort of. Seriously. Dude is the most generous person I've ever known. As I type, he is ordering lunch to pick up and deliver to me. Yes, he has his own selfish reasons, too (get yer minds outta the gutter - we have family issues going on). But still. I can't keep up! Anyway.

We're both fully cognizant of the details of each other's lives and, to some extent, are co-involved in decision-making, on matters ranging from our kids to finances to "that bedspread is too, you know, HELLO! FLOWERS!" Plus, when we talk marriage, we're not talking about just two people. Our schedules have grown to accommodate the needs of up to six people at a time - ourselves, our kids, and our children's other parents. Did I mention his aging father, living alone 90 miles away? It can be freakin' complicated. We don't always agree. Nor do we all get along all the time. But we're making it work, and honestly, it's not as hard as I thought it would be. Then again - we're not actually married yet. We're not even living together.

So where are we? We're both ready, I think, to take another step, but neither of us is 100% certain what that step should be, specifically. There are still some details we need to hash out before getting married. Like, what does step-parenting mean to each of us. I've been raising Maddie the way I want to for nearly seven years - am I ready for someone else's take? And, again, when will the guest house for Tracey be completed? We're definitely working beyond standard boyfriend/girlfriend territory here. Not living together is, in some ways, becoming kind of a pain in the ass. Certain things would just be so much easier. And certain things are guaranteed to be more difficult.

Meanwhile, my NCLEX-RN review book lies on the nightstand, beckoning...

Here's what I think. I think that Saturday evening, while getting ready for a friend's reception, I had something really embarrassing happen. Bad enough that I told Big to just go ahead without me, I'd just take that bottle of wine over to Tracey's and hang out with her for the evening. You know, just like normal. Except I'll be really dressed up. And crying out of self-pity. I was sure, for the first five minutes, that I absolutely could not go out in public like I was. I poured a glass of wine for each of us and took his suggestion that we sit down and talk about it for a minute before I went jumping off the nearest bridge. We talked. I called Tracey for moral support. Then two things happened:

1. I realized that somewhere along the line of the last ten years (since the last time this particular thing happened to me), I grew a pair. I really didn't care that much what other people thought. I decided this could either be sad and poopy, or actually kind of funny. I went for the latter.

2. I am with a man who is not only willing to be seen with someone who is less than perfect, but would be really disappointed if I wasn't there, by his side, imperfections and all. To me, this is as close as we can get to that guarantee I was talking about. I am really. Really. Lucky.

So, yeah. I'm still not 100% certain where the next step will take us, but I do know that I really, really like the view from here.

p.s. Can we get a kitty?

Ahem.

2009-09-08T17:42:00.003-05:00

I just want everyone to know that the 1998 Saturn my sister gave to me when she purchased her new vehicle nearly two years ago is at this very moment basking in the glorious rays of late afternoon sun, shiny and resplendent in its shiny resplendence after having been scrubbed, rubbed, and generally given the world's longest hand job by moi. All of her nooks, crannies, and crevices have been lovingly caressed, buffed, and fluffed, and just now, through my open kitchen window, I heard her sigh with sweet relief and light up a cigarette.

She even has new floor mats.

I deserve a beer. That is all.

Ch ch ch ch changes...

2009-09-04T08:33:00.003-05:00

Changes are afoot, ladies and gentlemen. After finally finding a new job last night, this morning finds me mixed with anticipation and the strong desire to make sure I have my psychiatric medication ducks in a row before setting off on this new adventure. It's part time, only one day a week (12 hours, though), and not in a hospital. The downside is that I won't be exercising my manual skills quite so much, but this is definitely a good introduction into psych, not to mention that it makes me feel really good about contributing to the community. What goes around comes around. Feels so good to be able to transform some of my own past experiences and education into positive, present deeds. And I'm getting paid for it. 'Cause I'm a *professional*. This does mean I need to go buy some new pants. 'Slacks,' I believe, is the technical term.

Maddie's settling in to her 3rd grade year. She's been given one of two new teachers at the school and has therefore been placed next to her best friend in their seating assignments. We'll see how long that lasts. I wager two weeks, tops. I'm amazed every day at how quickly she's growing. It's very much in the forefront of my mind that she is now officially at an age that can and will be relatively easily recalled when she's older, and therefore I'm arming myself with tools to help me be a better parent (read: self help books). I know, I know - self help psychobabble Oprah crap - but the mere presence of a book entitled _Positive Discipline_ in my living room is often enough to make me take a deep breath before flying off the handle. Her newest development has been an exercise of free will, in which I ask her to do something, to which she answers with a flat, insistive, "no." No! Simple! Just like that! No. So I've had to strategize. Offer choices between two acceptable things, rather than ask her a question. Or trick her into doing something healthy. For example, Maddie doesn't want to go for a stroll by the lake. It's boring. But she will go for a walk if the destination is Juliana's house. Walking there and back logs two miles. Voila. Win-win. Motherhood is definitely becoming a bit of a chess game, but I'm determined to get through these next few formative years with our relationship intact. Even if she won't let me kiss her in front of her friends anymore.

Wednesday night found me ambling around Bay View with Trace and Paul, an old friend from middle and high school. Alright, correction, he was my first boyfriend. And probably the last one my mother actually approved of for the next decade, give or take. He made me mix tapes of Violent Femmes, Dead Milkmen, and Suicidal Tendencies. We kissed once at Magic Waters. We got all 'deep' 'n shit. Then we broke up. Then he cast me in a one-act play he directed in high school and hit my car one day after rehearsal. I got mad. He drove a bitchin' Camaro, and colliding with my 1984 Mercury Grand Marquis was clearly an accidental but demonstrative manifestation of his superiority. He offered to fix it. I decided his coming clean about it was enough. We called a truce. We never saw each other much after that. I was super busy doing drugs and dropping out. He was super busy being someone who would get accepted to, and later graduate, medical school. Now he's a shrink, I just got a job in a group home, and I'm pretty sure we're both still at least a little bit nuts. It's wonderful, and wonderful to have spent an evening strolling around the neighborhood with two of my oldest friends. There's just something about talking a walk, the night air, reminiscing, talking about our new lives, creating new memories while inwardly high fiving the ghosts of our former selves. My 13 year old self was definitely in on the ride that night, and god damn, did she have some awesome friends. Thanks, self. Thanks, friends.

I've started going to a yoga class every Tuesday night, which will soon be switched to Thursday mornings, I think. No matter what the time, it's time well spent and is making me feel healthier and more grounded than I have in a long time. Added to this regimen will be walking sessions with my yoga instructor twice a week. Toss in the recent additional cigarette tax of 75 cents a pack, and little miss thang over here just might wind up with a decent cardiovascular system after all. Now if I could just manage to eat breakfast.

Tracey's working on starting a new fitness website, one I hope to write the occasional column for. I figure people might appreciate the input of someone who works out mainly as a means of justifying her smoking and drinking twice a week. And I'm in the medical profession now! Do as I say, not as I do, people! Alright, you can do some of the things I do. Just not the smoking part. Anyway, it'll be a fun way to contribute to something that Trace is so excited to build, and that will help me keep track of any progress (or lack of) in my own attempts at wellness. Mostly I'm excited that Trace has found a void to fill, an outlet for her creative juices, one that so perfectly combines her love of running with her love of the interwebs. Stay tuned.

Readiness for Enhanced Self-Concept

2009-08-17T11:23:00.003-05:00

I woke up this morning to a letter from my friend Nichole. She graduated nursing school on Friday and is just now starting to wrap her brain around the notion that she is finished, that there are no more clinicals, that there are no more lectures to attend, that she is a nurse. Being a mere four months away from that myself, it's a beautiful thing to witness and to share in.

Last night, I raised a glass of champagne to my friend Kate, my wise and wonderful, hilarious healer, beautiful and intelligent friend Kate. She just passed her nurse practitioner boards. Kate, NP. My friend.

Not many people understand how truly difficult it is to go through this process. Even with all possible variables set in the most positive of circumstances, even if everything went completely smoothly, there are still no words to describe the roller coaster that is nursing school. Throw in a few family emergencies, children, spouses, significant others, the lack of sleep, rising gas prices and a student income, a couple of wars, a presidential election, the school's accreditation process, and, oh yeah! ACTUAL PATIENTS with emergencies, kids, neuroses, etc., of their own.... It's a whirlwind. It's a tsunami.

Plus, it's not for the weak of stomach. Ever snake a tube inside a man's penis? Or suction blood clots from an 8 year old's throat after a tonsillectomy? How about changing the bed liner of a deceased person whose anal sphincter is no longer taut? Sound like fun? Go to nursing school.

I know my sense of humor is nauseating, but these are truly our experiences. And we go through them laughing, crying, losing sleep and our hair, trying to maintain composure and a healthy electrolyte balance, all the while thinking to ourselves, "I could be at home reading a book to my children... instead I am here... contemplating this bag of urine."

One of my favorite things to do during nursing school has been to diagnose myself. Nutritional Imbalance: Less than Body Requirements. Insomnia. Anxiety. Ineffective Coping. Constipation. Ineffective Family Therapeutic Regimen Management. Stress Overload. Powerlessness. Impaired Social Interaction. Caregiver Role Strain. Situational Low Self Esteem. Nausea. Diarrhea (or, as I came to call it, Spastic Colon Sunday). Disturbed Thought Processes. Chronic Confusion. Fatigue. Knowledge: Deficient. Knowledge: Deficient. Knowledge: Deficient.

I can't. Believe. I'm graduating in December.

Snippets

2009-08-16T12:31:00.004-05:00

Arright, folks. We've got some catching up to do, I know. Between finals, summer craziness, and keepin' on keepin' on, I just haven't had much time or desire to write. Last week, I got rather caught up in all the health care reform b.s. and wound up devoting much of my writing to posting, commenting, and generally working myself into a grand ol' tizzy on Facebook. But somewhere in between, a few revelations took hold:

1. I really, really love watermelon.

2. I'M LEAVING FOR CHARLESTON IN FIVE DAYS! HOLY CRAP!

3. People who refer to an African-American President as a Nazi are idiots.

4. People who don't know me and whose opinions of me are based mostly on hearsay rather than personal experience need to quit worrying about what I'm up to and focus on their own lives, which haven't included me for a long time now. And that's the last bit of precious energy I will expend on that.

5. No, seriously. I really. Really. Love watermelon.

6. Also, the 5 Card Studs booze cruise.

7. It's freakin' hot in here.

And lastly:

8. By, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!", I meant yes. Don't tell anybody.

Back to life, to school supply shopping, to magazine flipping, to wishing everyone well, to privacy, to breezes, to CHARLESTON!!!, and to you.

coughgaspcough

2009-08-09T22:00:00.004-05:00

Just doin' some work 'round here, guys. My apologies if the blog goes a little wonky over the next few days or so. Do not be alarmed if you're subscribing and suddenly start receiving strange updates (i.e., that I am, like, totally in love with this guy who, like, runs an Irish bar). It's just the ghost of Blogging Past.

Carry on, then. Carry on.

File under: Batshit, Living With.

2009-07-27T11:14:00.006-05:00

This was written by Jon Armstrong , husband of el Dooce, back in late '07, but Heather/Dooce recently posted a link to it that I'd like to share.

For two and a half years, I've struggled with anxiety, and Jon here writes a great entry on what it's like living with someone who has chronic depression (it's pretty well accepted that anxiety is often linked to depression, and so a lot of people with generalized anxiety disorder [GAD] or who suffer the occasional panic attack are treated similarly, i.e., with antidepressants).

A lot of people think depression, anxiety, and related mental illnesses are things that those who suffer them can and should just "get over." While there are a lot of nonpharmacologic things one can do to prevent acute attacks (getting enough sleep, avoiding caffeine, getting enough exercise, etc.), some people just plain function better with a little medical help. And I'm one of those people. Blame it on genetics, blame it on all the drugs I did as a teenager, on being molested as a kid, on my ex, on capitalism and the exploitation of women's bodies and simultaneous repression of our civil rights. I really don't give a shit why; I only want to be able to enjoy a day at the lake with my 8-year-old or make it through a grocery shopping trip without feeling like my synapses are on fire. It's not much different from someone taking insulin to prevent a diabetic coma. The more people realize that, the less stigma we'll have in this society against so-called whackos like me. I can pretty much guarantee that everyone knows someone with mental illness. This is America, folks. We're plum overflowing with the stuff.

I may be preaching to the choir here, but as someone who deals with this personally - and as someone who will be caring for people who deal with it as well - I think it's important to raise awareness.

So, please take the time to read Jon's essay. It's a great tribute to those whose shoulders I lean upon (thank you).

Infinite Wisdom

2009-07-17T17:13:00.011-05:00

From David Foster Wallace's commencement speech, Kenyon College, 2005. Digest the glory of its fullness here.

Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship—be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles—is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

... And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

... That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

Funnies.

2009-07-16T23:56:00.004-05:00

Big: "The judge asked me if anyone's ever told me I look like Jay Leno before."

Me: "And..."

B: "I asked him if anyone's ever told him he looks like Nick Nolte."

Zing!

M: "The older kid was around 16, 17. Junior or senior in high school. The younger one was probably about.... well, he was pretty emotional and masturbated like a madman, so I'm guessing --"

B: "45?"

Thankyouandgoodnight!

Maps and Legends

2009-07-15T14:19:00.007-05:00

The breeze I remember because of the way it blew their hair as they stood outside a pale blue Dodge Omni at pump 2 of my dad's gas station. One of them had blue dreadlocks, and I recognized him instantly as the best friend of the guy who took my virginity (and then moved to Kansas City the next day, obliterating in one fell swoop my mistaken teenage belief that sex equaled love and would save the proverbial day, while simultaneously preventing me from listening to Sonic Youth's "Dirty" album [oh, the irony] for at least a few years). The other one was my size, not much bigger, with one of those bleach blonde sk8r dude haircuts - shaved on the sides, long on top, swept to one side. Blondie had been in before, buying Mountain Dew and Newport cigarettes on his way to work in the afternoons. Whip smart, curious, laughing, sensitive. We'd had a few conversations in which we learned we shared a birthday, a love for Jack Kerouac and the Pixies, and our parents' phone numbers were nearly identical. Dude...

Dreadlocks came in to pay and recognized me immediately. I tried my best to put on a bitch face - if I couldn't scream at the ex, his best friend would do - but quickly backed down when he pointed out that he had never personally done anything deserving of my vitriol. Blondie followed, and the three of us worked out how we all knew each other while my dad suddenly found it necessary to smoke a cigarette just outside the garage bays, from which vantage point he could see the three of us as well as Blondie's license plate. They were 19 years old.

Years passed, people moved on and up and out and down, and these two sort of fell off my radar (someday I'll have to consolidate all these entries, the ol' South Main Drag...). Rumors circulated whenever I visited my hometown, rumors which were verified when I ran into Blondie and saw what needles could do, careless and quicker than cancer. I begged him to stay in touch, offered to buy all his drinks for the night if he'd only stay put on a bar stool, please don't go out there and do what I know you're literally dying to do... I came home to Milwaukee and cried off and on for two days, anticipatory grief for what I was sure was the beginning of the end of all my friends' lives. He was skinnier than me back then, black-eyed, jaundiced, and dying. I wondered how long it had been since he'd taken a shit, how long it would be before he puffed back up to normal size again and had the health to get a hard-on, let alone a haircut. I remembered how vivacious he'd been when we met, how Sodapop sharp, and colorful, and how he'd sat in my red room on Rockton Ave. and told me to go back to school, that I was the only one who was gonna make it, that I owed it to him and the rest to make it. I told him he was wrong, that we could all make it together, that he was the smartest one in the bunch and we could do something, go somewhere, get out. He wrote a poem and signed his name in my journal, wrote "667: Neighbor of the Beast" on the cover, said, "Suckin' Flayer, sweet cheeks," and took off to go pick up (other) teenagers at the mall.

I guess I figured he got lost, his mom forgot to pick him up or something, but he finally called today, I saw a picture, and the only lines on his arms were old and drawn in ink, the colors a bit faded but undeniably there.

It takes an average of seven years for every cell in the body to have replaced itself.

One might say you're a new person.

Here's lookin' at you, kid.

2009-07-13T09:28:00.005-05:00

Alright, guys. Despite the fact that I am now one child less of a mother (I know, not human, whatever), I have decided that life does indeed go on. Over the weekend I managed to clean up my house; no small task, I assure you, after a week of nights out with Big, nights out with Big taking me to the emergency cat clinic, and nights out with Big drowning my sorrows. My place had officially become a pit stop between playing cab driver for Maddie's play dates and whatehaveyou, school, and alcoholic binges. Dudes, I drank too much last week. Not insane amounts or anything - my memory is fully intact and my liver is happy - but enough to feel like... okay... that was fun and all? But we need to chill a bit. Cribbage with girlfriends and strangers, dinner at Balzac, and then a surprise Night Off from Parenthood Saturday night was enough for one week. Time to get the ol' life balance thing back in check.

So I cleaned the apartment. Which didn't feel as good as it should have in the 80+ degree heat, but did help restore a bit of my sanity. Pausing for a little cry at the kitchen sink while washing out Solomon's now empty food dishes, Maddie and I pulled our collective shit together and TCB'ed. Big came by at one point in the afternoon to deliver some lunch (tally for the week: Big: 7; Me: 2? and a half?), and on his way out he helped take out the garbage and recycling, which included Solomon's litter box. Noticing how he didn't even offer to carry that particular bag (what? you didn't want soiled litter on your suit? pfft), I carried out the duty. After heaving the bag into the garbage can and closing the lid with a sigh, Big walked over and hugged me, saying, "I'm so sorry, hon. Was that hard?" Referring, of course, to the umpteen millionth cat-related thing I've had to part ways with over the preceding days. At which point I straightened my shoulders, stepped back, looked him squarely in the eye and said, "Hon? That? Was a box of shit. Even I don't get sentimental over a box of shit."

And thus began my new life, officially, without Solomon.

On Saturday, The Fam came into town for my ex-husband's wedding, to which my sister and brother-in-law were invited. And I gotta say, for a bunch of people who were babysitting the nephew so the sis could go party it up with my ex, we sure had a good time. I don't know if any of you have ever experienced the remarriage of an ex to another, but it's kinda weird. Most of me is all wishing the best, happy for them, etc. - truly - but there's another part that's like, .... huh. He's getting remarried - happy occasion, new life, sunshine, rainbows - and I'm... what am I doing again? Don't get me wrong; I am not for one second complaining about having an awesome family who supports me through everything (and I do mean everything) and an incredibly sweet and generous boyfriend who literally rubbed my feet and then PUT SHOES ON THEM when it was time to leave The Fam's hotel because my uterus felt like it had a little man in there (you just know it had to be a man) with a melon baller, scraping away at my insides. I am one lucky gal. And my life is pretty damn sweet. But, ya know, it's still a strange feeling. A little like Casablanca, where you're hoping Bogie'll ask her to stay but you know he won't because it's just not the right thing to do, and Bergman takes off, and it's all bittersweet but you know it's for the best. And there's Bogie, standing on the tarmac, and the plane taking off, and you say your goodbyes and know that while the idea of it was great, the reality is that they're safer, happier, better off in their own separate lives.

Things really do work out after all.

Finding peace.

2009-07-08T16:14:00.005-05:00

On August 11, 2004, the man I loved told me I just needed some peace in my life.

The next day, I found myself forking over eighty bucks to the scraggly, dirty owner of the worst pet store I've ever been in, all because I couldn't justify leaving the scared, blinking little tabby in the back of the room in that screeching maelstrom of kitty mill insanity. He stared at me, claimed he was mine, and looked at me with the quietest desperation. I got him the hell out of there as quickly as possible and drove him home. On the way, I sounded out names, trying them on to see which one fit. S's seemed to work, and when I got to Solomon, he looked up from my lap and meowed. Our partnership was solidified. When we finally made it back to the apartment, he ran and hid underneath my bed - tore a hole in the lining of the box spring - while I looked up the name online.

Solomon

Jewish, English, Scottish, Dutch, French, Swedish, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish (Solomón): vernacular form of the Biblical Hebrew male personal nameShelomo (a derivative of shalom ‘peace’ [bolding mine]). This was fairly widespread in the Middle Ages among Christians; it has for generations been a popular Jewish name. In the Bible it is the name of King David’s successor, noted for his wisdom. Among Christians it was also used as a nickname for a man who was considered wise. In North America it is also found as an Anglicized form of Salomon and Salamon.

- from http://www.ancestry.com/facts/Solomon-name-meaning.ashx

Solomon Thorvalson was the charmingest fucking cat you've ever seen in your life. Dog people who hated cats liked our boy. Even my mom would allow him to sit on her lap, a place once considered by many as a Forbidden Zone for furry creatures. He was devastatingly handsome as he grew older, and for two glorious years of his life enjoyed hanging out on porches with the slut from down the street. My ex boyfriend used to feed him Thanksgiving turkey and let him go outside whenever he pleased. After the boyfriend and I had split, Solomon protested his reinstated indoors-only life by trying to run out the door every time I opened it to come or go. This annoyed the shit out of me, as I would often trip over him, spilling bags of groceries and baskets of laundry just to avoid crushing that asshole with an unsteady foot.

Solomon took after his mother and never grew to a normal adult size. He was a scrappy little runt and if you looked hard enough, you could find the bad jailhouse tattoos hidden underneath his salt-and-peppery, stormy-day-in-Ireland fur.

When I had his manhood taken away, we had not yet invested in a carrier. I navigated Water St., which was under construction at the time, through New York loud crews and traffic with a scared 4-year-old attached to my left hand and my right hand clutching a meowing, rigid furball who had implanted his needle sharp claws into my skull. I can still feel him screwdriving the perimeter of my hairline as I yelled FUCK and GOD DAMMIT while the passing traffic slowed to laugh at the three of us, twisting and tripping and paper shredding our way into the vet's office. "Remove his front claws while you're at it," I told the vet. Solomon looked up at me and told me to go fuck myself.

Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the bathroom floor with my panting, tired, and sore little friend, I apologized for not recognizing the signs sooner. He suggested I rethink the idea of working in hospice. I told him to shut up, but in truth, he had a point.

We tried the toy thing with him for a while, buying little sticks with feathers attached and teasing him into dizzy circles on the carpet. He played along, but still preferred batting at my legs and nipping at my knee caps every morning until I filled his food dish. He frequently protested his imprisonment in our current apartment by yowling from the kitchen window any time we were in the back yard.

Maddie picked out a nice little kitty bed for him once. It was blue, made of the softest plush, and cost $20 at Target. He promptly shat on it, then curled up on my bed to nap. The only other time he ever "missed" the litter box was when my ex was struck with temporary insanity and adopted a dog (for the second time). Solomon hid in Maddie's closet and shat and peed in the corner of it. I cursed him loudly enough for my then-partner to hear, but secretly whispered that I felt the exact same way. Within a month, the dog (who shall remain nameless) had shat and peed all over our newly refinished, five thousand-dollar hardwood floors, and stained the grout in the new kitchen tile. I drew the line when said mongrel devoured the eight-eyelet Oxblood Doc Martens I'd been trekking around in for eight years. Solomon was restored to his rightful and solitary place on the throne. I slapped him a high five and we agreed never to reveal our conspiratory jubilation.

Good night, my beloved friend. Thank you for hanging in there so patiently while Maddie dragged you around dangling by your front legs for the last five years. Thank you for keeping my feet warm at night. Thank you for all the times I was the one breaking down on the bathroom floor while you stood guard over my crumbling sanity. Thank you for listening when Maddie just needed to tell someone how much she hates her mom. Thank you for never choosing sides.

Thank you for always sitting on the kitchen table and dropping little tufts of fur into my dinner, no matter how many times I threw you off.

Thank you for being Our Man.

You are so and always loved.

James! Pull the car 'round. Mind the misfits, now.

2009-07-06T22:22:00.006-05:00

(Photo by Cassie Bauman, I think)

Big just sent me this photo with the caption, "And here you were worried about what the neighbors would think about you hanging out around the house! Ha!"

For the record, this is my friend Jon Phillip, enjoying a fine beverage in the front yard of Big's house. Jon Phillip is also the only person at yesterday's BBQ who made it a point to tell me how awesome my parents are. Not that the rest of you didn't agree. I'm just saying that clearly, Jon is far superior as a human being. No big whoop.

I cannot emphasize enough how much this photo pleases me. I know it's silly of me to think that anyone in today's society even blinks an eye at tattooed rockers, but it still warms my heart to see this image of my, well, tattooed rocker friend, sipping a beer in the front lawn of a house that has a heated bathroom floor. It reminds me of the time Maddie spilled her lemonade in the Pabst mansion. Although it was admittedly a little messy and I thought the secretary was going to have a stroke, something about it felt right somehow, like balance had been restored. And this is another one of those moments.

Damn, we have an awesome mix of friends.

BBQ!

2009-07-06T11:43:00.005-05:00

p.s. Happy Birthday, Quinn Patrick. Thanks to everyone who came! I love our mixed little band of misfits.

Please Pardon Our Dust

2009-07-06T11:31:00.001-05:00

It's officially clean-up time 'round these parts. Outer mess reflects inner mess, right? I wish I had the tech skills to create my own format, masthead, etc., but until I find the free time to learn code (ha!), you'll have to endure these pre-fabbed formats.

Let me know what you think of the changes. This is cleaner, no?

Flappy Little Fishy Does a Disappearing Act

2009-07-02T18:31:00.005-05:00

Oh, Limbo. How I despise thee. I'm having one of those weeks where you just feel like something's off. The last few days, I've had to literally check my calendar just to figure out what day it is when I wake up. Tuesday? Friday? Did I sleep through a day? Where's my kid?

I've started the job search, with two applications officially filed. To say I'm scared shitless is an understatement. In clinical this semester, I felt great. Confident, competent, like I have some inkling as to what's going on even if I'm not quite settled in these new shoes. But there's nothing quite like reviewing one's resume and filling out the dreaded online applications to make one feel like a complete fucking idiot all over again. It's those stupid boxes you have to check, and fields like this:

College attended: ___ Years attended: ___ And you didn't get a degree? WTF? _____

Within the space of half an hour, I have revisited every shady corner of my not so glowing past. Hey! Remember that time you worked at Spaghetti freakin' Warehouse in Elk Grove Village, IL, and it was so oppressive you dumped your fiance and moved to Champaign to get drunk for three months? AWESOME! Or the year you spent within the same four walls in Riverwest, at home with a baby you didn't feel qualified to raise and how you had to ask Baby Daddy for twenty bucks just to buy some goddamn formula or put gas in the car? YEAH! Oh! And your dad died the week said baby was born! You dropped down to 76 lbs. in three months! WHOOO! Good times! Or the time you decided it'd be a good idea to work with someone you lived with? MAN! Where are the streamers? We should throw a PARTY for this shit! Spec-freakin-tacular!

So there they are, my resumes, floating out in the electronic ether. And here I am, waiting for some kind soul to take pity on me and give me a job.

Have I mentioned I haven't worked in over a year?

I know, I know - cry me a river. Cut me an eensy bit of slack, please? Beginning a new career is scary no matter what the surrounding circumstances may be. And while I'm blessed to have an astronomically supportive family, an incredibly loving boyfriend, and a roof over my head, this is still some freaky shit.

Plus, the worst thing that could have happened at my old job was that someone didn't like their food, or worse, someone liked their food and their drink a little too much and didn't quite make it to the bathroom. And there was that time someone threw a pitcher of beer on me. Point is, no one died. New job? Quite the possibility. Inevitable, in fact, if I go into hospice. And I'm okay with the people who are ready to die; I've got no problem supporting them and easing their pain until they decide to vamos. It's the people who don't want to die yet and shouldn't that scare the piss out of me.

When all is said and done, I'll probably end up with a CNA position on a rehab floor, where issues like these rarely raise their ugly heads, and where my biggest problem will be putting up with the cattiness and arrogance that tends to linger on hospital floors. I know.

So I just need a little space, a little me time to settle into this idea for a second, the idea that very, very soon, I am going to be responsible for the lives and well-beings of strangers. My daughter has been extremely needy the last few days, and when you combine my role as a mother with the nature of my new profession... there's just not a whole lot left over to give. Which makes me feel like crap when my awesome boyfriend comes over and is ready for some schmoopy time and I'm all, dude, beer's in the fridge. Here's the remote. Guitar's on the wall, books on the shelves. I'll be in the bathtub, fully clothed, smoking a cigarette, drinking wine straight out of the bottle, and blasting Led Zeppelin.

So I'm going to my friend's backyard viewing of The Breakfast Club, having a beer or two, and hoping no one even notices I'm there. Ramble on. Sing my song.

Keep doing your thing thing thing...

2009-07-01T13:43:00.004-05:00

Every summer, Maddie goes to Minnesota for a week with my mom and stepdad. Picture the Dirty Dancing compound, minus the pelvic grinding and septic abortions. The camp puts on a talent show at the end of the week, and for the last few years, Maddie has been doing dance routines with her cousins Linaya and Addie. Over the weekend, the girls started working on their moves for this year's performance, and I gotta say: pretty old school! Salt n Pepa meets CAPA dance. Cartwheels! The Worm! And Ring Around the Rosey!

This video shows the same routine twice. The song is "Hasta la Vista" from Camp Rock, a current favorite movie of 8 year olds everywhere. The lyrics are about leaving Camp, so I'm pretty impressed with their song choice - spot on. Way to go, girls!

Twitchy Little Noses

2009-06-30T09:53:00.007-05:00

Quick update: We have a new addition to our family!

This. Is Peanut. Isn't he cute? Incidentally, I also had a hamster named Peanut as a child. Let's all cross our fingers that this Peanut doesn't escape and crawl under a magazine rack to die a slow and crushing death, only to be found by my mother when she next vacuums the living room. Those wacky suicidal hamsters. Maddie informed me this morning that a hamster's tendency to leap from tall objects is less because their one and true love dumped them for that skank bitch from the ice cream shop and because Joe Jonas never called after they drew their phone number on a pair of panties and threw them onstage, and more from nearsightedness, a lack if you will in the depth perception department. I still say they're nuts.

Welcome, Peanut! We will try not to smother you with undying affection (or the bookshelves).

Summer! Infinite!

2009-06-23T10:22:00.005-05:00

My blog must feel like my boyfriend probably does at times. And, like I tell my boyfriend, I must assure the blog that, while I may spend moments - nay, hours - away, being distracted and wide-eyed and OOH! PRETTY! at all of life as it swarms around me like so many little summery butterflies, there is a place in my heart, a quiet little space, in which my love for the blog (boyfriend) is quietly crocheting itself a lovely doily.

I spent a total of six hours sunning myself and studying in the backyard yesterday, a feat which could be nearly duplicated today if I could get off my ass and start studying. Again. Why the hesitation? I love geeky nursey stuff!

Because this:

... is sitting on my kitchen counter. And it's taunting me. Steeppphhhhanieee... Reeeead meeee... And it won't shut up.

I've joined a bunch of other geeks in the greater Chicago/Milwaukee areas in making this our summer To Do, and hear that? Those are my fingers tapping. Shoo, Med-Surg! Shoo!

In other news, I am warming up to the East Side. Not the East Side in general, but one particular corner of it. It has a lovely garden, in which I have recently planted a peony bush, ornamental grasses, some salvia, and some really spiky black and yellow Asian-looking thing that I cannot believe is a Zone 4-5 perennial. Boo Radley, loud and proud. Lookdafuckout, East Side. I'm parking my scrawny bohemian tattooed ass in your 'hood this summer, and I'm bringing my illegitimate love child, my 11 year old in-need-of-a-muffler Saturn, my Chucks and Keep Abortion Legal stickers with me.

While I've been busy sunning, reading, and planting perennial penises in Big's yard, Maddie has spent the majority of her time in the park behind our house, which she is now allowed to visit by herself, an official Big Girl. We received a letter in the mail announcing her as the winner of an annual 4th of July poster contest, and the biggest problem on her plate currently is deciding whether to march and twirl with the other baton girls or ride in a convertible and wave majestically.

Personal growth item: I have become at peace with being The Heavy among Maddie's parental units. Yesterday, while I was putting fresh sheets on Maddie's bed, she informed me that the reason she doesn't clean her room at Daddy's is-- well, you decide:

It's not his fault! He just doesn't wanna yell at me!

What do you mean?

He just doesn't wanna be all, like, CLEAN YOUR ROOM! You know. Like you are. Sometimes.

Honey, the reason I am all CLEAN YOUR ROOM - sometimes - is because I love you and want you to be a responsible and HEALTHY young girl, who will one day grow to become a responsible and HEALTHY adult. You cannot sleep with your face embedded in a giant pile of microorganisms.

Note: Don't get me wrong. He's not *dirty*, he's just messy, in that single dude with a kid sort of way. He's a wonderful father, a fantastic dad.... he just hasn't been with a woman in a while, and at this rate.... Let's just say I'm praying for the day he finds himself a nice lady friend who will tidy the place up a bit. Put some flowers on the table. You know. DUST.

Point is, after this conversation, she actually hugged me.

My daughter. THANKED me. For yelling at her to clean her room.

I win.

Back to the books. Yes, you, Med-Surg. Shut up, Wallace.

No More Teachers, No More Books

2009-06-17T22:44:00.004-05:00

On the last day of the academic year, students from Maddie's school are thrown a picnic at a local park to celebrate the end of the year, receive awards, and work up a good amount of collective summery juju with which to drive their parents insane for the next three months (two and a half, but who's counting? I am). In previous years, I've been able to stay for the duration of the picnic, after which we'd go to the Gessners', out for ice cream, or some similar treat. This year, I had to be at clinical at 2:30, making it impossible for me to stay for the climax of last-minute 2nd grade taunts at the boys, promises of eternal friendship, and dramatic pleas for sleepovers. I managed to put in a good hour of hang time in the park with the other parents, slurping down watermelon and managing to spill half my coffee on the white stripes of Tracey's beach towel, our makeshift picnic blanket. Although Maddie was excited to see me, she wasn't about to advertise that fact by allowing herself to be caught in my presence for longer than thirty seconds.

Trace and I shot the shit for a little while before packing it up, then walked over to the swing set to bid our goodbyes to the Bug, who was buzzing in a cloister of animated 8 year olds, chattering and squawking about god knows what pressing topic of the moment. I had to call her name three times before she heard me and came running to say goodbye.

I'm not a mushy mom. I don't know why. In other relationships in my life, I am the touchy-feely, sappy, emotional, heart-on-my-sleeve emo girl. But when it comes to my interactions with Mad, I tend to be more like my father was with me: strict, with occasional moments of tenderness reflected less in direct terms and more with a wink and a nod tenderness. My dad and I had the camaraderie of old drinking buddies, and my relationship with Maddie is frequently peppered with the same affectionate humor.

I swept her into my arms for a brief hug (PDA! Hello?!), but managed to whisper a few words into her ear before she could wrench herself away and buzz back to the hive. As "the heavy" of Maddie's parental units, I feel the urgent need every now and then to supplement the nagging, berating, sighing, and clenched teeth with words of kindness. Every once in a while, I drop the sarcasm and tell her to her face, with unclouded love and appreciation, what an incredible young girl I think she is. This was one of those moments. I felt her arms squeeze tightly around my neck, and the intended quick squeeze suddenly transformed into one of those hugs that only mothers and daughters share. "Thank you," she said, and I could feel and hear her choking back the tears.

Pulling away out of sheer shock, I assessed her shyly smiling face and exclaimed, "Honey! Are you about to cry?!"

With a quick sniff, a cocked eyebrow, a step back, and her best thousand yard stare, my Going On Third Grade daughter looked at me with utter disgust, scoffed and spat, "Nooo!" Then she turned her back to me and ran for her friends.

I love you, too, Bug.

Cougar.

2009-06-17T09:36:00.003-05:00

I am a glutton for smut. When in the grocery store checkout, I can never bring myself to purchase any of the magazines on display there. I admit, a little part of me is curious what will happen to Brangelina, and anything with crazy Tom Cruise on it usually catches my eye, but I just can't justify forking over any of my cash to actually pay for this information. Instead, I rely on family members to bring the required reading on vacations together for me to steal, or flip through whatever's lying around during lunch break at the hospital. Nurses heart the smut, people. I've never seen so many celebrity rags in one place in all my life.

Smut aside, I did come across a magazine yesterday that caught my eye, but not in the usual rubber-necking sense. Mary Louise Parker was on it (MLP! Love you!), so I instantly threw it on the conveyor without a second thought. Only after I got to the hospital last night did I notice the subtitle: "More: Celebrating Women 40+."

And you know what? I love it. At this rate, I'll be dead in twenty years, but hey. Small price to pay for knowing where to find tank tops that will hide my bra straps and keep my nips tucked.

Wish List

2009-06-04T13:26:00.002-05:00

Nursing Nerdity

2009-06-02T00:50:00.006-05:00

"What do you want with a 90 year old woman?"

"What do you want with a 31 year old student?"

"I'm supposed to get better, but I just want to die."

"What can I do?"

"Pray with me."

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

Amen.

I don't believe in God. But I believe in her.

Snippet

2009-05-29T15:04:00.003-05:00

Maddie, in the car on the way home from school, squished into the backseat with four other Friday-afternoon-school-year-is-almost-over, squealing, screaming girls:

"Juliana, you are somethin' else," (slapping knee with hand like Grandpa used to do.) "You're not even human. You are an alien from Planet. Crazy."

Taking Maddie, Jessie, and Allison to see the new Night at the Museum movie. If I'm not back online within six hours, call the morgue. This could be fatal.

2009-05-27T23:19:00.005-05:00

Whether you like her or not, Dooce's Week 36 pregnancy shots are the best I've seen. Ever.

I'm just sayin'.

Boo Radley of the Upper East Side.

2009-05-21T09:04:00.003-05:00

First things first: I just did a scroll down on the blog, and it would appear my last two entries contained boobs and dental work. I won't apologize for sharing such highly personal information; only that you were bombarded with two in a row. Eh, whatever.

Moving on with the highly personal...

It would appear that Foot in Mouth syndrome has struck me once again. The other night, after a lovely evening of brews and waltzing (yes, waltzing), Big and I were all snuggled in for a cozy night's sleep, discussing the glorious future that awaits us, and it went something like this:

Me: We're awesome!

Big: Totally!

Me: And we're gonna get married and be happy and everything's gonna ROCK! FOREVER!

Big: YEAH!

Me: And we'll buy a house in Bay View!

Big: .........

This topic has come up before, and previous conversations went more like this:

Big: You are the awesomest person in the whole wide world and I will totally sell my house during a recession so you can live within two houses of your best friend because I love you and the awesomeness and blow jobs.

Therefore, I did not hesitate to bring up said topic again, casually, loosely, whilst both of us had a few drinks in us. Great idea!

I like to think of myself as a practical person, economical and earth-friendly and relatively level-headed. Sure, I have my outbursts, but when it's Decision Time, I am all business.

So, if we are to keep moving forward here, if he really has completely lost his mind and still wants to make me his woman-slave down the road, is it completely selfish of me to fantasize about the two of us house shopping together? His house is gorgeous. It's nearly a hundred years old, impeccably preserved and updated, tons of perks (like the heated bathroom floor upstairs, "my" reading nook on the third floor, the beautiful gardens, the his and hers bathrooms, being three blocks from the lake).... but it's on the East Side. Nothing against the East Side, but... well, there aren't too many 30somethings covered in tattoos, pulling weeds while blasting Pixies from inside the house. While I certainly do not relish the idea of buying a cheaper home in Bay View and undergoing the thousands of dollars in renovations we would likely want, we could find a medium-priced house, close to the lake, with an updated kitchen and a two car garage, something that gives both of us the space we need and yet doesn't cost $400,000, something with a cute yard and that is a reflection of both our senses of style.... couldn't we? Am I wrong for wanting to create something that is by definition, ours?

Or have I completely lost my mind.

Product Eval: Crest Whitening Strips

2009-05-17T13:51:00.005-05:00

Alright. For starters, I am not normally one to plug products. Fuck consumerism! Yeah! But I am prey to a few modern conveniences, like nicotine patches, to-go coffee mugs, and now the whitening strips.

I'm a bit whitening strip-challenged. First of all, they cost a lot of money. Secondly - but perhaps more importantly - although my genetic heredity has blessed me with certain attributes (see: my ass), there are a few things lacking. Namely, blemish-free skin, breasts, .... andafewteeth. Yes, interwebs, this is more information than you wanted to know. And yes, it's highly embarrassing and awkward to admit. Let this serve as proof of my love for you. Please be kind. But it's necessary to bring up when making the following point: whitening strips are not made for false teeth, which I have been the not so proud owner of since the ripe age of 19. Ever wonder why I have a jaded, older-than-thou attitude sometimes? Try getting fitted for a partial denture before you're old enough to legally drink. Hence, I have been reluctant to try these little buggers for fear I'd wind up with uneven whitening, with two normal-looking, age-appropriately stained teeth, and the remaining smile resembling Ross in that one Friends episode, a fate worse than what I've already admitted to.

Again, I beg you. Please be kind. This doesn't change who I am as a person, although it might change your opinion of my gene pool. I prefer to think of it as an unfortunate but charming thing my grandfather and I share in common. Okay, that's stretching it. It fucking sucks and I hate it.

But today I have ventured into whitening strip territory. And I gotta say: not so bad. I just want to mention one very important thing, should you be considering trying these out for yourselves: while you don't want to brush your teeth immediately before applying the strips, you most definitely want to brush immediately afterwards. There is nothing grosser than the feeling of that gelatinous bubbling film on your pearlies.

Gelatinous. Bubbling. In your mouth.

I'm just sayin'.

Carry on, then. As you were.

Move over, decaf...

2009-05-14T08:47:00.010-05:00

My friend Emily recently posted about her boobs, the largeness of them, her frustrating inability to fit either into one palm (cry me a river, bitch), and it reminded me that I'm in the market for some new threads for my girls. This. Is a project. Only once in my life have I managed to graduate from AA to A (full A! almost a B!), and that was when I was engorged. At the time, the girls looked rather bizarre to me, altogether out of place on my stick-like frame, as though two alien ships had docked on my ribcage and were stuck there for lack of any other welcome port at which to dock. I try to remember this feeling every time I hear girlfriends bemoaning the voluptuousness of their figures. Alien ships. Alien ships. Alien ships.

It doesn't always work.

This morning, however, I am awaiting the arrival of a Jillian Michaels fitness DVD, guaranteed to make me cry in 20 minutes or less. That, combined with my recent efforts to maintain a healthy fluid balance and the fact that I've just passed the mid-cycle mark, has made me feel pretty okay about my body in general and my girls are thankful to be hydrated (thank you, progesterone!).

Shopping Problem Case in Point: Last week, Big and I were out shopping for a new watch for me and new bedsheets for him, 'cause that's how we roll. This was Our First Mall Excursion, and as such, he did what any sane man out shopping with his girlfriend would do: he recommended we stop in Victoria's Secret. Actually, it was more like, "Ooooooh-hoo-hoo! Let's go in there!" while wiping the drool from his chin. At this point, I had to inform him that I would be happy to shop in Victoria's Secret if they, a) didn't charge $80 for a pair of goddamn pajama pants that say PINK on the ass, or b) carried any bra - ANY! bra - in my size in their stores. True, they do have my size online and in their catalogs. And they look like this:

Hi! My name's Jodi! I have shit for brains, which is why I wear this dumb band around my forehead! And it's also why I buy undergarments directly reflective of the year I was conceived. Goooooo TEAM!

I explained to Big that shopping for bras is, for me, akin to buying shoes for a basketball player. Think custom. It ain't cheap, unless I want to start buying my bras in the girls' section at Target, where they sell butterflied and ballerina'd upper undergarments in my size right next to the High School Musical panties. Suck it, Efron. Actually, don't. Ew.

Lulalu.com (see pretty, sexy, 30-something appropriate bra at top) has done me right in the past by carrying great products and reminding me how sexy we here in the Itty Bitty Committee can be. But seeing the prices - and granted, they are comparable to retail prices elsewhere - makes me want to go bring up the tail end of the nearest welfare line. Do they supply bras to hot, broke mamas on the dole? Why are clothes so fucking expensive??! Why must it be such a stretch of the wallet to secure my girls and protect them from the eyes of strangers? I could get, like, twelve burqas for that amount of money. The problem is, with the rest of my wardrobe being completely blah and consisting mostly of t-shirts, jeans, and scrubs, I like to know that underneath it all, the twins are nestled in something pretty. Somehow, a nice bra just makes washing dishes and vacuuming cat hair feel less chore-like and more intro-to-a-porn. It is far more fun pushing that stupid machine around the living room if I can bear in mind that, should a dark and handsome penis in a suit come knocking on my door, he'll have something pretty to look at when he rips my sweaty t-shirt off. If he walked in right now? Sock monkey pajamas and yesterday's mascara.

And that's the name of my new album.

SO WHY DOES IT NEED TO COST SO DAMN MUCH.

That's it. I'm protesting. Oh, I'll buy the bra. Never you mind about that. And when it gets here, I'll be all, Oooh, pretty! And my girls'll perk up at the mere sight of the packaging. But today? Fuck you and the box you rode in on, stupid forty-dollar underwear. I'll do my dishes naked.

Happy Mother's Day!

2009-05-10T10:24:00.006-05:00

...to all the MILFs I've loved before.

Reality Bites.

2009-05-04T22:14:00.011-05:00

It's official. I am raising Janeane Garofalo. A few days ago, I inquired with my child as to what her feelings might be should I decide, ever, to get married again. It's no secret among my closer friends and family members that someday, when the time is right, when Bug is comfortable with it and when I can simultaneously rub my belly, pat my head, finish nursing school, tend the garden, and manage the dirty laundry of four people.... someday, I would like to Not Be Living By Myself Anymore. The perks are numerous:

1. Sex! On demand! With a live person!

2. Help With Errands and Chores! There are a lot of 'em!

3. More People = More Rooms = More Places to Put My Books!

4. Lovingkindnessmushystuff!

... and so on.

Despite my clear delineation of said perks, along with the appropriate caveats (i.e., No One Is Replacing Your Father), Maddie has stood her ground, abiding by her assertion that the Best Situation For Us is that she Live With Me and Me Alone until she has Achieved Womanhood, a time that itself is relative to so many caveats that I fear we will still be living together long after she's learned how to change my diapers. What is Womanhood? When? Your first period? When you can successfully maneuver a vehicle while pulling a bong?

Admittedly, the romantic notion of Mother and Daughter Living Happily Ever After is not lost on me, and I am probably undeservedly flattered by the fact that my daughter is still of an age at which the idea of living with me forever still seems not only appealing, but the only means by which survival is possible. I can see the two of us, happily shopping arm in arm at the mall for her Big Date on Friday with some jerk who will probably break her heart, returning home to paint her nails and curl her hair to the Go-Go's, then staying in for a night of chick flicks and pampering on Saturday night when the shit inevitably hits the fan and she's sworn off men for life (take a number, kid). I can also see Tracey and I having lunch together behind our daughters' backs after they've snuck out of their respective bedroom windows to go smoke pot with the latest Billy Joe Armstrong lookalike for the fifth time in a month.

It's inevitable that we will face challenges as the Bug grows up. Wouldn't it be nice if we could face those challenges with, you know, another grown up? It is a physical fact that weight is more effectively supported when said weight is distributed among multiple supports. Bridges are built upon this concept. Like that time I came home late from a date in high school. While my father sat at the dining room table with a bottle of brandy and a .22, my mother went outside and noted the license plates of my boyfriend's car. That's fuckin' teamwork!

The point of contention between us on this subject has nothing to do with the particulars of My Hypothetical Marriage. The Bug careth not who my partner shall be. What she cares about is (have I mentioned she's still only 8?) the divorce rate.

Me: So what do you think about Mom getting married again someday?

Bug: No. Way. I'm not going through all that again.

Me: Going through what?

Bug: The D word. You know. Divorce.

But.... but..... but! MADDIE! GAWD! Why do you have to be so MEAN?!

As someone who was raised by both her birth parents, I was aware of divorce at her age (my dad had been previously married). Many of my family members were divorced, a lot of my friends' parents had split, but somehow the ones who stuck it out... well, they stuck out more in my mind. I saw lifelong commitment as the norm and divorce as a painful thing that only happened to Other People. A generation later, here's my daughter, throwing the book at me and tossing in the towel on the notion that two people can effectively problem-solve.

Me: But what if... Let's just pretend that maybe the divorce doesn't happen. What then? What if, by some miracle, your mother has made an informed decision based on experience and in consideration of all possible influencing factors, and the thing actually works out? Is it okay then?

Bug: Iiiii don't thinkthat'sgonnahappen.

I want Maddie to understand the natural ebb and flow of friendships and relationships. I want her to understand that most of the time, people eventually move on and go away. However, I also want her to understand that sometimes you meet special people who for whatever reason decide they like your company. So they stick around. Until somebody dies. And that it takes humility, a willingness to accept change, commitment, etc. And that those people are worth the occasional line for the bathroom.

I'm not saying a lifelong commitment between two people is necessary for my daughter's growth and development. Hardly. I've got a mostly empty bottle of Xanax in my bathroom cupboard that clearly reads, "SOMETIMES SHIT GOES REALLY WRONG." I get it. But I also believe that avoiding relationships just because they might fail is no way to live. I'm not looking for someone to take any burdens off my shoulders or to play Daddy to my daughter. She already has one. A really good one. It would just be nice to have a partner, an addition to our family. Someone to come home to. A relatively healthy, sane, enjoyable personality to bounce our daily events off of, and whose own experiences will only add to the richness of what Maddie and I have built between the two of us. You know. A family. A slightly bigger one. Where I live.

We had a similar discussion one day when Maddie decided she didn't want any siblings. Nevermind the fact that I've pretty much made that decision for her already. One of her arguments was essentially that she would have to share the love I have for her with another person. I explained to her that when another person comes into the family, it's only the house that seems smaller; your heart grows bigger (insert gagging here). I used our cat as a reference, asking her if she loved Solomon any less once she'd adopted Liza (her guinea pig). She looked at me as though I'd shot, quartered, and posted our cat's remains on the corner streetsign.

All to no avail. The Oracle Hath Spoken. And yet somehow, the sun still rises. And somewhere in this divorce-ridden, tormented society of ours, Janeane Garofalo is drinking her morning coffee, gettin' on just fine.

This brings me peace.

Props

2009-05-03T18:05:00.004-05:00

My friend Carmen Benske recently started a blog, posting her latest paintings. Freaking amazing, beautiful work, mostly natural settings. Please go check her out.

Amendment to Previous:

2009-04-28T12:42:00.003-05:00

7. Obsessing over this video. And to think, all he had to do was take an antibiotic before he went to the dentist. Stupid, stupid rheumatic fever.

Day Two of my official week off, and I have yet to take a shower. In fact, the coffee I made this morning is still in the pot, unsipped. I am becoming a hermit, which is fine, but the least I can do is drink my own damn coffee, right?

Sweet Bajeebus.

2009-04-23T09:14:00.003-05:00

You know, getting only six hours of fitful sleep highlighted with intensely violent nightmares (thanks, Bones!) seems worth it when one realizes it's the LAST DAY OF THE FREAKING SEMESTER OH MY GOD.

Things I will be doing with the upcoming (T-minus 8 hours!) free time:

1. Empty pots on back porch of dead things and cigarette butts. Replace with living things, sunshine, and water.

2. Let's ride bikes!

3. Finishing David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.

4. Continuing a valiant effort at completing a book of 500 crossword puzzles.

5. Operation Organize Shit. In my past life as a car-dweller and renter of a studio apartment, I learned how to live in small spaces. These skills, however, have been overshadowed in recent months by the acquisition of newer skills (such as "Nursing Interventions for Laryngospasm"). First on my list is the Leaning Tower of Crafty Stuff and Photos in my kitchen (photos to come), to be followed by Maddie's closet.

6. Breathing. Just. Breathing.

See? That's why sometimes I don't blog quite so often!

2009-04-21T07:05:00.007-05:00

I get in a funk every now and then, but I inherited a certain forgetfulness from my dad that enables me to (sometimes - not always) wake up in the morning, declare it a new day, and brush off whatever was bothering the shit out of me the day/night before. I honestly wouldn't have even thought of how crappy I felt last night had I not had the reminder on the blog this morning.

So, despite the fact that I woke up three times last night (what am I, 60?), this morning is feeling much better so far.

One ATI exam today for psych, two to go on Thursday. Arranging for my car to be fixed, taking a nap this morning after getting Maddie to school, then studying until test time.

Ready, set, go.

2009-04-20T23:54:00.004-05:00

I've been having trouble sleeping the last few weeks. Not every night, but enough to differentiate it as a trend. A few weeks ago, it was dreams. Surgeries and high school lockers and my algebra teacher says I'm late but I'm in scrubs and have to pick my daughter up from school, which is weird because I am apparently in school (hence the algebra teacher), and then, no, wait, how is she in school at the same time as me, this isn't right, and I wake up. Or the one with the ghost ship and the sea monster trying to swallow my daughter whose Achilles (the monster's, not my daughter's) I learned was my own high-pitched scream (much higher than I am actually capable of) and I wake up hearing myself scream in a whisper. Or the one where I'm on a treadmill and there are three speed settings for walking: Amble, Brisk, and Brewers (as in, "walk more than the number of opposing team players the Brewers have walked thus far this season), which I still think was kind of funny.

And the semester's almost over and it's raining for days and I wish he would just back the fuck off and acknowledge some positivity for a change but a decade's a decade and some people just get stuck, I guess.

There's a need for a flip here, a required adjustment, a need of the the sort where the knob has been turned but still waiting for that click into place. It would really just bring such a tactile satisfaction if somehow this moment would make a decision and let me get to tomorrow without waking up for one night.

Did I mention Spring Break?

2009-04-19T21:17:00.003-05:00

It is currently 9:25 p.m. and I have just finished my second glass of wine. A trip to Rockford over the weekend proved slobbery and affectionate, thanks to my 14-month-old nephew, Ben, who is now my favorite. Sorry to the rest of you little whipper-snappers - you all stopped being cute when you stopped giving me slobbery kisses on my cheek at one year of age. The good news is, there is hope for redemption in the fact that you are yet malleable enough to be brought to the Dark Side, the Dark Side being The State of Mind that Enables Aunt Stephy to Mold Your Brains in a Fashion that Appreciates Independent Music. Also, there is still time for me to convince you that the Most Important Item of your wardrobe is your socks. I love you all. Not that you read this.

Don't drink and blog, kids. It's bad for you.

Despite the fact that my car battery is dead, I made it back to Milwaukee. Because I am a Spoiled Daughter of Middle Class Parents, a fact that my inner 16-year-old still would love to deny. Say what she might, even my inner angsty self cannot balk at trading a sparkless Saturn for a car with only 8,000-odd miles on it. And it smells good! Bonus! Thanks, Mom!

At this, the crossroads between one hellish semester and the bubbling beginnings of a new one, I feel it appropriate to share some reflections, if you don't mind:

1. I picked up my Psych book a total of 4 times this semester, and yet am getting a B. The fact that I can pass these exams without reading too much - that I somehow just "know" this stuff - is, to me, a bit unnerving. This is either a sign that I have found my calling, or that I should check myself in, pronto.

2. My OB instructor was unequivocally the most unsupportive teacher I have ever had, anywhere. Despite this, I will happily examine your cervix if you ask me nicely. Therefore, I win. Boo-yah.

3. Although it's quite likely I will never have any more children of my own, I love taking care of everyone else's. Grown-ups can be so grumpy! It's nice receiving gratitude from someone who, despite having their throat torn apart in a tonsillectomy, is pleased as punch that I will bring them nothing but popsicles for the next few hours. Grape or orange? What can't a popsicle heal when you think about it, really?

To be continued.

2009-04-15T09:18:00.002-05:00

In lieu of actually speaking to me on Monday, my daughter chose to spend the afternoon coming up with cheerful slogans to direct my attention to while I lay studying. This was Day One of her one week off of school. If perchance I did not respond with a verbal reply within the desired two seconds, the above board would begin shaking violently, then produce knocking sounds akin to those that might be made were a second small fist to rap against the back of said board.

The board now reads,

"Can I pleease have a sleepover? You promised."

which is a step up from what it read on Monday, which was,

"If you let me play my DS longer than 15 minutes, I will TRY a bite of whatever you are having for dinner. That is the deal."

Is it just me...

2009-04-14T15:29:00.003-05:00

... or are the Brewers playing a total of seven home games during my week of Spring Break?

Hmm.

Welcome!

2009-04-13T15:49:00.003-05:00

Ooh, this is much prettier, isn't it? Thank goodness for templates and people like Jason, which/who allow me to post pretty things without learning a lick of code. Too bad they don't have a Paul Westerberg's Socks template.

Jason's gonna be doing his geeky wizardry over the next week or so, working his funky magic on the Big Move (psst... where are the last five years of my narcissism?). In the meantime, please excuse the dust during renovations.

High falutin' fancy pants.

2009-04-13T03:52:00.000-05:00

Ahhhhh. This would be the sound of me, blogging to you from the comforts of my bed. It's amazing how much I could miss out in life if I only kept procrastinating. How long have I been in this apartment? Almost a year and a half? I finally acquired a wireless router yesterday, after putting it off for 17 months due to my presumption that it would cost an ovary. Nay! For a mere $35, I, too, now have the dazzling ability to utilize the interwebs from anywhere in my humble little abode.

I can blog from in my room!
I can blog while sweeping with broom!
I can blog while here or there!
I do, I like this.... wireless internet business.

Also of note: Saturday, April 11th, 2009: The Day I Lost my Baseball Virginity.

How my little heart doth go a-pitter pat. Miller Park and me, we got a good thing goin' on. A little privacy, if you please; we're still getting to know each other.

Legend of Pop Stars!

2009-04-06T00:18:00.000-05:00

July 10 at the Riverside, baby. No messin'.

Am I this boring already? Really?

2009-04-02T20:26:00.000-05:00

This is how I spent the last four hours:

Not playing it, mind you, but writing a 13-page paper on the psychosocial, cognitive, and physical developmental stages of this game's targeted age group, as defined by modern theorists of nursing and psychology.

I'll let you take a wild guess where Freud can stick this paper.

p.s. Playing this game, however, is awesome.

Let us bow our heads in thanks...

2009-03-17T12:49:00.000-05:00

... for it is St. Patrick's Day. And I. Am not. Working. At an Irish bar.

Amen.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. May Ireland recover from their economic roller coaster, may their green hills cease to be plastered with apartment housing �a Suburbia, USA, may the North find a way back to peace once again, and may I have a Guinness tonight, please? Thank you.

"You cannot bomb a million Protestants into a united Ireland." - Garret FitzGerald

Happy Birthday, Trace!

2009-03-05T06:00:00.000-06:00

With more love than you can handle,
Steph.

And the hits just keep on comin'...

2009-03-04T13:03:00.000-06:00

"Mom. Remember our substitute teacher from last year, Mrs. _____?"
"Yeah..."
"She was (twirling finger to side of head in "nutso" fashion) AWK-warrrrrd!"

Giiiiirrrrl.....

2009-03-02T12:32:00.000-06:00

"Solomon's just trying to make you feel better, hon. He doesn't like to see you sad."
"How do you know? You don't know cat liiiife."

Thirty minutes later...

"You'd make a great veterinarian; you love animals so much. I bet they'd really like you, too."
"You don't know animal liiife."

Wha? The huh? The... What?!

A girl in clinical today JUST told me (*cough*she doesn't have children*cough*), "You don't need to worry about teenage stuff yet! She's eight!"

Oh yeah? CHEW DONNO MY LIIII-EEEEFE!

Dudes.

2009-02-18T12:48:00.000-06:00

Tracey got me hooked on ancestry.com, where I decided I'd do some research into my family tree.

Dudes. I'm a descendant of Henry Tudor VII. Which makes Henry VIII my great....................great-uncle.

Which is better than being a descendant of Cromwell, I suppose. And I do realize that these resources need to be checked against proper documentation, and that I will more than likely be posting an editorial note in months to come reading something like, "Scratch Henry. Insert Thor the Butcher." But for now, I'm dismissing the dedicated scientist portion of my brain and running with it.

I. Am. Royalty.

Where's my pony.