Wow. I'll certainly never underestimate the power of a daily blog again.
I started out eager enough, excited to share my little corner of the world with all of cyberspace on a daily basis. But it got tough pretty quick. When I've had a bad day, I don't really feel like broadcasting it, but I can't think of anything else to say. Or, I can't think of a funny, witty, creative way to say it. It's a thorny rose, being told you have a way with words: it raises the bar every time you try to put your heart onto the page (or the screen, as it were).
And I had my share of bad days. I also had my share of awesome days, and because I was reveling so much in the awesomeness of the day, I'd forget to share it with you. And then I'd find myself trying to play catch-up four days later, cursing the computer and Having a Bad Day. (And then I'd start all my sentences with "and", and end them all with a preposition).
I also met some really awesome bloggers, people who make me wish I could see these people on a daily basis, talk with them, and soak up their marvelous creativity. They inspired me greatly. I hope I did the same for them.
All in all, it's been a interesting journey, NaBloPoMo. Next November, I'll be a little more prepared for you, ready with some cute stories, better pictures, and less video clips. For now, though, I'm gonna take a nap. You wore me out.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
God is under the bed
My dear friend Kelly lost her brother Kevin to colon cancer this past Monday. Though I did not know him well, just the few brief moments I had with him told me that he saw the world through eyes I wish I had: trusting, loving, childlike. His faith in Jesus was just as pure: he talked with Jesus as though he was talking to his best friend, right in the room with him.
I grieve for my friend today: we all know Kev is at home with Jesus, and we're happy about that, but still, losing your brother is like losing a piece of your heart, and it's hard to bear someone you love so much going through that much pain.
Tomorrow is his memorial service. I know the focus will be on celebrating his arrival home, but I know there will be tears, too. I know I'll want to hold on to my friend and her husband and their handsome, precious boys and tell them how I'll do anything, anything at all for them if it will somehow bring them comfort. I also know I'll want to run away when I see them, too, because it hurts and it's awkward and I don't know what to do with it. I know I'll thank my Lord for giving us human angels like Kevin, and I know I'll cry and wonder why it has to be at such a cost.
I think that no one captured his spirit better than his sister, my friend, Kelly. With her gracious permission, here is a story she wrote about Kevin, years ago as a college writing assignment. (I won't need to tell you what an extraordinarily gifted writer Kelly is, or that nothing has brought out her gift as much as writing about him):
God Lives Under The Bed!
My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's what I heard him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped outside his closed door to listen. Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed." I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room.
Kevin's unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives in. He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he always will.
He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas, and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, returning to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.
The only variation in the entire scheme are laundry days, when he hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores. And Saturdays - oh, the bliss of Saturdays!
That's the day my dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on the destination of each passenger inside. "That one's going' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday nights.
I don't think Kevin knows anything exists outside his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips. He doesn't know what it means to be discontent. His life is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. He recognizes no differences in people, treating each person as an equal and a friend. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a job until it is finished. But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent, always sincere.
And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God-to really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions. It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap......I am.
My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they all become disabilities when I do not submit them to Christ. Who knows if Kevin comprehends the things I can never learn? After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness and love of the Lord.
And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who believed that God lived under his bed.
Kevin won't be surprised at all.
I grieve for my friend today: we all know Kev is at home with Jesus, and we're happy about that, but still, losing your brother is like losing a piece of your heart, and it's hard to bear someone you love so much going through that much pain.
Tomorrow is his memorial service. I know the focus will be on celebrating his arrival home, but I know there will be tears, too. I know I'll want to hold on to my friend and her husband and their handsome, precious boys and tell them how I'll do anything, anything at all for them if it will somehow bring them comfort. I also know I'll want to run away when I see them, too, because it hurts and it's awkward and I don't know what to do with it. I know I'll thank my Lord for giving us human angels like Kevin, and I know I'll cry and wonder why it has to be at such a cost.
I think that no one captured his spirit better than his sister, my friend, Kelly. With her gracious permission, here is a story she wrote about Kevin, years ago as a college writing assignment. (I won't need to tell you what an extraordinarily gifted writer Kelly is, or that nothing has brought out her gift as much as writing about him):
My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that's what I heard him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped outside his closed door to listen. Are you there, God?" he said. "Where are you? Oh, I see. Under the bed." I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own room.
Kevin's unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that night something else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first time the very different world Kevin lives in. He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during labor. Apart from his size (he's 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old, and he always will.
He will probably always believe that God lives under his bed, that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every Christmas, and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. I remember wondering if Kevin realizes he is different. Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, off to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel, returning to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.
The only variation in the entire scheme are laundry days, when he hovers excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather our dirty laundry for his next day's laundry chores. And Saturdays - oh, the bliss of Saturdays!
That's the day my dad takes Kevin to the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on the destination of each passenger inside. "That one's going' to Chi-car-go!" Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly sleep on Friday nights.
I don't think Kevin knows anything exists outside his world of daily rituals and weekend field trips. He doesn't know what it means to be discontent. His life is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth of power, and he does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. He recognizes no differences in people, treating each person as an equal and a friend. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they may not be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does not leave a job until it is finished. But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with his work or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent, always sincere.
And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when he comes to Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God-to really be friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an "educated" person to grasp. God seems like his closest companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith. It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge that rises above my mortal questions. It is then I realize that perhaps he is not the one with the handicap......I am.
My obligations, my fear, my pride, my circumstances - they all become disabilities when I do not submit them to Christ. Who knows if Kevin comprehends the things I can never learn? After all, he has spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking up the goodness and love of the Lord.
And one day, when the mysteries of heaven are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts, I'll realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who believed that God lived under his bed.
Kevin won't be surprised at all.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
cuttin' the chunkies out
I had surgery today. That word makes it all sound so grave: surrrrgery.
Really, it was quite nice.
I have to admit that I was a little nervous. You see, there was this chunky, silver-dollar-sized lump on my arm. Had it biopsied a few months ago, went to see an oncologist and a dermatologist, sought a surgeon. They said it wasn't cancerous, wasn't malignant... but other than that, they didn't know what it was. Speculation rests on some sort of bug bite or other "trauma" that just started going wacko and forming all this dense, fibrous scar tissue.
Wow. A part of my body overreacting? UNHEARD OF.
Anyway, they decided it was best to take it out. And it kept getting itchy and worrying me, that maybe it was the colonization of a distant planet, a new race of life starting in my upper left arm. I mean, I'm all for the birth of civilization, but not in my left arm. Sorry. I wanted it out, too.
I went in today, filled in a few forms, signed my life and a significant part of our savings account away, and in return, I received a huge, 1980's mauve hospital gown that naturally did not close in the back, paper booties, a stick in my hand, and a heart monitor screen, where I was delighted to see my heart occasionally skipping beats and making weird squiggly lines on the screen. Fantastic. The anesthesiologist said that those squigglies were probably the result of my nerves. "Once I give you these drugs, they should disappear." Well, then, give them to me!
Ahhhh, drugs. Most days, I resist taking a Tylenol for even the worst headache. However, being on the wrong end of a scalpel makes you reconsider the whole just-say-no policy you've clung to all this time. So, I got one drug that took away pain, another one that made me forget anything that happened to me, and yet another that had me blissfully asleep. One moment, I was telling the nurse I felt a little woozy; the next, I was waking up with a big honkin' bandage on my arm. I felt pretty relaxed. Hungry, but relaxed.
The nurse said not to eat anything too heavy. I left the surgery center starving. We ate hot dogs and fries and washed it down with some soda. It was freakin' fantastic.
And then I got to go home and have my husband take care of me and sleep a lot.
Incidentally, the drugs they gave me were the exact same drugs (minus one) that I give to my burn patients when I go to do dressing changes. I thought they were delicious (the drugs, not the patients). So the next time one of my patients wonders what the drugs will feel like, I can totally start humming some Pink Floyd and say, "Enjoy the ride, man." Because I'm all trippy like that.
Really, it was quite nice.
I have to admit that I was a little nervous. You see, there was this chunky, silver-dollar-sized lump on my arm. Had it biopsied a few months ago, went to see an oncologist and a dermatologist, sought a surgeon. They said it wasn't cancerous, wasn't malignant... but other than that, they didn't know what it was. Speculation rests on some sort of bug bite or other "trauma" that just started going wacko and forming all this dense, fibrous scar tissue.
Wow. A part of my body overreacting? UNHEARD OF.
Anyway, they decided it was best to take it out. And it kept getting itchy and worrying me, that maybe it was the colonization of a distant planet, a new race of life starting in my upper left arm. I mean, I'm all for the birth of civilization, but not in my left arm. Sorry. I wanted it out, too.
I went in today, filled in a few forms, signed my life and a significant part of our savings account away, and in return, I received a huge, 1980's mauve hospital gown that naturally did not close in the back, paper booties, a stick in my hand, and a heart monitor screen, where I was delighted to see my heart occasionally skipping beats and making weird squiggly lines on the screen. Fantastic. The anesthesiologist said that those squigglies were probably the result of my nerves. "Once I give you these drugs, they should disappear." Well, then, give them to me!
Ahhhh, drugs. Most days, I resist taking a Tylenol for even the worst headache. However, being on the wrong end of a scalpel makes you reconsider the whole just-say-no policy you've clung to all this time. So, I got one drug that took away pain, another one that made me forget anything that happened to me, and yet another that had me blissfully asleep. One moment, I was telling the nurse I felt a little woozy; the next, I was waking up with a big honkin' bandage on my arm. I felt pretty relaxed. Hungry, but relaxed.
The nurse said not to eat anything too heavy. I left the surgery center starving. We ate hot dogs and fries and washed it down with some soda. It was freakin' fantastic.
And then I got to go home and have my husband take care of me and sleep a lot.
Incidentally, the drugs they gave me were the exact same drugs (minus one) that I give to my burn patients when I go to do dressing changes. I thought they were delicious (the drugs, not the patients). So the next time one of my patients wonders what the drugs will feel like, I can totally start humming some Pink Floyd and say, "Enjoy the ride, man." Because I'm all trippy like that.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
you know what happens when you assume...
Hmmmm... is it morning yet?
Mmmmmm....
Wow. I actually feel rested. This never happens when I have to get up for work.
Mmmmmm.
Rested. At 5:30 in the morning. Mmmmmm.
(yawn)
(stretch)
(scratch)
Mmmmmm...
(suddenly realizes that sun is a bit too bright in the room to be so early, sits straight up in bed)
Honey, what time is it?
him: mmmhbmblfmmm... uh... ohmygoditssevenoclock!
SEVEN O'CLOCK! It can't be seven! I had to be at work half an hour ago! Didn't you set the alarm?
him: NO. Didn't YOU set the alarm?
(sound of breaking glass, cat screeching, general pandemonium)
Mmmmmm....
Wow. I actually feel rested. This never happens when I have to get up for work.
Mmmmmm.
Rested. At 5:30 in the morning. Mmmmmm.
(yawn)
(stretch)
(scratch)
Mmmmmm...
(suddenly realizes that sun is a bit too bright in the room to be so early, sits straight up in bed)
Honey, what time is it?
him: mmmhbmblfmmm... uh... ohmygoditssevenoclock!
SEVEN O'CLOCK! It can't be seven! I had to be at work half an hour ago! Didn't you set the alarm?
him: NO. Didn't YOU set the alarm?
(sound of breaking glass, cat screeching, general pandemonium)
Monday, November 26, 2007
oh dear
It hath struck: blogger's block.
I think I can safely say that NaBloPoMo is officially kicking my creative ass.
(plus, I'm tired, and hey, look at the time!)
I think I can safely say that NaBloPoMo is officially kicking my creative ass.
(plus, I'm tired, and hey, look at the time!)
Sunday, November 25, 2007
letting go
I grew up with a mom who was constantly taking pictures. Most of my childhood is chronicled in a never-ending series of albums and shoeboxes filled with snapshots. In fact, most of the major events or memorable moments of my life before age 18 have a corresponding picture, which is a fantastic aid to my somewhat patchy memory. Remember the time when you pulled out all the carefully-arranged magazines out of that cabinet and crawled in, only to look so surprised and innocent when found? There's a picture to jog your memory, or else supply your imagination to fill in the details.
Even more memorable than the actual pictures themselves was the process of obtaining said pictures. Remember, children, these pictures were taken before the digital age, so you couldn't just snap pictures at random and delete the ones you didn't like. Lo, you only had 12 or 24 (or, if you were daring, 36) exposures on that roll, and so you'd better get it right the first time. Mom would come upon some adorably cute candid moment to snap the photo... and 5 minutes later, we would still be frozen in that "candid" pose, smiles held, cheeks burning, while we heard, "Okay... just a second more... lemme adjust this lens..."
(Side note: I know my family is reading this. Don't tease her any more about the photo-taking process. It's a dead horse, beaten many times over...)
But even though the process might have seemed a little contrived, the pictures that resulted were amazing. And I see the pictures you get from a disposable camera, or even a digital camera that takes, I don't know, eons to think about whether it wants to take the picture or not between the moment you press the button and the actual taking of picture. Not the same. In my head, I've connected raising children and fantastic photography. I love houses full of photos of their family.
So, now that Jason and I are (hopefully) embarking upon the RaisingHell Family stage of our lives, what would be the number one item on my registry list once I found out I was preggers? A camera:
(I know. Completely shocking for someone who has a complete lack of personal photos on her blog. But I'm trying to correct that, see?)
We've been saving money. I was all set to make this Christmas the Christmas Of The Camera. Jason's been looking on eBay and Amazon for great package deals. I've been looking forward to a home full of pictures, even if it is not a home full of little feet... yet.
And then I went to church. You can listen to what I heard today here - just click on "A Thanksgiving Message". The temptation, when hearing that God blessed you with all that He has so that you can bless others (that it's not for your own glory), is to write a large check, drop it guiltily into the offering basket, and skulk home, hoping the message next week will be something a little milder, a little less convicting. But that wasn't the point. Who wants something given out of guilt? No. Giving out of the overflowing joy of your heart - those are the kind of gifts you want to give. And receive.
I am letting go of the camera for Christmas. The money saved is not going to us but somewhere yet to be determined. Listening in on Sunday... I didn't feel guilty. I just saw what I really, truly want, and it has nothing to do with a camera and everything to do with refocusing my heart, to invest in others the way the same way in which I've been invested.
Father, I want to know Thee, but my coward heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all Those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' name, Amen.
PS - I am not pregnant.
Even more memorable than the actual pictures themselves was the process of obtaining said pictures. Remember, children, these pictures were taken before the digital age, so you couldn't just snap pictures at random and delete the ones you didn't like. Lo, you only had 12 or 24 (or, if you were daring, 36) exposures on that roll, and so you'd better get it right the first time. Mom would come upon some adorably cute candid moment to snap the photo... and 5 minutes later, we would still be frozen in that "candid" pose, smiles held, cheeks burning, while we heard, "Okay... just a second more... lemme adjust this lens..."
(Side note: I know my family is reading this. Don't tease her any more about the photo-taking process. It's a dead horse, beaten many times over...)
But even though the process might have seemed a little contrived, the pictures that resulted were amazing. And I see the pictures you get from a disposable camera, or even a digital camera that takes, I don't know, eons to think about whether it wants to take the picture or not between the moment you press the button and the actual taking of picture. Not the same. In my head, I've connected raising children and fantastic photography. I love houses full of photos of their family.
So, now that Jason and I are (hopefully) embarking upon the Raising
(I know. Completely shocking for someone who has a complete lack of personal photos on her blog. But I'm trying to correct that, see?)
We've been saving money. I was all set to make this Christmas the Christmas Of The Camera. Jason's been looking on eBay and Amazon for great package deals. I've been looking forward to a home full of pictures, even if it is not a home full of little feet... yet.
And then I went to church. You can listen to what I heard today here - just click on "A Thanksgiving Message". The temptation, when hearing that God blessed you with all that He has so that you can bless others (that it's not for your own glory), is to write a large check, drop it guiltily into the offering basket, and skulk home, hoping the message next week will be something a little milder, a little less convicting. But that wasn't the point. Who wants something given out of guilt? No. Giving out of the overflowing joy of your heart - those are the kind of gifts you want to give. And receive.
I am letting go of the camera for Christmas. The money saved is not going to us but somewhere yet to be determined. Listening in on Sunday... I didn't feel guilty. I just saw what I really, truly want, and it has nothing to do with a camera and everything to do with refocusing my heart, to invest in others the way the same way in which I've been invested.
Father, I want to know Thee, but my coward heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from Thee the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all Those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' name, Amen.
PS - I am not pregnant.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
not fair
Jason and I helped my brother move into his new apartment in DeLand yesterday. He used to live in one of the areas that was ravaged by a freak tornado this past February, and his neighbors living there are not the greatest: late-night screaming matches, guns, all that fun stuff. He has since found friends who have this gorgeous storefront apartment in downtown historic DeLand, the top floor above a bicycle shop and a rare coin dealer. Don has always lived in pretty modest places, as he has spent the last decade or so as either a grad student or a public school teacher. So, when we loaded up the U-Haul truck to take his belongings to his new apartment, we weren't expecting what we saw:
Ignore the furnishings and try and see how freakin' HIGH that ceiling is...
The kitchen. Yes, that is a mannequin in the back. She's holding a welcome home sign. She kind of creeped me out.
Original, beautiful hardwood floors. 1700 square feet of them. Ceilings that appear to reach to the sky. Fresh paint job. Huge windows looking out onto a courtyard. Big open spaces. The kind of living room that any self-respecting singer would salivate at, because the acoustics are of the type that make your voice sound 100 times bigger than it is, round and full and rich. And for this echoey vastness of an apartment, he's paying, like, two dollars a month or something. (Okay, I exaggerate, but I will say it is less than what we pay per month for our 1000-sq ft apartment in a not-nearly-as-desirable area.)
To top it all off, the coin shop downstairs is the next door neighbor of a fabulous Irish pub where we had dinner: fish and chips, burgers, apple crisp. Across the street: a chi-chi nail salon. Behind the building: a cute little boutique with fantastic dresses displayed in the front.
Needless to say, I am completely, totally jealous. Inspired, but jealous.
Ignore the furnishings and try and see how freakin' HIGH that ceiling is...
The kitchen. Yes, that is a mannequin in the back. She's holding a welcome home sign. She kind of creeped me out.
Original, beautiful hardwood floors. 1700 square feet of them. Ceilings that appear to reach to the sky. Fresh paint job. Huge windows looking out onto a courtyard. Big open spaces. The kind of living room that any self-respecting singer would salivate at, because the acoustics are of the type that make your voice sound 100 times bigger than it is, round and full and rich. And for this echoey vastness of an apartment, he's paying, like, two dollars a month or something. (Okay, I exaggerate, but I will say it is less than what we pay per month for our 1000-sq ft apartment in a not-nearly-as-desirable area.)
To top it all off, the coin shop downstairs is the next door neighbor of a fabulous Irish pub where we had dinner: fish and chips, burgers, apple crisp. Across the street: a chi-chi nail salon. Behind the building: a cute little boutique with fantastic dresses displayed in the front.
Needless to say, I am completely, totally jealous. Inspired, but jealous.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
happy thanksgiving
Thanksgiving dinner was a great success. I am stuffed, happy, surrounded by my family and blessings. Things I've learned from today:
--that roasting a bird (chicken, turkey, or other) breast side down doesn't look as pretty, but the meat comes out fall-off-the-bone tender.
--that cooking dinner is good enough. No need to wow them even more with lunch, too. (Although that was pretty tasty)
--whoever first decided to combine cinnamon and sugar is my hero.
--whoever first decided to sweeten roasted cacao beans with sugar, I LOVE YOU. Really.
--that it's okay to go a little overboard in the name of celebration. Just not every day.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Hope you all had as wonderful a day as I did.
--that roasting a bird (chicken, turkey, or other) breast side down doesn't look as pretty, but the meat comes out fall-off-the-bone tender.
--that cooking dinner is good enough. No need to wow them even more with lunch, too. (Although that was pretty tasty)
--whoever first decided to combine cinnamon and sugar is my hero.
--whoever first decided to sweeten roasted cacao beans with sugar, I LOVE YOU. Really.
--that it's okay to go a little overboard in the name of celebration. Just not every day.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Hope you all had as wonderful a day as I did.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
the lineup
Tomorrow's food will be:
LUNCH
Mimi's Corn Chowder (you can get the recipe here)
Monkey bread
Fruit with creamy vanilla-y topping
SUPPER
Roast chicken (hey, there's only four of us)
Mashed potatoes
Stuffing
Green beans
Yeast rolls (the kind you have to let rise, too)
Chocolate Mousse Pie
I'm hungry already. And because I'm such a doll, here's the ultra-yummy and easy recipe for the Monkey Bread:
MONKEY BREAD
2 1-lb packages pizza dough
4 oz. butter, melted (plus more for the pan)
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Directions: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Mix the sugar and cinnamon together in a shallow bowl. Pull off the pizza dough into 1-2 inch balls. Dip each ball in the melted butter, then roll the ball in the cinnamon sugar mix. Put each ball into a buttered bundt pan. Any butter left over should be poured over the top of the, er, balls, and the remaining cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top. Stick it in the oven for about 40 minutes, or until the top is all nice and golden brown. Take out of the oven, let sit for about 5 minutes, then flip over onto a plate. Guests can just pull the bread apart with their fingers... but be forewarned: it's mega-gooey!
LUNCH
Mimi's Corn Chowder (you can get the recipe here)
Monkey bread
Fruit with creamy vanilla-y topping
SUPPER
Roast chicken (hey, there's only four of us)
Mashed potatoes
Stuffing
Green beans
Yeast rolls (the kind you have to let rise, too)
Chocolate Mousse Pie
I'm hungry already. And because I'm such a doll, here's the ultra-yummy and easy recipe for the Monkey Bread:
MONKEY BREAD
2 1-lb packages pizza dough
4 oz. butter, melted (plus more for the pan)
1 cup sugar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
Directions: Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Mix the sugar and cinnamon together in a shallow bowl. Pull off the pizza dough into 1-2 inch balls. Dip each ball in the melted butter, then roll the ball in the cinnamon sugar mix. Put each ball into a buttered bundt pan. Any butter left over should be poured over the top of the, er, balls, and the remaining cinnamon sugar sprinkled on top. Stick it in the oven for about 40 minutes, or until the top is all nice and golden brown. Take out of the oven, let sit for about 5 minutes, then flip over onto a plate. Guests can just pull the bread apart with their fingers... but be forewarned: it's mega-gooey!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
..........
So freakin' tired. Want to fall over into bed. Mental process absent. Writing only because I signed up for NaBloPoMo and, well, I gotta. This nursing thing is great, but it wears me out.
Peace out. More mentation tomorrow. Maybe.
Peace out. More mentation tomorrow. Maybe.
Monday, November 19, 2007
afraid to fall
I can totally relate to this. It made me laugh, but it's so true. Props to my hubby for first posting this on his blog:
Sunday, November 18, 2007
I did it
Today, I took all three patients on my own. Well, not on my own completely: my preceptor was there to help me out if I needed it, and she did help me quite a bit. Because she is a rock star.
I did have one very memorable guy under my care today: a motorcycle accident that left my patient with this huge chunk taken out of his arm. He's resting in bed, having been informed over and over again that his arm will never work again and needs to be amputated or else will become so infected that he would die from the infection. He roundly refuses each time. Instead, he sports a huge dressing and a metal rod fixator. He is covered with all sorts of interesting tattoos: naked people in acrobatic poses, swastikas, weapons, you name it. He's pretty weak from everything, but he still growls at you when you walk in. Here's my favorite conversation with him today:
"Hi, Mr. ____. Do you want some more of your Gatorade?"
(slurred) "You're all trying to kill me, I know it." (then motions for Gatorade)
"No, we're trying to get you better so you can go home. But you know we can't let you go home just yet, right? There's a big metal fixator coming out your arm to keep it still."
(scowls)"I know that."
(pause while I mess with his IV pump)
"Look honey... c'mere. Listen to me. I mean, really listen to me. I've got $300 right here in my pocket," (motions to bare ass) "and it's all yours if you just drive me home, okay? Drive me home."
"Hmmmm. No, I don't think so."
(look of disgust and shock) "Well, why not?"
"I'm not that cheap, sir."
I did have one very memorable guy under my care today: a motorcycle accident that left my patient with this huge chunk taken out of his arm. He's resting in bed, having been informed over and over again that his arm will never work again and needs to be amputated or else will become so infected that he would die from the infection. He roundly refuses each time. Instead, he sports a huge dressing and a metal rod fixator. He is covered with all sorts of interesting tattoos: naked people in acrobatic poses, swastikas, weapons, you name it. He's pretty weak from everything, but he still growls at you when you walk in. Here's my favorite conversation with him today:
"Hi, Mr. ____. Do you want some more of your Gatorade?"
(slurred) "You're all trying to kill me, I know it." (then motions for Gatorade)
"No, we're trying to get you better so you can go home. But you know we can't let you go home just yet, right? There's a big metal fixator coming out your arm to keep it still."
(scowls)"I know that."
(pause while I mess with his IV pump)
"Look honey... c'mere. Listen to me. I mean, really listen to me. I've got $300 right here in my pocket," (motions to bare ass) "and it's all yours if you just drive me home, okay? Drive me home."
"Hmmmm. No, I don't think so."
(look of disgust and shock) "Well, why not?"
"I'm not that cheap, sir."
Saturday, November 17, 2007
the outcome
Up 1.2 pounds. Ugh. I'm not beating myself up but instead choosing to blame it on PMS hormones, water retention, and building up muscle, which weighs more than fat. Starting afresh today, right after I finish these chocolate-covered walnuts and meatball pizza slices. Right.
Shower was lovely. Really. It's kind of touching and funny, watching a mom used to all boys get showered with lots of pink ruffly lace things, and then watching her melt over and over, realizing that she's really having a girl, and how that little girl will change everything. In a good way.
I made it through intact. I smiled through tears. I felt genuinely happy for her. I still prayed a lot. And then I went home and took a long nap. Sometimes, you just need to rest.
Shower was lovely. Really. It's kind of touching and funny, watching a mom used to all boys get showered with lots of pink ruffly lace things, and then watching her melt over and over, realizing that she's really having a girl, and how that little girl will change everything. In a good way.
I made it through intact. I smiled through tears. I felt genuinely happy for her. I still prayed a lot. And then I went home and took a long nap. Sometimes, you just need to rest.
Friday, November 16, 2007
celebrate
Not a whole lot to say tonight - this NaBloPoMo thing is getting harder than I thought. Originally, I envisioned this great blog coming out of my fingertips onto my computer screen, full of original witticisms and gorgeous pictures. Kind of like dooce and her daily hilarious adventures being a mom of one adorable toddler, and who just remodeled her already-gorgeous website and now includes a new stunning picture of herself with glass-cutting cheekbones. Alas, I do not have such cheekbones. Nor do I have the website. Nor the toddler. Nor the daily hilarious adventures. At least, not the kind I actually sit down, remember, and write about.
Anyway...
I have two big challenges tomorrow: weigh-in and a baby shower. The weigh-in might be a special challenge because this week, though I have run and Jazzercised and worked on my body, has been full of little goodies, like tidbits from the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot, a tasty or two from Starbucks, and perhaps slightly larger helpings of foods that should be in slightly smaller quantities. Hmmm. I'm proud of myself for not getting neurotic over it - I have struggled mightily with my brain short-circuiting in the past when I've realized I've eaten too much over the past week, and then I find myself trying to not eat anything the day before I weigh in, only to get too hungry in the end and consume whatever I can lay hands on first, a lot of it. So, I didn't do that this week, at least not the neurotic aspect. But, tomorrow may not be the numbers I want. C'est la vie, ma belle, I must say.
The baby shower is a different story. It's a dear friend of mine who, unexpectedly, is finally getting to add a sweet bundle of pink to her Bruiser Farm. Both parents are completely delighted. I want to be so excited for them, and I am, I really am, somewhere inside of my heart, I really am. I happily spent too much money at Target yesterday to buy them lots of pink little lovelies, and half of them I had wished came in adult sizes because they were just that cute. I mean, what self-respecting girl would not want a huge bedspread of cabled pink chenille, even if her husband might heartily object? Tomorrow, I know, will be a great shower of pinkness. I love pink. I love girly stuff. I adore babies. But taped up on my refrigerator next to my friend's stylish shower invitation is an appointment card for my reproductive endocrinologist, and it just gives me pangs and the tears start up in my eyes and I just silently pray Dear God, please, DON'T FORGET ME. And I think about both times Jason and I got all excited, wondering whether to decorate our spare room in blue tugboats or pink butterflies, only to end up wondering what the hell happened and why my body decides to be fickle and change its mind.
Tomorrow, I want to celebrate for all the reasons I can.
Anyway...
I have two big challenges tomorrow: weigh-in and a baby shower. The weigh-in might be a special challenge because this week, though I have run and Jazzercised and worked on my body, has been full of little goodies, like tidbits from the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot, a tasty or two from Starbucks, and perhaps slightly larger helpings of foods that should be in slightly smaller quantities. Hmmm. I'm proud of myself for not getting neurotic over it - I have struggled mightily with my brain short-circuiting in the past when I've realized I've eaten too much over the past week, and then I find myself trying to not eat anything the day before I weigh in, only to get too hungry in the end and consume whatever I can lay hands on first, a lot of it. So, I didn't do that this week, at least not the neurotic aspect. But, tomorrow may not be the numbers I want. C'est la vie, ma belle, I must say.
The baby shower is a different story. It's a dear friend of mine who, unexpectedly, is finally getting to add a sweet bundle of pink to her Bruiser Farm. Both parents are completely delighted. I want to be so excited for them, and I am, I really am, somewhere inside of my heart, I really am. I happily spent too much money at Target yesterday to buy them lots of pink little lovelies, and half of them I had wished came in adult sizes because they were just that cute. I mean, what self-respecting girl would not want a huge bedspread of cabled pink chenille, even if her husband might heartily object? Tomorrow, I know, will be a great shower of pinkness. I love pink. I love girly stuff. I adore babies. But taped up on my refrigerator next to my friend's stylish shower invitation is an appointment card for my reproductive endocrinologist, and it just gives me pangs and the tears start up in my eyes and I just silently pray Dear God, please, DON'T FORGET ME. And I think about both times Jason and I got all excited, wondering whether to decorate our spare room in blue tugboats or pink butterflies, only to end up wondering what the hell happened and why my body decides to be fickle and change its mind.
Tomorrow, I want to celebrate for all the reasons I can.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
jazzin' it up
I decided to try something new tonight: my friend Joslyn has been encouraging me to come with her to Jazzercise, and tonight, I did. The first class is free, she told me, and I could come try it out. I'll admit: I had visions of shuffling around, barely getting the heart rate up, surrounded by the geriatric set. The last I'd heard of Jazzercise was when I was a kid in the 80's and aerobics were all the rage. I think I half-expected those spandex bodysuits to show up - you know, the thong bodysuit over tights. I never understood that, giving yourself a wedgie intentionally. Hmmm.
Well, back to Jazzercise tonight: I had a great time! It was not the geriatric set by far, and Joslyn and I were not the only young'uns there. (To be fair, the average age of participants was around 40, but that ain't old, folks.) Nor were there any be-thonged spandexed ladies (praise God). No Olivia Newton-John 80's action. And even though tonight was not a traditional dance workout but a strength-training set, you better believe I was sweatin'! I'd gone for a run before I went, thinking I needed to do something to get my heart pumping... and ended up doing just that for another hour when I went to the class. (Hey, it can only help, right?) Thank goodness I'd had the presence of mind to change clothes between the two workouts and freshen up a bit. No one needs the Grand Master Funk, y'all.
I think I might go back. We did get to do a little dancing at the end, and it was sweet: cool enough for me to enjoy it, easy enough for any klutzo to follow along. Even better was that I wasn't racing to get the workout in before the sun went down - always an advantage of working out indoors.
Well, back to Jazzercise tonight: I had a great time! It was not the geriatric set by far, and Joslyn and I were not the only young'uns there. (To be fair, the average age of participants was around 40, but that ain't old, folks.) Nor were there any be-thonged spandexed ladies (praise God). No Olivia Newton-John 80's action. And even though tonight was not a traditional dance workout but a strength-training set, you better believe I was sweatin'! I'd gone for a run before I went, thinking I needed to do something to get my heart pumping... and ended up doing just that for another hour when I went to the class. (Hey, it can only help, right?) Thank goodness I'd had the presence of mind to change clothes between the two workouts and freshen up a bit. No one needs the Grand Master Funk, y'all.
I think I might go back. We did get to do a little dancing at the end, and it was sweet: cool enough for me to enjoy it, easy enough for any klutzo to follow along. Even better was that I wasn't racing to get the workout in before the sun went down - always an advantage of working out indoors.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
dear santa
Okay, I did it. I made up my list for Santa this year. I'll admit it: I LOVE Christmas. I love getting gifts, and I love giving gifts. I love the joy on faces when they open a gift that I got for them. It gives me quite a thrill. And, for as much as I try not to, I still love getting stuff. Particularly thoughtful, meaningful stuff.
I've also found that the best way to ensure good relations among family and friends during gift-giving times (such as Christmas and one's birthday) is to provide a detailed, comprehensive list of wanted goodies. There's expensive stuff for people who want to splurge on you. There's inexpensive stuff so that even your friend who subsists on Ramen noodles can get you a little something you want and not feel like a schmuck. It takes the stress off of others when creating their to-buy-for list for the holidays. I mean, it's all about keeping the peace, my peeps. I'm just saying.
So, in the spirit of joy and love and keeping peace and relieving stress, I've taken all the guesswork out of giving me some gift lovin' this Christmas. Behold, the list:
Happy Holidays!
I've also found that the best way to ensure good relations among family and friends during gift-giving times (such as Christmas and one's birthday) is to provide a detailed, comprehensive list of wanted goodies. There's expensive stuff for people who want to splurge on you. There's inexpensive stuff so that even your friend who subsists on Ramen noodles can get you a little something you want and not feel like a schmuck. It takes the stress off of others when creating their to-buy-for list for the holidays. I mean, it's all about keeping the peace, my peeps. I'm just saying.
So, in the spirit of joy and love and keeping peace and relieving stress, I've taken all the guesswork out of giving me some gift lovin' this Christmas. Behold, the list:
Happy Holidays!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
the sweet spot
I'm not sure why I ever stopped running. Earlier this year, I was on a roll: I ran 4-5 days a week, about 18-20 miles. I know many runners who do more than that, but for a girl who used to barely huff and puff her way through a half a mile, well... it was a freaking miracle, right up there with fishes and loaves and the Red Sea parting. Even better was that it was not 18-20 miles of sheer torture a week. Lo, I enjoyed each day I got to run. I felt empowered, unstoppable, even if I wasn't a speed demon. Rawrrrrr.
Maybe I got lazy, or bored, or overwhelmed by my last semester of nursing school, but I dropped the ball. Big time. I stopped running and promptly became more stressed, not as much fun to be around, and about 25 pounds heavier (not just from not running, but from a horrible downward spiral of my eating habits). Ugh.
So, at the beginning of October, I started running again. And eating right. There was some instant gratification from the eating: you feel good almost immediately, even if there are some residual cravings, like a really unexplainable desire for Chicago-style hot dogs. (Okay, I still have those cravings.) But picking up running again after you haven't ran in nearly 6 months isn't quite as easy at first. I ran a mile that first day, and it was about as enjoyable as having my teeth cleaned. Dude, was I SLOW. I am really not exaggerating when I say that a pair of senior citizens easily passed me on the trail, and they were walking. But I kept going.
Within a few weeks, I was still running, getting close to the two mile mark, not a whole lot faster, but not overtaken by the over-70 demographic. And I knew that I would get back to where I used to be, fitness-wise. It was a better experience: definitely not the fabled runner's high or anywhere close, but I wasn't shouting colorful expletives and twitching anymore, either.
Pretty soon, it started getting easier. I started getting a little faster. My stride got a little longer. I ventured farther and farther. As a side bonus to complement my better eating habits, I dropped a dress size and 8 pounds.
Tonight, I ran a 5K in length on the trail, and I felt like I was gliding. There were the usual aches and pains at the beginning of the run, my body reminding me that I spent the day in a classroom and not walking around to get warmed up, but after about a half a mile, they were gone. Other runners passed me. I didn't care. I enjoyed all 45 minutes of it (see? not a speed demon) and came home, stinky, sweaty and happy, wondering why I'd ever stopped running in the first place.
Can I inspire any fellow couch potatoes out there? It's not impossible to do it, enjoy it, and want to do it again the next day. Go Team!
Maybe I got lazy, or bored, or overwhelmed by my last semester of nursing school, but I dropped the ball. Big time. I stopped running and promptly became more stressed, not as much fun to be around, and about 25 pounds heavier (not just from not running, but from a horrible downward spiral of my eating habits). Ugh.
So, at the beginning of October, I started running again. And eating right. There was some instant gratification from the eating: you feel good almost immediately, even if there are some residual cravings, like a really unexplainable desire for Chicago-style hot dogs. (Okay, I still have those cravings.) But picking up running again after you haven't ran in nearly 6 months isn't quite as easy at first. I ran a mile that first day, and it was about as enjoyable as having my teeth cleaned. Dude, was I SLOW. I am really not exaggerating when I say that a pair of senior citizens easily passed me on the trail, and they were walking. But I kept going.
Within a few weeks, I was still running, getting close to the two mile mark, not a whole lot faster, but not overtaken by the over-70 demographic. And I knew that I would get back to where I used to be, fitness-wise. It was a better experience: definitely not the fabled runner's high or anywhere close, but I wasn't shouting colorful expletives and twitching anymore, either.
Pretty soon, it started getting easier. I started getting a little faster. My stride got a little longer. I ventured farther and farther. As a side bonus to complement my better eating habits, I dropped a dress size and 8 pounds.
Tonight, I ran a 5K in length on the trail, and I felt like I was gliding. There were the usual aches and pains at the beginning of the run, my body reminding me that I spent the day in a classroom and not walking around to get warmed up, but after about a half a mile, they were gone. Other runners passed me. I didn't care. I enjoyed all 45 minutes of it (see? not a speed demon) and came home, stinky, sweaty and happy, wondering why I'd ever stopped running in the first place.
Can I inspire any fellow couch potatoes out there? It's not impossible to do it, enjoy it, and want to do it again the next day. Go Team!
Monday, November 12, 2007
*yawn*
So after this amazing weekend, I am still totally exhausted. After spending Friday running around the ICU, then Friday night jumping up and down for 3 hours, then Saturday ALL DAY jumping around and shouting and crying and dancing and singing and full of joy, then having the most powerful experience at church Sunday, well... I went to work today and came home, went to take a short nap, and CRASHED. I'm still sleepy. I didn't run, and I heated up a Lean Cuisine for dinner because anything else required too much effort.
So, excuse my laziness. Since the conference, I've fallen in love with Brooke Fraser's music all over again. And because I think my brain might implode and then leak out of my ears if I tried to write anything more than a few sentences, I'll leave you with yet another video. (Are ya tired of the videos already?)
Love,
me
So, excuse my laziness. Since the conference, I've fallen in love with Brooke Fraser's music all over again. And because I think my brain might implode and then leak out of my ears if I tried to write anything more than a few sentences, I'll leave you with yet another video. (Are ya tired of the videos already?)
Love,
me
Sunday, November 11, 2007
bliss
Do you ever have one of those days where everything comes together, the planets are aligned, the sun shines just a little brighter than normal, and you feel the reason why you were set on this earth?
Today was one of those days.
So, this weekend, Friday night and Saturday all day, I was at the Hillsong United Conference here in Orlando. It wasn't a gathering of sedate, prim-and-proper Christians, as one might expect if you haven't experienced Hillsong United. Imagine a space jam-packed with about 6000 high school and college age people, hair colors of the entire rainbow spectrum, body surfing, mosh pits, and every voice singing at its loudest, and you might get an idea of what it was like. It was completely incredible. I spent most of the weekend jumping up and down with arms raised. I was on some sort of adrenaline kick. Moreover, I got the spiritual kick-in-the-ass refresher I'd been hoping for. You know those days when your spiritual walk just gets... lackluster? The relationship is not so much there any more on your end? You open up your Bible and feel... dry? That was a good summary of the past few months for me. I hate feeling that way. It makes for some very hollow-feeling Sundays, particularly when you are supposed to be leading others in worship.
Saturday night, post-conference, my body begins to realize that I am not 18 years old any more. (Okay, I'm not 80 years old, but still.) From all of my jumping, I had massively sore calves. From all my hand/arm-raising, I had very sore shoulders. And from the complete lack of sleep and the emotion of the past 24 hours, I was simply spent. Even a stop at the 'Bucks couldn't get me going again.
Morning comes. I am toast. I was even later than normal to get to church for morning worship rehearsal. I nearly passed out from exhaustion during sound check. I didn't know how the service was going to go: there were several of us who had been at the conference, and we all looked equally whipped. When our levels are low, the crowd feeds right off of that.
Ah, but I worried in vain.
That morning was one of the best worship experiences I have ever had. The rest of the team - and the church, in fact - felt the same way. Everything flowed exactly as it should. We weren't just playing the chords and singing the words - we were in the zone. People came up to us after the service, not to say "oh, you sang so pretty" or "that guitar solo rocked" but "I really felt it today" and "the worship brought me to a new place". And I walked out of there with my heart full and hands high, thinking this is what it's supposed to be like.
Sundays are my favorite days.
Today was one of those days.
So, this weekend, Friday night and Saturday all day, I was at the Hillsong United Conference here in Orlando. It wasn't a gathering of sedate, prim-and-proper Christians, as one might expect if you haven't experienced Hillsong United. Imagine a space jam-packed with about 6000 high school and college age people, hair colors of the entire rainbow spectrum, body surfing, mosh pits, and every voice singing at its loudest, and you might get an idea of what it was like. It was completely incredible. I spent most of the weekend jumping up and down with arms raised. I was on some sort of adrenaline kick. Moreover, I got the spiritual kick-in-the-ass refresher I'd been hoping for. You know those days when your spiritual walk just gets... lackluster? The relationship is not so much there any more on your end? You open up your Bible and feel... dry? That was a good summary of the past few months for me. I hate feeling that way. It makes for some very hollow-feeling Sundays, particularly when you are supposed to be leading others in worship.
Saturday night, post-conference, my body begins to realize that I am not 18 years old any more. (Okay, I'm not 80 years old, but still.) From all of my jumping, I had massively sore calves. From all my hand/arm-raising, I had very sore shoulders. And from the complete lack of sleep and the emotion of the past 24 hours, I was simply spent. Even a stop at the 'Bucks couldn't get me going again.
Morning comes. I am toast. I was even later than normal to get to church for morning worship rehearsal. I nearly passed out from exhaustion during sound check. I didn't know how the service was going to go: there were several of us who had been at the conference, and we all looked equally whipped. When our levels are low, the crowd feeds right off of that.
Ah, but I worried in vain.
That morning was one of the best worship experiences I have ever had. The rest of the team - and the church, in fact - felt the same way. Everything flowed exactly as it should. We weren't just playing the chords and singing the words - we were in the zone. People came up to us after the service, not to say "oh, you sang so pretty" or "that guitar solo rocked" but "I really felt it today" and "the worship brought me to a new place". And I walked out of there with my heart full and hands high, thinking this is what it's supposed to be like.
Sundays are my favorite days.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
unbelievable
Jason and I went to the Hillsong United Conference this weekend - it was incredible. It's really the most amazing experience to be among 6000 other believers (most of whom were under 25) and everyone is singing with all their heart, raising their hands in praise, jumping up and down.
I'm spent in so many ways, so this will be a short post and not nearly worthy of how amazing the entire experience was, but I will leave you with a little glimpse of what the weekend was like:
I'm spent in so many ways, so this will be a short post and not nearly worthy of how amazing the entire experience was, but I will leave you with a little glimpse of what the weekend was like:
Friday, November 9, 2007
please, my friends
I spent the day in the trauma ICU at the hospital where I work, just down the hall from my own floor. Please, dear reader, if you take away nothing else from the words I write, please hear this and never do these things:
1. Ride a motorcycle without a helmet, even if it is legal
2. Drive or ride in a car without a seatbelt, even if you are only going across the road to the supermarket
3. Cross the street without looking both ways
4. Get high, drunk, or both and do any of the above activities
5. Let your health go to crap, and then do any of the above activities
Friends, I do not want you as my patient.
I do not want to have to hold your mom's/dad's/child's/lover's/friend's hand while they try to deal with this person they once knew who is hooked up to a million machines and, while still alive, will never, ever be the same again. I do not want you to wake up and find that no, you are not dead and in heaven, but instead are a quadriplegic, permanently dependent on a machine to help you breathe. I do not want you to be riddled with life-threatening injuries and even more life-threatening regret and remorse.
Years ago, I was riding in a car with coworkers to go for a luncheon across town. In the front passenger seat, one of my coworkers, a crotchety, old-beyond-her-years lady refused to buckle up. When I asked why, she scowled at me, "I'm not afraid to go home to heaven." And I thought of her words when I see these patients, whose families are only sometimes facing the decision on whether to withdraw life support or having to say goodbye. More often, they are left with a loved one not quite at the pull-the-plug stage, but are instead riddled with permanent injuries, facing a lifetime of complicated medical treatment, constant threat of infection or further injury, and an unimaginable road of emotional turbulence.
I know it sounds preachy. I know you've all heard it before. But if it wasn't such a violation of privacy and against the law, I would conduct daily tours through that unit. Please be safe.
1. Ride a motorcycle without a helmet, even if it is legal
2. Drive or ride in a car without a seatbelt, even if you are only going across the road to the supermarket
3. Cross the street without looking both ways
4. Get high, drunk, or both and do any of the above activities
5. Let your health go to crap, and then do any of the above activities
Friends, I do not want you as my patient.
I do not want to have to hold your mom's/dad's/child's/lover's/friend's hand while they try to deal with this person they once knew who is hooked up to a million machines and, while still alive, will never, ever be the same again. I do not want you to wake up and find that no, you are not dead and in heaven, but instead are a quadriplegic, permanently dependent on a machine to help you breathe. I do not want you to be riddled with life-threatening injuries and even more life-threatening regret and remorse.
Years ago, I was riding in a car with coworkers to go for a luncheon across town. In the front passenger seat, one of my coworkers, a crotchety, old-beyond-her-years lady refused to buckle up. When I asked why, she scowled at me, "I'm not afraid to go home to heaven." And I thought of her words when I see these patients, whose families are only sometimes facing the decision on whether to withdraw life support or having to say goodbye. More often, they are left with a loved one not quite at the pull-the-plug stage, but are instead riddled with permanent injuries, facing a lifetime of complicated medical treatment, constant threat of infection or further injury, and an unimaginable road of emotional turbulence.
I know it sounds preachy. I know you've all heard it before. But if it wasn't such a violation of privacy and against the law, I would conduct daily tours through that unit. Please be safe.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
these are the reasons...
...why one must never, ever pry into my brain. Or why one should never post a comprehensive video set of a fictional character's musical oeuvre:
"Hey, are you okay? You seem a little distracted."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got a song stuck in my head."
"Oh, I hate that when that happens! Right?" (pause) "So, what's the song?"
(blushing) "Nothing. It's really stupid. Forget it."
"No, tell me. Stupid songs are always the ones that get stuck in your head. What is it?"
"Naw...."
"Come on..."
"Well... okay." (clears throat and begins to sing) "And a crusty old man said, 'I'll do what I can,' and the rest of the rats played maracas!" (shakes body in disturbing manner)
(long pause)
"Duuude. Gotta change out the rotation on the iPod now and then, okay?"
"Hey, are you okay? You seem a little distracted."
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got a song stuck in my head."
"Oh, I hate that when that happens! Right?" (pause) "So, what's the song?"
(blushing) "Nothing. It's really stupid. Forget it."
"No, tell me. Stupid songs are always the ones that get stuck in your head. What is it?"
"Naw...."
"Come on..."
"Well... okay." (clears throat and begins to sing) "And a crusty old man said, 'I'll do what I can,' and the rest of the rats played maracas!" (shakes body in disturbing manner)
(long pause)
"Duuude. Gotta change out the rotation on the iPod now and then, okay?"
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
I is ur nurse, thinkin' smart thoughts...
I started as a graduate nurse (and soon after, a bonafide RN) on the trauma stepdown unit at my hospital about 6 weeks ago. Walking on the floor as a newly licensed nurse is about as reassuring as having to skirt by a bonfire when you are doused with gasoline and having someone say, "Oh, you'll do just fiiiiinnne." Uh-huh. You realize how dependent your patients are on you to recognize when they are going downhill, how very little those physicians hang around for you, how little those brand-new residents know, how little you know. You end up asking a lot of questions that you think are totally inane and stupid of your preceptor, your coworkers, the janitor, whoever. You second- and third-guess yourself constantly. You deeply envy those nurses who, only having been a nurse a year longer than you, seem confident in what they can do. You pray a lot. A whole lot.
During the last three of those six weeks, I've been in a critical care class as part of my job - presumably to equip me with essential skills and remove some of that deer-in-headlights look I must have every minute I'm caring for a patient. In many ways, it's been like a regular class from nursing school: lectures, homework, midterms and a final, clock-watching, and the inevitable Loudmouth. There is at least one Loudmouth in every class or group learning situation. You know exactly who I mean, too: the person who decides that each lecture is, in fact, a one-on-one conversation between herself and the instructor about irrelevant details, personal anecdotes, or just general verbal crap interjections. There's one in every class. In my case, we actually have two of them, making for a white-knuckling, eye-rolling, apoplectic experience each and every class day. I feel like writing to the federal whomever and telling them to scrap waterboarding and try this technique.
Despite the Loudmouths, I do enjoy learning the useful information, presented in a what-you-need-to-know fashion, and the instructors are pretty good at what they do. So good, in fact, that I feel ever so much more confident about coming back onto my floor in a couple of weeks. That's good. I mean, I'll still ask questions of everyone, only second-guess myself all the time, and shake in my shoes when the unexpected happens. I know how to ask for help and when, at least. And one day I know I'll be a seasoned, go-to type of nurse, and I'll see new grads shaking in their own shoes and enduring their own Loudmouths and see just how far I've come.
In the meantime, I leave you, on request, with the second half of the clip of the show I miss so much:
PS - NaBloPoMo freakin' ROCKS. Fussy, if you happen to read this, you are completely awesome. To everyone else: thanks for the comments! (You guys are awesome, too.)
During the last three of those six weeks, I've been in a critical care class as part of my job - presumably to equip me with essential skills and remove some of that deer-in-headlights look I must have every minute I'm caring for a patient. In many ways, it's been like a regular class from nursing school: lectures, homework, midterms and a final, clock-watching, and the inevitable Loudmouth. There is at least one Loudmouth in every class or group learning situation. You know exactly who I mean, too: the person who decides that each lecture is, in fact, a one-on-one conversation between herself and the instructor about irrelevant details, personal anecdotes, or just general verbal crap interjections. There's one in every class. In my case, we actually have two of them, making for a white-knuckling, eye-rolling, apoplectic experience each and every class day. I feel like writing to the federal whomever and telling them to scrap waterboarding and try this technique.
Despite the Loudmouths, I do enjoy learning the useful information, presented in a what-you-need-to-know fashion, and the instructors are pretty good at what they do. So good, in fact, that I feel ever so much more confident about coming back onto my floor in a couple of weeks. That's good. I mean, I'll still ask questions of everyone, only second-guess myself all the time, and shake in my shoes when the unexpected happens. I know how to ask for help and when, at least. And one day I know I'll be a seasoned, go-to type of nurse, and I'll see new grads shaking in their own shoes and enduring their own Loudmouths and see just how far I've come.
In the meantime, I leave you, on request, with the second half of the clip of the show I miss so much:
PS - NaBloPoMo freakin' ROCKS. Fussy, if you happen to read this, you are completely awesome. To everyone else: thanks for the comments! (You guys are awesome, too.)
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
short, brief
Hmmmm. Can't think of much to write, except that I am so loving the weather outside. For the majority of the year, walking outside in Florida is like walking in a badly-decorated steam room. It's hot, it's muggy, it's just not fun. It makes me twitch and long for snow-capped mountains and seeing my breath. Only this weekend, it was completely wonderful: high 70s, breezy, sunny, beautiful. Jason and I spent a lot of time outside. Right now, the windows are all open, and the cool night air is floating through our apartment. Glorious.
Still running. It's nice to exercise outdoors and not find yourself a puddle of sweat afterward.
Still running. It's nice to exercise outdoors and not find yourself a puddle of sweat afterward.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
major landmarks of the world
Conversation between a six year old girl and my friend Katie while waiting for a Disney show to begin:
girl: "What's your name?"
K: "Katie."
g: "Where do you live?"
K: "In Orlando."
g: (look of awe) "So you don't have to go to a hotel when you leave?"
K: (Katie smiling)"No... I get to drive back to my house. What town do you live in?"
g: "Pace."
K: "Where is Pace? I don't know where that is."
g: (long pause, face scrunched in thought) "Um... it's by the Walmart."
girl: "What's your name?"
K: "Katie."
g: "Where do you live?"
K: "In Orlando."
g: (look of awe) "So you don't have to go to a hotel when you leave?"
K: (Katie smiling)"No... I get to drive back to my house. What town do you live in?"
g: "Pace."
K: "Where is Pace? I don't know where that is."
g: (long pause, face scrunched in thought) "Um... it's by the Walmart."
Saturday, November 3, 2007
down a pound!
AND it's a gorgeous day outside. Jason and I celebrated by going to the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot - where else can you purchase two potstickers for $4, or an 8-oz beer for $12? Still, I haven't eaten a soft pretzel as good as I did tonight, even if it was a bit overpriced.
In fact, we went so far as to buy annual passes to Disney. It was a splurge of magnificent proportions, I must say: I think I had heart palpitations when I saw Jason hand over the debit card to the friendly, pimply-faced Disney ticket cashier. But a few weeks ago, we had received an anonymous gift from a member of our church. It was sent to us with a simple thank you that said "we're glad you are here". As gift money, I had a feeling that maybe we weren't supposed to piddle it away on daily necessities or even something as level-headed and practical as paying off a credit card or padding our savings account. No, we decided to give ourselves a year's worth of dates and invest in us.
I love taking Jason to Disney because it is similar to taking a young child to Disney for the first time. I don't mean that he is childish at all, but he grew up in Michigan, and had previously been to Disney just once, briefly, and saw very little. Taking him to the different parks was a bit like sharing my own childhood with him: I grew up going to the Magic Kingdom, walking around Epcot, and I loved every minute of it. I still do. Even going on the rides that are completely hokey and outdated - like the "Carousel of Progress" where the world of "tomorrow" is replete with Luke Skywalker bowl-cut 'dos and green-screen computers - makes me feel all happy and giddy inside. Sharing that with the person I love most in this world is ten times the joy, especially when I get to see him discover all of the cool Disney things for the first time.
Our legs and feet are tired, but our hearts are full. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Anonymous Happiness Spreader, wherever you are.
In fact, we went so far as to buy annual passes to Disney. It was a splurge of magnificent proportions, I must say: I think I had heart palpitations when I saw Jason hand over the debit card to the friendly, pimply-faced Disney ticket cashier. But a few weeks ago, we had received an anonymous gift from a member of our church. It was sent to us with a simple thank you that said "we're glad you are here". As gift money, I had a feeling that maybe we weren't supposed to piddle it away on daily necessities or even something as level-headed and practical as paying off a credit card or padding our savings account. No, we decided to give ourselves a year's worth of dates and invest in us.
I love taking Jason to Disney because it is similar to taking a young child to Disney for the first time. I don't mean that he is childish at all, but he grew up in Michigan, and had previously been to Disney just once, briefly, and saw very little. Taking him to the different parks was a bit like sharing my own childhood with him: I grew up going to the Magic Kingdom, walking around Epcot, and I loved every minute of it. I still do. Even going on the rides that are completely hokey and outdated - like the "Carousel of Progress" where the world of "tomorrow" is replete with Luke Skywalker bowl-cut 'dos and green-screen computers - makes me feel all happy and giddy inside. Sharing that with the person I love most in this world is ten times the joy, especially when I get to see him discover all of the cool Disney things for the first time.
Our legs and feet are tired, but our hearts are full. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts, Anonymous Happiness Spreader, wherever you are.
Friday, November 2, 2007
life in the ED
I spent the day in the trauma bay at the emergency department of the hospital where I work. It's not exactly like ER, mostly because I never saw George Clooney walking around purposefully and rescuing patients with excellent plot outcomes. Things I did see and experience:
--overheard between two residents: "Um, to put in that NG tube... yeah... the thingy goes in there, I think." Fear should strike one's heart at the words "thingy" and "I think" from a doctor's mouth.
--a man with a self-inflicted gunshot wound who made himself into a quadriplegic needing breathing support
--several nursing home falls and two nonagenarians among them
--a bicyclist vs. semi with nary a broken bone or internal bleeding
I think the highlight of my day, other than the many times where I jumped in and did actual nursing interventions, was a two year old girl who came in with her mom. Both were in a car collision, and both were unhurt but visibly shaken; the mom was 36 weeks pregnant and fearful for her unborn baby's health. They brought her two-year old daughter into the trauma bay with her since there was really nowhere else for her to go, and the little girl was strapped in her car seat still, solemn, wide-eyed, and looking very unsure about her new surroundings. I crouched on my feet next to her and started talking to her softly: about her shoes, the candy she still clutched in her hand, her pretty dress. Slowly, she started to speak, mostly to ask "where's momma" ("the doctor is helping her get better"). Eventually, she let me pick her up and take her to her mom; she clung to my neck and played with my name badge, where I had a Sharpie pen and flashlight attached to keep her pretty occupied until her "oma" came to pick her up.
Of everything I did that day, helping a child to feel less scared and more safe was the best thing I did all day. Seeing her smile - even as small a smile as it was - made my heart swell.
--overheard between two residents: "Um, to put in that NG tube... yeah... the thingy goes in there, I think." Fear should strike one's heart at the words "thingy" and "I think" from a doctor's mouth.
--a man with a self-inflicted gunshot wound who made himself into a quadriplegic needing breathing support
--several nursing home falls and two nonagenarians among them
--a bicyclist vs. semi with nary a broken bone or internal bleeding
I think the highlight of my day, other than the many times where I jumped in and did actual nursing interventions, was a two year old girl who came in with her mom. Both were in a car collision, and both were unhurt but visibly shaken; the mom was 36 weeks pregnant and fearful for her unborn baby's health. They brought her two-year old daughter into the trauma bay with her since there was really nowhere else for her to go, and the little girl was strapped in her car seat still, solemn, wide-eyed, and looking very unsure about her new surroundings. I crouched on my feet next to her and started talking to her softly: about her shoes, the candy she still clutched in her hand, her pretty dress. Slowly, she started to speak, mostly to ask "where's momma" ("the doctor is helping her get better"). Eventually, she let me pick her up and take her to her mom; she clung to my neck and played with my name badge, where I had a Sharpie pen and flashlight attached to keep her pretty occupied until her "oma" came to pick her up.
Of everything I did that day, helping a child to feel less scared and more safe was the best thing I did all day. Seeing her smile - even as small a smile as it was - made my heart swell.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
NaBloPoMo
Welcome to National Blog Posting Month! I heartily accept the challenge to write a post every day... which means some days are going to be thoughtful and deep, and yet others will be, well... THERE. I haven't written a post a day ever, so we'll see how this goes.
Off to rehearsal!
Off to rehearsal!
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