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:

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.

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?"

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.)

i so miss this show...

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.

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."

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.

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.

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!