I watched my sister walk across an icy runway to board the plane that would fly she and her husband to Anchorage for their connecting flight home to Seattle and felt tears well up in my eyes.
My sister Linda and I spent many years "not getting along". I was convinced that we were too different to be close - an idea that my mother had planted in my brain - and while my mother was alive the three of us formed a triangle. Never a good shape for relationships.
We've worked hard on getting to know each other since my mother died. We've been honest with each other and dismantled old barriers, healing old wounds in the process. Today I realized how important that work was. As I watched her walk away, I said to a stranger standing next to me, "I hate to see them leave."
When Linda and Art realized that my husband and I wanted to fly to their house for Thanksgiving but couldn't because of my husband's work schedule, they arranged to fly up to our house. They arrived on Tuesday, two of four suitcases full of fresh fruits and vegetables (we don't have great produce up here during the winter months). Art cooked the entire Thanksgiving dinner while Linda and I talked. The following day he cooked a roast. I didn't have to make one meal, not one.
On Thanksgiving night we planned to join our cousin Georgia and her family for dessert. I was in the bathroom checking on my appearance prior to leaving for Georgia's house, and grabbed what I assumed was my purple can of hair spray from under the sink. I shut my eyes and sprayed around the crown of my head when suddenly I realized that the hairspray was unusually heavy and smelled different in a very bad way. Opening my eyes, I saw that I had purple foam all over my head. I had sprayed my hair with Kaboom - a very effective bathroom cleaner. Turns out Kaboom is also useful if you want to strip color from your hair. I suspect it is also an easy way to have your hair break off at the roots, however, I managed to dive under a faucet quickly after recognizing my error to prevent that from happening. We laughed about this on our drive to my cousin's house where I shared it with our extended family. That lead to a roundtable discussion of "the most embarrassing thing I've ever done". More laughter.
Last night we watched "Home for the Holidays" and marveled at the dysfunction portrayed by a group of truly fine actors. We watch it every year that we're together on either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Our family used to be like that. Every holiday was ripe with tension, hurt feelings, and fear that someone would upset our mother. Our holidays aren't like that anymore.
I love my sister. She's smart and funny and creative. So am I. I love her husband, too. He's smart and loving and humble and he loves to cook and has taught me how a man is supposed to behave. I am so lucky to have them in my life. I don't know what I would do without them. When the hell did that happen?
I hate to see them leave.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Guilty as charged
I work a 12-step program, and one of the concepts to which I've been introduced in meetings is "contempt prior to investigation." To me, that means thinking I know something that I don't, and finding out later that I was dead wrong.
In an earlier post I waxed on about not liking either my pediatrics or obstetrics classes. I certainly wasn't looking forward to my clinical rotations in either, and last week I spent my first day in the labor and delivery department of a hospital. It was a slow day, and the best I could say about it was that I got to sit down a lot, which I like because I inherited my mother's foot structure and my feet hurt when I spend any time on my feet in almost any pair of shoes.
Today I crawled out of bed at 4:45 am and got myself to the hospital for another day on the obstetrics unit. I wasn't looking forward to it, and resent that I have to get up that early to do anything, much less something I am not particularly fond of doing.
Then I got my hands on a newborn. She was soft and small and healthy, and absolutely adorable. She made the sweetest little sounds I've ever heard. I listened to her little heartbeat and examined her fingers and toes. Then I did the same with a male newborn. He was just as precious and heartwarming as the girl had been.
Then I got to see a birth. Out of the miracle of a woman's body came a tiny bluish-gray human being who almost immediately took his first breath and, over the course of just a few moments, turned a robust pink color. He curled his little fingers to make little tiny fists, and his cries of protest sounded like music. We weighed him, measured him, and swaddled him before handing him to his father.
I left that labor/delivery room and couldn't remember where I was for a few minutes. I found a chair at the nurses' station and stared off into space for a few more minutes. That was several hours ago, and I'm still stunned.
How could I have been so wrong? How could I have not known? I LOVE obstetrics.
Yeah, I could do that.
In an earlier post I waxed on about not liking either my pediatrics or obstetrics classes. I certainly wasn't looking forward to my clinical rotations in either, and last week I spent my first day in the labor and delivery department of a hospital. It was a slow day, and the best I could say about it was that I got to sit down a lot, which I like because I inherited my mother's foot structure and my feet hurt when I spend any time on my feet in almost any pair of shoes.
Today I crawled out of bed at 4:45 am and got myself to the hospital for another day on the obstetrics unit. I wasn't looking forward to it, and resent that I have to get up that early to do anything, much less something I am not particularly fond of doing.
Then I got my hands on a newborn. She was soft and small and healthy, and absolutely adorable. She made the sweetest little sounds I've ever heard. I listened to her little heartbeat and examined her fingers and toes. Then I did the same with a male newborn. He was just as precious and heartwarming as the girl had been.
Then I got to see a birth. Out of the miracle of a woman's body came a tiny bluish-gray human being who almost immediately took his first breath and, over the course of just a few moments, turned a robust pink color. He curled his little fingers to make little tiny fists, and his cries of protest sounded like music. We weighed him, measured him, and swaddled him before handing him to his father.
I left that labor/delivery room and couldn't remember where I was for a few minutes. I found a chair at the nurses' station and stared off into space for a few more minutes. That was several hours ago, and I'm still stunned.
How could I have been so wrong? How could I have not known? I LOVE obstetrics.
Yeah, I could do that.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Professor J
I'm drawn to tragedies. Tragedies like 9/11, huge weather events, earthquakes, wars, random mass shootings, and transportation accidents. When I receive a CNN alert on my phone and know that something really awful has happened, I turn on the tv and watch in horror as the story unfolds. I don't know why I do that, but I do. I consider myself a compassionate person and I hate seeing others in distress, so while I'm watching the media coverage I generally wring my hands and cry and repeat a Buddhist chant. A sane person would read the CNN alert (or not sign up for them to begin with), take a moment to send positive thoughts for those in harm's way, and move on with her day. Not me.
Usually when one of these horrific things happen somebody mentions the fact that there are counselors/resources available to help the survivors cope in the aftermath. I had never really thought much about that until today.
My entire nursing class received an email yesterday stating that there was a mandatory meeting scheduled for 1 pm today. That was all it said: mandatory meeting. Shortly after we received the email there was much discussion on our class Facebook page. Nursing school (ours, anyway) is a pretty terrifying experience; it seems as though every instructor is firmly committed to making your life a living hell. Therefore, our immediate reaction to the email was a unanimous expression of anxiety. What had we done? Had we all failed? Was the university closing? If the university was closing were we going to have to start over somewhere else? The prospect of that was simply unthinkable. Furthermore, how dare they mandate that we show up at the college on what was, for most of us, a day off?
We gathered in the designated spot at the designated time this afternoon. We were visibly nervous. At the front of the room stood four of our professors. They looked very serious, and a little fragile. There were 45 students in that room, and you could have heard a pin drop.
In a carefully measured tone, one courageous professor gently let us know that another professor, one who had not been well earlier this semester and had been absent for several weeks, had died last week.
We sat, shocked and processing and still silent. One by one the professors dissolved into tears. There was a heaviness to the air in that room that I've never felt before. The heaviness was thick and cold and locked us in our seats. It was much bigger and more powerful than we were and it held 45 bright, driven, competitive, assertive, strong students in its grasp for maybe ten of the longest seconds in each of our lives. Then it was gone, and the air became regular old air again.
That's why the survivors of tragedies need to know that they have access to counseling. Once you have felt that heaviness, I don't think you're ever going to forget it, and you might need to talk about it, because it is deep, profound and infinite.
The woman who died was perhaps in her fifties. She was tougher than nails on the outside, and soft and caring and human on the inside. She was a bit controversial, very outspoken, and an incredibly knowledgeable and competent nurse. She cared deeply for her patients and for her students (although she probably wouldn't have admitted to the latter). She was one of those people you either really, really liked, or really, really didn't. She had obvious strengths, and equally obvious weaknesses.
Rest in peace, Helena. The Facebook page is unusually quiet tonight; you are already missed.
Usually when one of these horrific things happen somebody mentions the fact that there are counselors/resources available to help the survivors cope in the aftermath. I had never really thought much about that until today.
My entire nursing class received an email yesterday stating that there was a mandatory meeting scheduled for 1 pm today. That was all it said: mandatory meeting. Shortly after we received the email there was much discussion on our class Facebook page. Nursing school (ours, anyway) is a pretty terrifying experience; it seems as though every instructor is firmly committed to making your life a living hell. Therefore, our immediate reaction to the email was a unanimous expression of anxiety. What had we done? Had we all failed? Was the university closing? If the university was closing were we going to have to start over somewhere else? The prospect of that was simply unthinkable. Furthermore, how dare they mandate that we show up at the college on what was, for most of us, a day off?
We gathered in the designated spot at the designated time this afternoon. We were visibly nervous. At the front of the room stood four of our professors. They looked very serious, and a little fragile. There were 45 students in that room, and you could have heard a pin drop.
In a carefully measured tone, one courageous professor gently let us know that another professor, one who had not been well earlier this semester and had been absent for several weeks, had died last week.
We sat, shocked and processing and still silent. One by one the professors dissolved into tears. There was a heaviness to the air in that room that I've never felt before. The heaviness was thick and cold and locked us in our seats. It was much bigger and more powerful than we were and it held 45 bright, driven, competitive, assertive, strong students in its grasp for maybe ten of the longest seconds in each of our lives. Then it was gone, and the air became regular old air again.
That's why the survivors of tragedies need to know that they have access to counseling. Once you have felt that heaviness, I don't think you're ever going to forget it, and you might need to talk about it, because it is deep, profound and infinite.
The woman who died was perhaps in her fifties. She was tougher than nails on the outside, and soft and caring and human on the inside. She was a bit controversial, very outspoken, and an incredibly knowledgeable and competent nurse. She cared deeply for her patients and for her students (although she probably wouldn't have admitted to the latter). She was one of those people you either really, really liked, or really, really didn't. She had obvious strengths, and equally obvious weaknesses.
Rest in peace, Helena. The Facebook page is unusually quiet tonight; you are already missed.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
cluster%#&***
My sister messaged me on Facebook tonight. She noted that I have said so little about nursing school recently that she (almost) wondered if I had been going to classes lately.
Oh yes, I've been going. I've just been hating it.
It's not just about the subjects I'm taking this semester: pediatrics and obstetrics - but I'll start there.
I like little tiny babies who can't roll over, my friends' kids, and all adolescents. The babies' heads smell good. My friends' kids are prepared to like me (probably because their parents have told them that I am old but cool). Adolescents are flat out fascinating because they're borderline adults and full of intense emotion. But all that stuff about developmental milestones? No thanks. I have absolutely no interest in being able to rattle off at what age (in months, mind you) small people can swallow iron-fortified cereal, stand on one foot, or poop in the toilet. I realize that some of my fellow students really like pediatrics and I thank God for that, because I just can't stand it. I got my lowest exam grade ever on my last pediatrics test and I just didn't care. I studied hard for that exam but I'm just not interested in the subject and I'm not good at it and I don't even care. My worst nightmare: the only job I'll be offered when I graduate is as a pediatric nurse. I'd rather flip burgers.
Obstetrics is a little better. It really is amazing that most women can grow a human being in their bodies, and even more amazing that they can squeeze that human out into the world through what is an impossibly small orifice. Most amazing of all is that two cells get together and nine months later most of the time a baby is born with all its organs in the right place and working perfectly. Still, I've just seen too many vajayjays lately. I feel as though I'm being stalked by a giant vajayjay -it haunts me during my waking hours, peering at me from my maternity textbook. The nights are worse. I wake soaked with sweat from nightmares about being lost in a maze of laboring women who are all screaming for epidurals and I can't find the key to the medication room. Mind you, I haven't begun my clinical rotation for obstetrics yet. It's possible that when (if) I witness a birth I'll fall in love with obstetrics, but I doubt it. Too many vajayjays.
As if that weren't enough, this semester has been chock full of faculty drama and disorganization. Balls have been dropped, picked up, and dropped again. Professors have resigned, clinical rotations have been rescheduled, most of the online video lectures don't play, and everyone is grumpy.
Still, there have been moments. I started an IV on a classmate about a month ago. That needle slid right into that vein and I felt as though I had just summitted Everest. I literally felt high for several hours after that. Sometimes in class a correct answer to an instructor's question will pop out of my mouth and I'll realize that I'm becoming a nurse. I can look at blood test results now and know what they mean. Those things rock.
I'm hanging on to thoughts of next semester. My last semester. Finally: psychiatric. Ladies and gentlemen, I could TEACH that class. Some of my classmates are already positioning themselves to line up behind me like ducklings. I'm like, "Come to mama. Mama will tell you all about depression and panic disorders and anxiety disorders and chemical dependency." And Adult Nursing II! Emergency medicine and intensive care and REAL drama. Back to livers and spleens and hearts and lungs and brains.
For now, though, I'll go back to writing this absolutely riveting paper I'm writing on teaching six year olds how to brush their teeth.
Oh yes, I've been going. I've just been hating it.
It's not just about the subjects I'm taking this semester: pediatrics and obstetrics - but I'll start there.
I like little tiny babies who can't roll over, my friends' kids, and all adolescents. The babies' heads smell good. My friends' kids are prepared to like me (probably because their parents have told them that I am old but cool). Adolescents are flat out fascinating because they're borderline adults and full of intense emotion. But all that stuff about developmental milestones? No thanks. I have absolutely no interest in being able to rattle off at what age (in months, mind you) small people can swallow iron-fortified cereal, stand on one foot, or poop in the toilet. I realize that some of my fellow students really like pediatrics and I thank God for that, because I just can't stand it. I got my lowest exam grade ever on my last pediatrics test and I just didn't care. I studied hard for that exam but I'm just not interested in the subject and I'm not good at it and I don't even care. My worst nightmare: the only job I'll be offered when I graduate is as a pediatric nurse. I'd rather flip burgers.
Obstetrics is a little better. It really is amazing that most women can grow a human being in their bodies, and even more amazing that they can squeeze that human out into the world through what is an impossibly small orifice. Most amazing of all is that two cells get together and nine months later most of the time a baby is born with all its organs in the right place and working perfectly. Still, I've just seen too many vajayjays lately. I feel as though I'm being stalked by a giant vajayjay -it haunts me during my waking hours, peering at me from my maternity textbook. The nights are worse. I wake soaked with sweat from nightmares about being lost in a maze of laboring women who are all screaming for epidurals and I can't find the key to the medication room. Mind you, I haven't begun my clinical rotation for obstetrics yet. It's possible that when (if) I witness a birth I'll fall in love with obstetrics, but I doubt it. Too many vajayjays.
As if that weren't enough, this semester has been chock full of faculty drama and disorganization. Balls have been dropped, picked up, and dropped again. Professors have resigned, clinical rotations have been rescheduled, most of the online video lectures don't play, and everyone is grumpy.
Still, there have been moments. I started an IV on a classmate about a month ago. That needle slid right into that vein and I felt as though I had just summitted Everest. I literally felt high for several hours after that. Sometimes in class a correct answer to an instructor's question will pop out of my mouth and I'll realize that I'm becoming a nurse. I can look at blood test results now and know what they mean. Those things rock.
I'm hanging on to thoughts of next semester. My last semester. Finally: psychiatric. Ladies and gentlemen, I could TEACH that class. Some of my classmates are already positioning themselves to line up behind me like ducklings. I'm like, "Come to mama. Mama will tell you all about depression and panic disorders and anxiety disorders and chemical dependency." And Adult Nursing II! Emergency medicine and intensive care and REAL drama. Back to livers and spleens and hearts and lungs and brains.
For now, though, I'll go back to writing this absolutely riveting paper I'm writing on teaching six year olds how to brush their teeth.
Friday, October 5, 2012
On second thought...
Another week of pediatric rotation: this time I was required to volunteer in a school nurse's office (only 4-6 hours required).
I wasn't looking forward to it.
My hearing has just now returned to normal. It has been five days since I last heard the screamers at the grief camp. Furthermore, I have come down with a mild head cold. I'm sure that one of the screamers somehow deposited a clump of viruses on my hand, and that somehow those viruses made it to my mouth. I ate way too much last weekend - it isn't hard to figure out how my hand transported the little pathogens to a nice warm environment where they could set up camp. I think I ate a dozen cookies on Saturday alone. Hand to mouth, hand to mouth...
I had arranged to volunteer at a high school. My ego is still bruised by the lack of connection I made to the little girls last weekend. I was envious of a couple of my fellow volunteers - they had supernatural powers as "Kid Whisperers" and those little girls loved them. Me, I was like a third wheel. I thought I might be able to better relate to teenagers. Our text says that teenagers are rebellious, defiant, "finding out who they are", and can dress themselves. I read that by high school the screaming usually stopped. Sounded good to me.
The nurse with whom I was supposed to work today had called in sick, but warned the substitute nurse that a student would be there. The nurse who greeted me when I arrived was perfectly delightful. She apologized profusely, saying that the nurse who was sick was legendary, and she hoped that I could "make do" with her.
The day was wonderful. I had planned to bolt at 4 hours and ended up staying nearly six. Here is some of what I learned.
I wasn't looking forward to it.
My hearing has just now returned to normal. It has been five days since I last heard the screamers at the grief camp. Furthermore, I have come down with a mild head cold. I'm sure that one of the screamers somehow deposited a clump of viruses on my hand, and that somehow those viruses made it to my mouth. I ate way too much last weekend - it isn't hard to figure out how my hand transported the little pathogens to a nice warm environment where they could set up camp. I think I ate a dozen cookies on Saturday alone. Hand to mouth, hand to mouth...
I had arranged to volunteer at a high school. My ego is still bruised by the lack of connection I made to the little girls last weekend. I was envious of a couple of my fellow volunteers - they had supernatural powers as "Kid Whisperers" and those little girls loved them. Me, I was like a third wheel. I thought I might be able to better relate to teenagers. Our text says that teenagers are rebellious, defiant, "finding out who they are", and can dress themselves. I read that by high school the screaming usually stopped. Sounded good to me.
The nurse with whom I was supposed to work today had called in sick, but warned the substitute nurse that a student would be there. The nurse who greeted me when I arrived was perfectly delightful. She apologized profusely, saying that the nurse who was sick was legendary, and she hoped that I could "make do" with her.
The day was wonderful. I had planned to bolt at 4 hours and ended up staying nearly six. Here is some of what I learned.
- Teenagers develop headaches, stomachaches, and dizziness when they don't want to attend a particular class. They visit the nurse's office and concoct fascinating stories about questionable ailments, lie down for exactly 45 minutes (the length of that class period) and suddenly feel much better when the bell rings for lunch.
- Teenagers will come into the nurse's office and complain of exhaustion. When the school nurse questions them as to potential causes for said exhaustion and they reply that they stayed up late last night playing video games, visiting a significant other, or joyriding, it is the nurse's responsibility to send them right back to class.
- Some teenagers are hypochondriacs - these are my very favorite because I am an Olympic contender in the sport of Extreme Hypochondria. I can actually help treat these teenagers because all I have to do is repeat to them what my sister or husband says to me when I am in the throes of an imagined terminal illness state: "You are going to be all right. Go eat a cookie."
- Teenagers do not suffer from stranger anxiety. If you are wearing a student nurse badge, they will reveal intimate details of their lives to you 10 seconds after you've met. Because you have never really grown up, you can understand exactly what they're talking about and relate to them.
- When you're a student nurse volunteering at a high school, NEVER ask the school nurse if there are ever emergencies to which she must respond. Within 30 minutes there will be an emergency, a really scary serious one, and the paramedics will be called. This does give you practice in emergency nursing, but your heart rate will not return to normal until long after the person having the medical emergency's does. The excitement is even greater if the teenager's parent gets there before the paramedics and seeing her child in distress causes HER to nearly have a medical emergency herself. After the child and mother have been whisked away in an ambulance, the school nurse will tell you that an emergency of that nature happens maybe once per year in a school. (Please note that this adolescent suffered an emergency that was after all not life-threatening, but it sure looked like it might be at first.)
- School nurses get to sit down some of the time they're at work, thus they don't develop the agonizing foot, calf and back cramps that nurses who race up and down the floor in hospitals during 12 hour shifts do. In addition, school nurses have time to go to the bathroom during a shift, which is a nice thing.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
sugar and spice
I spent this weekend at a camp for kids. This was an opportunity to earn credit for my clinical round in pediatrics. I was happy at the thought that I'd be able to avoid six days in the pediatrics unit (which includes rising rather early) at the hospital by volunteering at the camp.
I am not familiar with kids; I have none of my own and just haven't ever spent much time with any. I was asked to babysit for a friend's month old son a number of years ago and did enjoy that experience immensely. It was easy. I fed, burped and changed the little guy and put him in the middle of my queen sized bed penned in by pillows (yes, I put him on his back) - then I'd go play games on the internet until he woke up and I'd repeat the process again. The top of his head smelled so good.
Volunteers for the camp are required to attend two five hour training sessions, which I did. This Friday through Sunday outdoor experience has been created for children who have lost someone close to them and the activities are carefully structured to help the kids feel safe enough to work through grief. At the training sessions we were taught how to facilitate each child's expressions of a wide range of emotions. When I learned that I was assigned to the cabin that would house 10 girls ranging in age from 6 to 9 years, I felt a flutter of uncertainty (I had hoped to be assigned to the teenager cabins, but figured that those making the assignments knew what they were doing.)
I arrived at camp at 4 pm on Friday and left the grounds at 3 pm on Sunday. Following is some of what I learned.
Scream on, little girls! Life awaits you, and some of it is wonderful.
I am not familiar with kids; I have none of my own and just haven't ever spent much time with any. I was asked to babysit for a friend's month old son a number of years ago and did enjoy that experience immensely. It was easy. I fed, burped and changed the little guy and put him in the middle of my queen sized bed penned in by pillows (yes, I put him on his back) - then I'd go play games on the internet until he woke up and I'd repeat the process again. The top of his head smelled so good.
Volunteers for the camp are required to attend two five hour training sessions, which I did. This Friday through Sunday outdoor experience has been created for children who have lost someone close to them and the activities are carefully structured to help the kids feel safe enough to work through grief. At the training sessions we were taught how to facilitate each child's expressions of a wide range of emotions. When I learned that I was assigned to the cabin that would house 10 girls ranging in age from 6 to 9 years, I felt a flutter of uncertainty (I had hoped to be assigned to the teenager cabins, but figured that those making the assignments knew what they were doing.)
I arrived at camp at 4 pm on Friday and left the grounds at 3 pm on Sunday. Following is some of what I learned.
- Little girls like to scream. They like to scream just for the sake of screaming. They will scream alone, but they prefer to scream with others. Put ten of them in a 16' X 16' cabin in the woods, and they will scream for hours without becoming the least bit hoarse. The camp schedule read, "10:30 pm - Camp Sleeps". Little girls will begin telling "scary stories" at 10:30 pm and scream until adults from other cabins show up at 1:00 am and request (beg, plead) that they stop.
- Little girls' mood swings make PMS look like a walk in the park, especially when they are grappling with something as serious and tragic as loss. They are the bravest little souls I have ever encountered and being with them is liked riding a very fast, extreme roller coaster. Two of my classmates who volunteered with me developed what they thought was a slight case of the stomach flu on Saturday. I think they had motion sickness.
- House 9 female nursing students ranging in age from 24 to 60 in a cabin in the woods (maybe 500 feet from the building containing toilets and showers), provide them with rickety bunk beds and plenty of electrical outlets and you'll soon have pandemic constipation (I mean really, who can do that in a public toilet with screaming girls nipping at their heels?) and previously well-groomed women wearing funky hats to cover unwashed hair because it's just too daunting to consider carrying toiletries, a change of clothes and a flashlight through an extremely early snowfall to a bath house that may or may not still have hot water. With regards to the electrical outlets: count on ghostly silhouettes created by the lights of smartphones at all hours of the night as the students quietly tap out desperate texts to loved ones - unable to sleep due to the cacophony of snoring and flatulence (remember - we're constipated).
- It's not a good idea to tease the one nursing student who likes to go to sleep earlier than the rest by waking her several times before everyone else hits the sack. She will rise before the crack of dawn and wake you up to tell you that you're snoring, then ask to borrow your flashlight so that she can make her way to the bathroom. You will then be unable to go back to sleep because everyone else is snoring (that's right, it wasn't you in the first place).
- It is possible to earn a bit of spending money if you tuck antacids, analgesics, and wax earplugs in your backpack before leaving for camp. Nursing students housed next to screaming girls and snoring peers will pay top dollar for these lifesaving items. She who remembers to pack a nightlight? Well, she is forever held in highest esteem
- Last, but not least: children are the sweetest of souls, even if they do scream for fun. Some of them grieve the loss of a parent who drank too much or smoked too much or a sibling who shouldn't have waded so far out into the water. None of these actions are within their realm of control, but they are left with the overwhelming task of navigating the rapids of fear, anger, guilt and sorrow at an age when they should be treading the earth with wide-eyed innocence and joy in their little hearts. Today I climbed a ladder to a top bunk in a cabin in the woods and held a child who expressed her grief with such deep sobs that I knew I'd stand on that ladder for as long as it took for her to breathe quietly again-in spite of the fact that my legs grew stiff and shaky and sore. I did not let go until she pulled back, squared her shoulders, and faced the day with astounding courage.
Scream on, little girls! Life awaits you, and some of it is wonderful.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Near miss
Four years ago I worked for a large healthcare corporation in California. A series of bizarre events occurred during my tenure with said company, and I found myself moving from the position of sales and marketing representative to Vice President of Sales and Marketing, complete with a corner office, company vehicle, and six-figure salary (blah, blah, blah). The experience I gained was good (in the event I ever want to move into a management position again), but the stress level was high and one of the coping mechanisms I employed to offset that stress was spending money.
Retail therapy is fun. The rush of pulling into a parking space in front of one's favorite store is magic. The heart speeds up, as does respiration, and one (one like me, that is) slides effortlessly into "acquisition mode". I could never get out of the car fast enough. My autonomic nervous system kicked into "flight or fight" and I was off. I loved shopping for clothes and shoes, but my favorite store was always Bed, Bath and Beyond. One can never have too many bath sheets, 1,000 thread count bed sheet sets, comforters, rugs, lamps, bathroom accessories, curtain panels, decorative curtain rods, pillows, throws or candles.
Times change. Finances change. Hopefully, coping mechanisms change in response to the finances.
I awoke today knowing that I needed a white long-sleeved stretchy cotton shirt to wear under my scrubs, as my obstetrics clinical rotation begins on Thursday. I contacted a friend who is in school with me, and she directed me to Old Navy. There is an Old Navy store about four miles from where I live, but I hadn't been there before. My friend gave me the address and I found it easily. Fortunately, I located a shirt for $8.50 and, after making my purchase and heading toward my car, I spotted a Bed, Bath and Beyond at the far end of the parking lot.
My heart rate sped up a bit. I started my car, put my forehead down against the steering wheel and called upon the gods of reason. If they answered I couldn't hear them and I drove to the BB&B parking area. Breathing rapidly, I leapt from my vehicle and strode purposefully through the doors into nirvana.
Colors, sounds, aromas and textures assaulted my senses. I stood for a moment and absorbed the surge of energy in that store. It warmed me from my center spreading up the back of my neck to my head and down the backs of my legs. I was soon bathed in warm pulsing comfort mixed with streaks of excitement. Glorious.
And, terrifying.
I spun around and headed for the doors. I had to get into my car and as far away from the store as I could, and fast. I kept my head down because I didn't want to make eye contact with a helpful store employee or (God forbid) lay eyes on a display containing 1,000 thread count sheets (offered at the sale price of $175 for a queen sized set).
I practically vaulted into my Jeep and peeled out of that parking lot.
My heart rate has since returned to normal. I called my husband on the drive home and told him what had happened. He shouted, "YOU CAN'T GO INTO THOSE STORES. THEY ARE A VERY BAD PLACE FOR YOU!"
Yes, they are. Score: BB&B - 0 Alyx - 1
Retail therapy is fun. The rush of pulling into a parking space in front of one's favorite store is magic. The heart speeds up, as does respiration, and one (one like me, that is) slides effortlessly into "acquisition mode". I could never get out of the car fast enough. My autonomic nervous system kicked into "flight or fight" and I was off. I loved shopping for clothes and shoes, but my favorite store was always Bed, Bath and Beyond. One can never have too many bath sheets, 1,000 thread count bed sheet sets, comforters, rugs, lamps, bathroom accessories, curtain panels, decorative curtain rods, pillows, throws or candles.
Times change. Finances change. Hopefully, coping mechanisms change in response to the finances.
I awoke today knowing that I needed a white long-sleeved stretchy cotton shirt to wear under my scrubs, as my obstetrics clinical rotation begins on Thursday. I contacted a friend who is in school with me, and she directed me to Old Navy. There is an Old Navy store about four miles from where I live, but I hadn't been there before. My friend gave me the address and I found it easily. Fortunately, I located a shirt for $8.50 and, after making my purchase and heading toward my car, I spotted a Bed, Bath and Beyond at the far end of the parking lot.
My heart rate sped up a bit. I started my car, put my forehead down against the steering wheel and called upon the gods of reason. If they answered I couldn't hear them and I drove to the BB&B parking area. Breathing rapidly, I leapt from my vehicle and strode purposefully through the doors into nirvana.
Colors, sounds, aromas and textures assaulted my senses. I stood for a moment and absorbed the surge of energy in that store. It warmed me from my center spreading up the back of my neck to my head and down the backs of my legs. I was soon bathed in warm pulsing comfort mixed with streaks of excitement. Glorious.
And, terrifying.
I spun around and headed for the doors. I had to get into my car and as far away from the store as I could, and fast. I kept my head down because I didn't want to make eye contact with a helpful store employee or (God forbid) lay eyes on a display containing 1,000 thread count sheets (offered at the sale price of $175 for a queen sized set).
I practically vaulted into my Jeep and peeled out of that parking lot.
My heart rate has since returned to normal. I called my husband on the drive home and told him what had happened. He shouted, "YOU CAN'T GO INTO THOSE STORES. THEY ARE A VERY BAD PLACE FOR YOU!"
Yes, they are. Score: BB&B - 0 Alyx - 1
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