Misfits

While I'm in school, I live in a B&B in Anchorage.  It's a gigantic three-story house with a front yard that has been cemented over to create parking spaces, and it's in a very nice residential neighborhood within 3 miles of the college and hospital where I go for clinical rotations.

My room and its private bath are on the bottom floor.  Also on the bottom floor is a large living room and full kitchen that I share with the occupant of the only other bedroom on this floor.  His name is Mark.  He moved to Alaska this past October, having spent the first 27 years of his life living in more temperate climes.  Mark is smart, tall, handsome and pleasant when our paths cross, which isn't often.  I wouldn't even know he lived down here save for the fact that he leaves dirty dishes and crumbs in the kitchen and uses my dishwashing soap and towels. Mark has been here all day (I know this because his car is parked in the driveway), as have I, and I haven't laid eyes on him.  As far as I know he hasn't cooked anything (there is no new mess in the kitchen).

An orthopedic surgeon and his wife live on the second floor during the winter.  They're very pleasant people.  He replaces hips and knees at a nearby hospital and has climbed Everest  She manages the house while the owners spend their winters in exotic places like Africa, France, and Israel.  She is detail oriented and very interested in the lives and habits of the other occupants of the house.  Yesterday she informed me that Mark has not washed his sheets or clothes since he arrived in October, and that his room is full of dirty clothes, trash bags full of trash, and computer gaming equipment.  She says that she believes they'll have to burn his sheets when he moves out (apparently he is using "house sheets" - I brought mine from home because I'm sorely addicted to high thread counts).  I was unaware that she patrolled our rooms while we're gone and wonder what she thinks when she peeks into my room, which is full of books, binders, bags of food items that I'm unwilling to share with Mark, and Angry Bird stuffed animals that my husband has begun buying for me.  I think I'll leave a big pile of plastic dog poop on the floor just inside the door of my room the next time I go home to Kenai.

There are several other transient winter residents living here off and on, and the granddaughter of the owner makes regular appearances with her two small children.  She does her laundry here and uses the internet while she ignores her children who want to follow tenants into their rooms.

We're an odd group.  At least two of us are night owls; I can hear someone wandering around above me until at least 2 am before I fall asleep.  We are mountain climbers, busybodies, computer gamers, bicycle riders, students, surgeons and hoarders.  We are US, Canadian and UK citizens, junk food junkies, gourmet cooks, bridge players, movie buffs, single mothers, married couples, neat freaks and slobs.  Somehow we blend in slightly off-key harmony.

Tilt, earth, tilt!

One of the aspects of living in California that I despised most was the weather.  It was always hot (to me); I am most comfortable when the temp is between 20 degrees and 60 degrees F.  On the days that my steering wheel was too hot to touch I'd wonder if I was in hell.

Fast forward three years and northwest 2,500 miles.  Alaska is a place of extremes, but where I live it hasn't been extremely warm.  Not once.  We're experiencing our third consecutive week of sub-zero temperatures now and even I, the Ice Queen, am growing weary of the cold.

I took my Jeep to the dealer here in Anchorage this morning, as I had a 10:15 am appointment to have the service department tell my why my ride is leaking small amounts of oil (again).  When I arrived, the service department told me that whomever had scheduled me for today must have been hallucinating when he said there was availability.  The harrowed man behind the desk explained to me that when the weather is this cold, everybody's car acts up.  He said, "I have a stack of order forms for people requesting service as far back as December."  He then asked me if it was gushing oil or just dripping.  Gushing=emergency and maybe we can get you in by Tuesday.  Dripping=Lady, bring your car in next Thursday and we'll try to get it done, but plan on spending all day in our waiting area.  We have WiFi.  I thought he was going to cry, so I refrained from complaining about having driven 8 miles to reach the dealer only to find that I had no appointment.

During my winter break from college, I rode my bicycle about five times.  Each time I rode, I discovered another body part that absolutely had to be shielded from sub-zero wind chills.  I am now fully equipped with ski pants with suspenders, a beanie that covers my ears, a face shield with a neck covering, ski goggles, special socks I ordered from Canada, air-activated toe warmers, and the requisite gloves and heavy jacket.  My bike traveled back up to Anchorage with me several days ago, but it's languishing in the garage because it's too cold outside to ride until afternoon, and my classes start at 2pm and run until at least 5pm (it's dark at 5).

The moose residing near my home in Kenai have less to dine on during the winter because their veggies are buried under a couple of feet of snow.  One night early in January I was in my bedroom watching television and heard a commotion on my front porch.  I thought, "Who in the he** is at my door at this time of the night?"  Upon investigation I found a moose standing on the porch trying to reach some bark on our tree.

It's cold. 

Ho ho halleluja!

My mother made Christmas a stellar event when my sister and I were young.  She purchased and/or made numerous gifts for us (and kept track of every cent she spent in order to be "fair"), decorated the house, cooked a delicious meal and made the day very, very special.  Rarely did anyone get drunk (unless it was me), and I don't remember even one nasty fight occurring on a December 25th.

If I shut my eyes today and follow my memory back to, say, Christmas of 1975, I feel warm, cozy, loved, safe, and happy.  I look around the memory room and see my father in his recliner (with a beer), my mother in the kitchen (with a gin and tonic), my sister and her first husband (they were trying to get pregnant and I can hear her squeal with glee upon opening a box containing a check that would pay for one infertility treatment), my first husband (whom I subsequently divorced about a year before he died desperately young at 23 years of age) and the family poodle, Trinka, preparing to beg at the table.  Trinka did love her turkey.  As a matter of fact, that year she managed to climb onto the kitchen counter after dinner and before the dishes were done to pick at the turkey carcass.

I remember this because that one year we happened to tape record "The Opening".  The opening was the lengthy process of  each person receiving one gift taken from under the tree while everyone else watched, and it was always fun. I could hear the Christmas carols playing in the background.  I had that tape and listened to it a number of times as an adult before losing it somewhere during the depths of my alcoholism (not surprising as I actually misplaced a clothes washer and dryer during the same period of time - I honestly cannot remember where those appliances went during one of my frequent moves).

Somewhere in my thirties it came to me that once I left home I was disappointed every Christmas.  My father was dead, my mother was involved with a man I despised, I had been married several times, had no children, my sister lived far away, and what was left of my family of origin rarely got together for Christmas.  When we did, Mom was difficult to deal with, her partner was a raging asshole and had to be the center of attention, and I was drunk or stoned (and disappointed).

Somewhere in my early forties I began exploring Buddhism.  I was sober by then and searching for a place where I fit spiritually.  I was also married to a man who doesn't remember birthdays or anniversaries (he just doesn't) and likes to hold on to his money (which is probably a good thing because I seem incapable of holding on to mine).  I always have a Christmas tree, though, because I love the lights and  inherited some gruesome family ornaments that remind me of Christmas of 1975.

This year, my husband was asked to play Santa at Walmart, where he works.  Walmart is a pretty big deal here in the town of Kenai, Alaska, and I try to be supportive of him in his workplace because he has always been supportive of me in mine.  On the Santa day, I actually put on some makeup, tried to tame my hair a bit, and donned a red scarf before grabbing my camera and making the icy drive to Walmart.  I got there shortly after the Santa event had begun and started taking photos.

As I watched my husband interact with children (he has perfect Santa facial hair - that bushy white beard that I'm always nagging at him to trim) I found myself smiling.  I took photo after photo.  The cute little Native Alaskan kids, the cute little black and white and Asian kids, the kids who cried, the kids who had to be coaxed, the kids who handed Santa crumpled, carefully (and illegibly) written gift lists.  Those kids looked at him like he was really Santa.  My heart warmed and warmed until it felt like I had Christmas music playing in the background, my mother in the kitchen, my father in his recliner, my sister, a turkey in the oven, Trinka begging for treats, and a big Christmas tree loaded with gifts around me.

This year, my husband gave me the best Christmas gift I have ever received, and one I could not have imagined possible.  Thank you to my dearest, long-bearded, thrifty, stubborn, funny, smart, supportive, genuine, honest, quirky husband Santa.  You returned to me the joy of Christmas.

A bundle of miracles

I took my last exam of my first semester of nursing school today.  I didn't do as well as I had hoped and ended up with a course average of 90.6%, which in this program is a "B".  I spent a few minutes mourning the loss of my straight "A" average, ate a bowl of ice cream, and started thinking.

Wake up, Nurse Ratched!  You're a recovering alcoholic/addict and drank/smoked/used drugs from age 14 to 38.  How many brain cells do you suppose you destroyed while you were out there having a "great time"?  It's a miracle you have any left at all - and you are disappointed that you had enough to learn 90.6% of the enormous amount of information presented in your first semester of nursing school.

You're 56.  This is an asset when it comes to life experience, however, let's be real here and admit that you don't have the stamina of a 30 year old anymore and frankly, those 40 or so extra pounds you're carrying around aren't helping any in the energy department either.  It's a miracle that you were able to keep up with your younger peers and rise at 5 am to attend clinicals (not to mention hustle up and down the halls of the hospital).

Hey, remember that couldn't hear anything through a stethoscope three months ago.  Today you identified specific abnormal lung sounds and a heart murmur in the simulation lab and a couple of weeks ago in clinical rotation you heard what emphysema sounds like in a human being.

Now let's talk about the husband.  He's working full time (because you asked him to) and bringing home the health insurance too (because you asked him to) while you go to school.  He takes care of the house and your four cats while you live half-time in Anchorage and never complains that you're gone too much.

You know you were afraid that you'd get the clinical setting and be afraid of "blood and guts".  You were sure you wanted to be a psychiatric nurse (partially because you're a bit nuts yourself) and were very worried about barfing when you saw open wounds.  Turns out you love open wounds....seeing the healing process and the way the body works to fix itself.  That day you got to see a skin graft was the best day of your life.

So you didn't get an "A".  Look at all you got instead.  A bundle of miracles.

So far

Today was the best day of my life.

None of my wedding days (there have been five), my 10th sobriety birthday (a very big deal), the day I realized that I had truly been a good daughter to my dying mother,  the day I left California after 35 years of wanting to leave California,  the day (night) I first saw the aurora borealis, the day I saw Michelangelo's David at the Accademia Galleria in Florence or the day I heard that I had been admitted to the nursing program are any longer in the running for the best day of my life, because it was today.

I spent six hours with my patient today.  In those six hours I used skills I've learned during my first semester to listen to his heart and lungs, assess his neurological status, and take his vital signs.  These are important skills to be sure, but they were only a portion of what I used today to help my patient.  I drew on 17 years of sobriety to understand, accept and support his concerns regarding how alcohol use contributed to the terrible burns he suffered, nearly ended his life, and landed him in the hospital.   I used the strength I've found by changing careers in my mid fifties to reassure him that he too can find a new professional path now that his extensive injuries dictate that he no longer earn his living by manual labor.  I used my laptop to show him that he really can use a computer - he had confided that he was worried about finding an office job because he has always been afraid of computers (we spent an hour on the basics in his hospital room).

I helped him, but he helped me more.  Although I have always wanted to be a nurse, a small part of me was very very worried that I would recoil at the sight of human mutilation.  That "blood and guts" might make me dizzy and weak and nauseated.  That when push came to shove I would run away.  That didn't happen.  Instead I examined with fascination third degree burns.  I saw deep tissue damage.  And because the gods were smiling upon me, I got to see a three day old skin graft.  It was a miraculous thing, the way that skin harvested from one part of his body was growing on another, and I told his surgeon that it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen (that really made the surgeon smile).

When I left the hospital today to drive home I wept a bit.  I wept for my good fortune - in having the opportunity to live my lifelong dream of becoming a nurse (thank you Mom), for my patient who has taking a long hard look at his life and is choosing change and personal growth instead of despair, for the surgeon who is a skilled artist and can move living skin from one place to another, for my sister who talks me down from the ledge, my husband who works to support us while I am in school, for my sponsor who has stuck with me through thick and thin, for my cousin who has become such a wonderful blessing in my life, for the college friends and educators who have encouraged me to continue when I have struggled.

I was born to do this, and today was the best day of my life.  So far, anyway.  I know there will be more.  And that is the greatest gift of all.

The light at the end of the enema

Tomorrow afternoon I will be asked to administer either an enema or a tube feeding to one of the plastic mannikins in our skills lab, and that will be the last "hands on" test of the semester.  Two weeks from today I will take my final written exam, dust myself off, and leave the first semester of nursing school behind me.

Tonight after class I drove to an unfamiliar corner of Anchorage to look at a "snow bike" a man named Doug had posted for sale on craigslist.  I've been riding my bike indoors on a "trainer" since the first snow fell, but that doesn't quite cut it for me.  I'm like a dog riding in a car with the window rolled down.  I want that wind blowing in my face and bugs in my teeth.  Having found myself green with envy whenever I saw a hardy Anchorage resident pedaling through the snow and ice I started trying to figure out a way to get a bike with studded tires and join the group of lunatics who ride bicycles outdoors during Alaskan winters.

It was really dark out there tonight (and this afternoon and morning, for that matter) and few lights were lit while I searched for Doug's address.  I shuffled through snow and knocked on the garage door at the right address.  It opened and one of Doug's employees motioned in the direction of a small room off the garage. There it was.  It was sturdy and studded and powerful looking.  I rolled it outside and rode it up and down a snowpacked street.  The tires crunched through that snow, the wind was in my face and I felt the warm, syrupy flow of the only healthy addiction I've ever experienced return.

Can I afford it?  Define "afford" for me.  I'm paying for nursing school and not working, so do I have extra money lying around?  No.  That said, how can you put a price on rolling down a bike path in Alaska in the dead of winter, the hood of your coat covering your helmet, Thinsulate gloved hands gripping the handlebars, blowing by trees covered with ice and remembering that you lived in the sweltering heat of southern California for 35 years dreaming of a climate more to your liking?  How can you say no to exercise that fills you with excitement?  I can't.

So, I bought it.  I have my alarm set for sunrise (no sacrifice - that'll be about 10 am tomorrow) and I'll suit up and hop aboard my wicked snow bike and take a frosty ride to celebrate the light at the end of the enema.

Two weeks out

When I started nursing school, I counted "weeks in".  As in, "I'm three weeks in!".  Now I am "two weeks out".  This first semester is almost over.  BNS (before nursing school) I was told that I would learn a great deal about myself as I made my way through the four semesters required of any poor soul whose sights are set on an Associate's Degree in Nursing.

Here's what I've learned so far.

1. Fairness counts to me.  Very much.   We just took our third exam yesterday and it contained numerous questions that were just plain unfair.  Either our instructors had told us that we wouldn't be tested on that information, or it was "taught" by an instructor who informed us that class would be short on that day because she wanted to get home in time to take her children trick or treating, or it just wasn't covered either in class or our book.  I got a 79.8 on that exam (which destroyed my chances of getting an A in the course) and most of my fellow students did worse than I did.  None of us are happy about that exam.  It wasn't fair.
2. I have a massive ego.  Why was that A so important to me?  I try to justify that burning desire by explaining that the airline I use to get back and forth from home to classes gives me a 25% discount on airfare for a 4.0 GPA and only a 15% discount for a 3.8 (which is about what I'll have after this class), but as my sister pointed out, that represents approximately $6 per flight.  Who but an egomaniac whips themselves into a frenzy over $6?
3. I was born to be a nurse.  I love staring at wounds and dead tissue and think bowel sounds are absolutely fascinating.  The smell of poop doesn't make me gag.  I can find the good in every patient with whom I interact - even the really cranky ones.  And, when I come in contact with a nurse (a real one, not a student) who doesn't put patient care first I find myself wanting to take her "out back" and show her "what for".
4. I'm really, truly NOT a morning person.  Our clinical experience in the hospital starts bright and early (0630) every Thursday and when the alarm goes off at 5 am I've gotten maybe 4 hours of sleep.  I just can't nod off at 9 pm.  My clinical hours for next semester will be from 2:30 through 8:30 pm on Wednesdays and Thursdays.  Ahhh.

A few more tidbits:

• One can never have too many individually sealed alcohol wipes;
• It is easier to learn to use a stethoscope if you don't have too much wax in your ears;
• First semester nursing students should buy scrub pants with elastic waists (ice cream is an excellent coping mechanism) and
• If your instructor is having a bad day, chances are that you will too.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.  What am I grateful for?  I'M TWO WEEKS OUT!