remembering fred

A touching tribute to America's #1 neighbor, fellow Rollins music alum, and all-around great person:

15 Reasons Why Mr. Rogers Was Best Neighbor Ever

Miss you, Fred.

random (baby) updates, gee whillikers edition

I can hardly believe it: I ACTUALLY WON SOMETHING. My friend Lotus, aka Sarcastic Mom, started a new website called Who Doesn't Like Free? (and really, who doesn't?) First contest was a swim diaper package, and I won it. Ha! (BTW, she is one of my favorite bloggers, independent of any loot she may offer me or anyone else, and I HIGHLY encourage you to go over and check her out.)

Next Thursday, I will be 37 weeks along, which means I will be officially full term with this baby. Whoa.

Along with that, I went to my now-weekly OB appointment this past Wednesday, and a quick exam showed that I am 1 cm dilated and 70% effaced. That only means things are beginning to rev up - it could still be weeks yet. But still.

Have you seen the pictures of our baby bedding on Jason's website? SO CUTE. Plus, it was less expensive than a lot of other bedding sets. Double yay!

Yesterday, I sent Jason out to my car with an important mission: install the car seat. And do you know, he is so amazing that he came back inside after about 5 minutes and said, "It's done." AND IT WAS. I would have been out there for about 3 hours, sweating and frustrated, if I'd tried to do it. Just another one of about 10,000 reasons why I know he is the awesomer half of us.

time waster

If you're honest with yourself, you know you've probably been a "photobomber" at some point in your life, although maybe not intentionally. A pair of rabbit ears here, a little tongue-sticking-out over there, and voila: photobombing.

Every time I look at these, I crack up. Oh, I know, some are crude, some are not exactly PG. But they're still funny.

I think the first one is my all-time favorite.

(I'm posting the fit-for-family ones below. If you want to see all of them, click the link at the end of the pictures.)
















The entire collection: photobombing.

changing perspective

Sometimes, I get under the impression that in order for God to stretch me, grow me, and teach me something new, it has to be a painful experience that I must learn to endure until I reach the other side of said lesson and can look back with beatific serenity.

(Sometimes, I also write mad run-on sentences.)

Last night proved that that is just not always the case. Like my 3rd grade teacher always told me, learning can be FUN.

My night didn't start out wonderfully. I had a pretty big case of the grumples, having to go to work on a Friday night, drive in the opposite direction of the rest of the world heading home, and leave my husband at home. I was feeling very large and uncomfortable, having been unable to catch any sleep before going to work because the current occupant of my uterus is apparently rehearsing for his big Cirque du Soleil debut. And upon getting to work, I call Jason to wish him a good night, only to find out that he found another roach in our kitchen, despite the past two weeks' worth of scrubbing, disinfecting, cleaning, baiting, and roach-trap-setting we'd been doing with Pest Control Dude's help.

Frustrated and without much thought, I got all upset and stated that I HATED our house, that it was DUMB and STUPID. I didn't like being at work, either. Tonight SUCKED.

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the receiver. I didn't get any commiseration. What I got was Jason quietly telling me that he was grateful for this house that we now owned and were growing a family in, and that my job (and resulting income) were making that all possible, and that he wished he could encourage me to look at things a little more positively.

Oh.

Okay, so I'll concede that part was a little painful and humbling. But, it did get me thinking. (Before you get scared, I'll reassure you that it was GOOD thinking. Read on.)

I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.

I didn't like the idea of being malcontent, ungrateful. But that's exactly what I was being. At the time of the phone conversation, though, I didn't have much chance to mull over my discontent - I had several patients who needed me, right then.

Here's where the fun, good stuff happens:

All of my patients were nice, undemanding. Well, one was drugged out and on a ventilator, but he was at least stable and resting comfortably, and the other two were very nice. One of them even shared his Heavenly Hash ice cream with me, and it was deee-licious.

My coworkers were, for the most part, in good spirits themselves. We laughed a lot. Plus, I got some more baby shower presents from them.

Later that evening, my charge nurse tells me that because of the low number of patients on the floor - it was an unusually slow and quiet night for a weekend night on a trauma floor - she had to send another nurse home. Would I like to go, she asked. Would I? Ding! I nodded gratefully and my uterus contracted in agreement. So I got to leave a few hours early, at 3am instead of 7am. Oh, blessed rest.

Driving home, I decided to forgo the air-conditioning - usually blasting in my face - and roll down the windows instead. It was a beautiful night, one of the aspects about living in Florida that actually make me thankful I live here, and we get a lot of these nights in the summertime. I went the long way home, avoiding the highway, and drove leisurely (and carefully) through the streets toward my house. The breezes were soft and cool, the humidity not so humid, and when I drove through neighborhood streets, I could smell the fragrant confederate jasmine blooming in the night air.

And then, I got to walk in my front door earlier than expected, without any roaches waiting to greet me, and get into bed and snuggle with my sleepy, warm husband, who was a little surprised but still happy to see me home so early. I was under the roof of the house we owned, the house where we are building a family, the house where we are surrounded by constant reminders of how loved and blessed we are.

Sinking off to sleep, I remembered all of these good things, and I smiled and whispered a grateful "thank you" to the One who made this all possible for me, and who showed me in a loving, fun, enjoyable way that perhaps I just needed a little change in my perception to see just how blessed I really am.

facing death and trying to live life

I've been away for some time now.

I figured I had to post something at some point, because perhaps one of you was getting worried that those cockroaches I've been fighting with all over my house had gotten the better of me, and perhaps carried me off to their underworld or else drove me completely, totally insane.

I'm here to say that I don't need cockroaches to drive me batty. The pregnancy hormones do that all on their own, thank you.

No, it's just been one of Those Weeks, I'm afraid. As I write this, I'm doing much better. My head feels clearer and I don't feel quite so emotionally volatile.

Last Wednesday night, I stood in a patient's room - not one of my assigned patients for the night, as it turned out - and felt like an absolute ninny while the entire staff swarmed around me, code cart bustling around and medical equipment flying, to save the patient who was quite blue and not really breathing. I had been one of the first to rush in there, but I froze, unsure of where to jump in, and by the time I figured it out, I was one of maybe 30 people in a rather cramped space, so I excused myself from the near-death experience to cover the 20+ patients on the floor not going into respiratory distress. I was shaken. All I could think was, what if that was MY patient? Would I have stood there like a fool then, too?

The next night, I went next door to our ICU to say good-bye to a patient who had spent months on our floor, fighting for his life, only to have a severe and profound allergic reaction during a procedure that might have aided in his recovery, had it turned out the way it should have. Instead, I came in just after midnight on a national holiday, all monitors reading a flat line, and said a final prayer to this man, still grossly swollen from the allergic reaction, still and calm, finally at rest after fighting his own failing body for so long. He wasn't that old, just in his early 60's. I thought about my own dad who was his same age (older by just a couple of years, actually). I thought about his wife, now a widow, and how she would never remember our nation's independence day the same again, or how she alone had to make the decision to let him go and turn off life support. I wondered if there was anything I could have done to make my nursing care kinder, more compassionate, while he'd been alive, ringing his call bell for me and wordlessly motioning that he'd like the channel changed on his TV while the respirator hummed without pause.

I had one rather uneventful nursing shift after that.

Then Thursday morning, just a couple of hours before I was set to hand off my patients to the day shift, one of my own patient's monitors starts to ding. A lot. His oxygen level is critically low. His heart rate is lethally erratic. He's not waking up, even when I shout in his ear and shake him. His orders read that he is a DNR patient, or "do not resuscitate", which means I don't rush to get the code cart, I don't hop on his bed to do chest compressions, I don't "bag" him and try to breathe for him. No, I just hold his hand, tell him he's not alone though I doubt he hears me, and hope I'm not forgetting to do something important or critical as I watch the numbers fall on the monitor over his head. I know the family was called, the supervising medical team summoned, a host of my coworkers brought in to witness, but I didn't do any of that. I went into the bathroom and cried my eyes out over a 93-year-old man who wasn't expected to last much longer, although several of my coworkers had assured me earlier that "no, I doubt he'll go tonight". I had another patient left to take care of, a sweet woman who was having some sharp chest pains, and I had to pull myself together enough to take care of her, too. I left work a few hours later completely numb.

Not too many hours later, after a fitful, unrestful attempt at sleep, Jason takes me to the Gulf Coast to try and celebrate our 3rd wedding anniversary. He'd spent more money on me than he should have on a beautiful seaside hotel room, complete with a whirlpool and plush bedding. He tried to take me out for a nice Italian dinner. He tried to say all the nice, comforting things a man says to his wife when she is having a hard time. He took me out for a nice breakfast the next morning, a meal we never eat out except on the most special of occasions, and again tried his best to encourage me.

Have you ever tried to have a romantic getaway to celebrate an anniversary with a person who alternates between uncontrollable sobbing, stony blank-stared silence, and nasty verbal barbs aimed at you?

Yeah. That's about how successful it was.

Even after my experiences at the hospital and the death of my patient being the culmination of a spectacularly hard week at work, I had earnestly hoped that our time away together would be just the balm I needed for my hurting heart. There's not too much that salty sea breezes and rolling ocean waves cannot cure, after all. But it wasn't enough. I was physically tired, emotionally spent, completely on edge, and rather uncomfortable with my ever-growing belly.

I just couldn't enjoy it and LET GO.

On the drive home after hardly seeing any beach, any cuddle time, any sweet moments, I'm suddenly hit with this huge wave of remorse over our ruined anniversary celebration. I did a mental rewind of the previous 24 hours and realized there was no possible moment of enjoyment for Jason at any point, except perhaps for the 30 minutes or so after breakfast that morning when he left me crumpled in the bed (at my adamant request), snarling nasty comments at him, and took a walk on the beach by himself. It was a really pretty morning, too.

I felt horrible about it. In many ways, I still do. Jason has told me, lovingly and gently, that it's okay, I don't need to apologize any more, that he loves me and is still blessed to be my husband. I still apologize. And I'm still racking my brain to figure out a way to make it up to him, to salvage this anniversary and make at least one sweet memory. I don't want to look back at this weekend and only remember how awful I felt, or worse, how awful I behaved toward the man I was meant to love on.

I'm going back to work tonight. Over my French toast yesterday morning, I cried tears and vowed that I just couldn't go back. But I know I have to, not just because I need the paycheck or that I don't need the hassle of quitting a job and all that entails, but because I know I'm called to be there. God calls us to some pretty daunting tasks sometimes, and He doesn't promise it will be easy, but He always promises to be there with us. I know He was there during all those nights at work, during the days inbetween, and during our time at the beach. I know He'll be there tonight. I don't know yet what awaits me at work, what kind of patients I'll have or how I'll respond, but I know I won't be alone.

the point when I become totally, completely irrational, scream uncontrollably, and require serious medication

This was not how I envisioned making my blogging comeback after a week's hiatus.

Early this morning, I'm lying in bed, thinking up some blog posting ideas that I'm fairly convinced will win me accolades, new readership, and possibly a free trip to BlogHer. I'm thinking I should write this brilliance down somewhere, before I forget everything. The brilliance must be recorded, you know.

And then all that brilliance? Thrown violently out of my head by a roach. Falling on my freakin' FACE.

On my face. In bed. My safe haven was violated, first thing in the morning.

He was large. He was very alive. He was FEARLESS.

My sanity is totally shattered, people.

I cannot tolerate but somewhat understand the concept of roaches in the kitchen. After all, the kitchen is where all the food is. The good stuff. The kitchen is where we sometimes leave dirty dishes and don't rinse them right away. (I know - condemnation is being heaped upon my head for admitting that.) The kitchen is the mecca of roach love: food in abundance, dark corners, moist areas courtesy of a slightly leaky dishwasher. What self-respecting bug would want to go anywhere else? What is there in a bedroom that is so appealing, except maybe to find yourself lost on the way to the kitchen?

But I'm now fairly convinced that my earlier declaration of victory was not only premature, but more like a taunt, a beckoning to the huge underground community of pestilence-spreading creatures to terrorize the living snot out of me. So they all got together in some sort of Roach Committee and elected one lucky soul, this kamikaze roach, to teach me a lesson. In my bed. My safe haven. VIOLATED.

It's been a good fifteen minutes since Kamikaze Roach was flung from my forehead, sprayed and shellacked by half a can of industrial-sized roach killing spray, and flushed down the toilet. I am still feeling the tiny scratches of roach limbs all over my body. I am still squarely in the middle of my bed, very very awake, looking around myself every 5 seconds to see if I am not alone anymore. I am having a very hard time NOT thinking about bugs crawling all over me again tonight, crawling all in my bed, crawling in my soon-to-be-born son's bassinet in the next room.

I am so disgusted, I can barely move. I certainly can't fall back asleep.

Internet, if there is anyone - ANYONE - out there who can get rid of these little creeps, I will sell my soul to them. No kidding. If I see one more bug, I think I will require restraining and intense, heavy sedation.