names we threw out, vol. 1

I get the name question a lot these days, now that we know Jumping Bean is a boy. I think I've mentioned before that since both Jason and I were pretty convinced JB was a girl, hearing that JB was, in fact, a BOY left us speechless. In a good way - God has a lovely way of surprising and delighting us - but also in a "uh-what-do-we-name-him" way, too. We've not picked an name, but we have definitely decided which names we don't want to name our baby. So I thought I'd share some of the non-contenders in a little series. Here's #1:

JACOB

Initially, I loved the name Jacob. I know several very cool people, adult and child, who are named Jacob. But it's important to Jason and I to have a name that not only sounds nice but means something important to us, preferably with a great story behind it. The meaning of the name Jacob? "Supplanter". Uh. Okay. What's a supplanter?

Turns out that "supplanter" means "one who wrongfully or illegally seizes and holds the place of another". Also, "one who uses deceit and treachery to supersede another". In the Bible, Jacob "supplants" his brother Esau's twice, stealing his blessing and birthright, on direction from his mother Rebekah, who advises him to deceive and steal through trickery (fooling blind Isaac by smelling and dressing as Esau).

Huh. That didn't hold too well with us, particularly as this baby is long-awaited and has not "stolen" anyone else's place (Nor did his mother tell him to lie. Nuh-UH!). Now, God did bless Jacob greatly in spite of his misdeeds, but it's a long mouthful of an explanation whenever someone asks me or my son what his name means. And so, Jacob was out of the running.

No offense to any of the cool people we know named Jacob. They do not steal, and their moms are cool.

senora crankypants offers amends for her foo

I had no idea just how hormonal pregnancy would make me. In fact, I probably give all other pregnant women a bad name because of my behavior. I do get extra weepy at things, which is just kind of cute and amusing, I suppose. I do crave food, although not necessarily weird combinations - I've stuck with the classics, like my mom's Creamed Chipped Beef over toast. No, no, those things are all fine. It's the Crankypants hormone that got jacked up to a 10 when I decided to get knocked up. Witness the carnage:

My name has been and can be a target for song references, references that the singer finds so extremely funny and I find merely... annoying. I'll admit, I'm not as unlucky as some, but I can hardly recall any time in my life when I wasn't sung to about a red-headed orphan who hits the foster parent jackpot. Just when I thought I was safe, when the lil' orphan songs were dying out, I have a couple of people who I know who found a new song for me. I hate to even bring it up the new song, because it might inspire a new round of singing and irritation, but let's just say that the pop star who first penned the song is not a rough criminal (with a sparkly glove) but a smooth one. And if you know the song, you know where my name comes in. Repeatedly. So yes, a couple of coworkers latched on to this, and they sing it to me (individually) every time I see them. Repeatedly. It was a little funny at first, but then I got visibly tired of it, and everyone else around us - who also had to hear it repeatedly - started saying that it wasn't funny anymore, including one doctor who said, "Dude - that's kind of old, okay?". I asked when they would stop doing this, because it was annoying. No luck. One of them even told other people, "Oh, she hates it when we do that" with this huge goofy grin (????). I was driving to work Tuesday night, and the thought of another night at work listening to that one line of song, over and over, while the singer snickered in delight at my uncomfortable squirming, and I started to fume. And fume. And fume some more. I probably had smoke coming out of my ears when I got to work. Sure enough, not 10 minutes into my shift, there it comes. Right as I was getting report and realizing I had another crazy night of even crazier patients ahead of me. I stopped my coworker, on the verge of tears and red-faced, and told her to please, STOP already, before I get seriously mad. Because it wasn't funny anymore, I was tired of it and so was everyone else, and would she PLEASE go sing songs to other people about their names and not mine, because I just couldn't take it any more. She looked at me in total surprise, said that she had NO idea I was that bothered by it (????), and walked away. Oh dear. Civil coolness and a complete lack of interaction for the rest of the night. I was grateful to not have to hear that stupid song any more, but I don't really like pissing off coworkers, either, particularly not ones who can bench-press me ten times over. I had good intentions to calmly ask for no more singing... and somehow, my Nice Filter went right out the door. Ugh.

I wish I could say that was an isolated incident, but I'm pretty sure I could easily round up several other people who got the Preggo Foo out of nowhere from me. People who have NOT tried to make me uncomfortable, but who were just minding their own business (or worse, trying to be nice to me, like my husband was last night) and I went all Foo-ish on them for no reason. Why are you telling me how to drive? (Uh, so we don't crash, Anne.) Why are you interrupting me in my important work? (You're on Facebook. Again. Here's the home-cooked dinner you wanted.) Why are you BREATHING???? (My body makes me. Plus, I don't enjoy asphyxiation much.)

As a peace offering to everyone - because you all have witnessed it, surely - I give my mom's lovely Creamed Chipped Beef recipe. It's not a family original or particularly gourmet, but it's the kind of creamy, carby, stomach-filling stuff that shuts a crazy lady like me up when the Foo starts. Other people say it tastes good, too. We used to eat this a lot for breakfast when I was younger. It's pretty basic in composition, so there's endless options for variety and tinkering for those of you gourmands who like to add spices and new ingredients and stuff, so have fun. Here you go:

Creamed Chipped Beef
Serves 4-6 (depends on how hungry you are)

1 stick butter
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
4 cups milk (anything but skim works great)
2 egg yolks (optional)
2 - 2 oz pkgs sliced beef, chopped into small squares (I use Buddig - deli aisle, next to the hot dogs)
salt
pepper

Melt the butter in a pot over medium heat, then add in the flour, stirring constantly to make a roux. After about 2-3 minutes of stirring and bubbling, the roux will darken a little bit and take on a nuttier aroma - all the raw flour taste is now cooked out. Stirring constantly, add in your milk. Keep on medium heat, stirring frequently (be sure to get the sides/bottom), for another 3-5 minutes. Mixture will thicken. When at desired consistency (gravy-ish), take off the heat. If you want the protein and added richness, whisk in the two egg yolks - stir quickly so the egg doesn't "cook". Add in your chopped beef. Don't worry if the beef goes in clumpy - just keep stirring and it breaks up nicely. Salt and pepper to taste. This tastes really good served over sourdough toast, but it's also quite yummy on its own. For just me and Jason to eat this, I halve the recipe - works well.

Note: Buddig makes good sliced beef. They also make turkey, ham, honey ham, chicken, and corned beef. I have never tried this recipe with anything other than the sliced beef, but I imagine that any of those would be pretty good.

what's up doc

Just a snippet of one of my favorite movies, ever. Rent it sometime, and you'll see why Barbra Streisand was a great comedienne, why I love Madeline Kahn, and why you should never get into a car chase in San Francisco, particularly while standing up in the back of a black convertible.

love/hate, vol. 4: the-Monday-after edition

love: what an amazing success Easter at Eola was yesterday morning, and how we got the top news story on Fox 35 Orlando!

hate: it's not Easter any more. Also I did not eat one iota of chocolate. Also I did not get an Easter basket, even though I know I'm probably way too old to be upset over not getting one.


love: finding out a new secret about my husband - he's NEVER had an Easter basket in his life! Quel horreur!

hate: I only discovered this little tidbit very late in the afternoon yesterday, with all the good supermarkets closed for the holidays, and places like Walgreen's sold out of pretty much everything Easter.


love: I will have two special men in my life to make Easter baskets for next Easter time, and at least one of them is getting the biggest freakin' basket EVER, just to make up for the lost, basket-less years

hate: I have to wait a year to do this, and the smaller of the two "men"? Yeah. Probably will only have interest in an Easter basket if it is filled with bottles of breast milk, Cheerios, and Thomas the Tank Engine toys. And that's just one Easter basket too strange for this girl.


love: I am totally salivating over this recipe at Use Real Butter, and also smiling because the author uses the exact same "dip-ins" that I do

hate: it's only 6am. Damn.


love: I just got my first paycheck that has overtime pay on it, and I was delightfully shocked at how much money just one extra night shift can net a working girl!

hate: I still can't get the hang of balancing my schedule with Jason's. I had the entire day on Friday to spend with my man, and I ended up passing out at noon and snoozing for the majority of the daylight hours available, waking up just in time to send him off to bed, and then remaining wide-awake the rest of the night, watching bad infomercials and Rock of Love 2 marathons


love: getting my newest issue of Real Simple magazine and getting all pumped about spring cleaning and being environmentally good while doing so

hate: I got distracted by all the food recipes (gee, can you tell I'm pregnant? Any more food references, Anne?) and now just want to sit on my couch amidst the clutter and eat lots of fondue and only look at the pretty pictures of well-organized closets and energy-saving lightbulbs

more random stuff, but all glorious

This is going to be the most random, haphazard blog. If mental disorganization disturbs you, you might want to skip this post. (On second thought, you'd probably want to skip this blog full stop.) Let the chaos begin:

--Today was AWESOME. We had over 900 people pack into the seats at the downtown Lake Eola amphitheatre for Easter service. We had more than enough volunteers, a huge crew from Destiny Foundation handing all sorts of groceries, information, and helping hands. The weather was completely perfect: enough clouds to block any piercing sun rays, but no rain, hardly any wind, and mid 70's for temperature. The sound system was freaking incredible, and the worship team pulled off one of its best sets ever, though it felt so short in length! Mike delivered an incredible message of hope and redemption to a hungry, eager crowd, and so many people came to Christ that I don't think anyone on staff got an accurate count - dozens upon dozens. In short, it was an incredible morning. My darling husband was the Event Coordinator for the entire operation, from the planning stages through the final pieces of equipment loaded back into the rental truck, and I am so proud of all his hard work, I could burst. Every woman should be so lucky to be married to a guy like him. (But not ACTUALLY him, as he is already taken.)

--I won't "out" her, as I don't know if this news is widespread news among the people we know, but of all the people in the world that I would want to share the joy of pregnancy with, this person just e-mailed me and told me she is 13 weeks pregnant! Unfortunately, she lives about as far away from Florida as you can be and yet still technically in the same country, so most of our sharing has to be in letters, e-mails, and phone calls when we can coordinate between time zones and our crazy, busy schedules. But she is as much of a sister as I will ever have, and I am so, so happy for her, I could burst, too. It was such a great Easter weekend present to find out the good news.

--McDonald's makes the best french fries, period. I know there are a thousand reasons why we should never even venture to put such processed, gluttonous schlock into our bodies. I don't care. They tasted SO GOOD.

--On the left-hand side of the screen, you might notice a new section of links with my ongoing baby registry. Yes, I know I'm only 18-1/2 weeks along, and it might be too early to start thinking about these things with a late August due date. But at least one friend has already asked for my summer availability for a baby shower (her kindness brings tears to my eyes, even now) and since I've been using my registries as a way to bookmark products that have either been recommended to me or else appealed to me in some way, I figured I could go ahead and make them public. Some items can't be found in a traditional store, so they are listed separately. They range the gamut of prices and luxury - some things are total splurges, like the aden + anais muslin swaddling wraps, and I know there are several items in both of the store registries that are in the $1-$2 range. And then you've got costly necessities like car seats, and maybe one of the grandparents-to-be will go for that :-) Anyway, feel free to browse, even buy if you feel so led, and if I've left some item off that is a must-have, definitely let me know.

--I do have to say that although everything on my list is a "favorite", the one that stands out are g diapers - these are totally awesome. They're cloth, but not cloth diapers exclusively: they use these breathable liners that are flushable and completely biodegradable. I mean, your kid is still going to have butt explosions, so it's not like you never have to wash the cloth, but it's got the convenience of disposable diapers without the unnecessary landfill-filling. And as a former landfill employee (oh, my sordid past), I remember seeing miles upon miles of trash, piled high like true mountains, and the thought of contributing to that nasty landscape any more than I have to makes me completely ill. Plus, you have to admit these diapers are just completely adorable. The g diapers site even has a "shower gift": a starter pack, plus a bunch of packages of the liners. I would go so far as to say that if you bought this for me and my son, I would probably bake you sweet goodies, rub your feet, write a chart-topping song about you, and generally pay homage to you for years upon years to come.

--And finally... Happy Easter everyone! I wish you all the wondrous good news of Christ's love and sacrifice so that the world could be free.

as I wait for you

Last night, our worship team was rehearsing late into the night to prepare for our huge Easter service, Easter at Eola. It's a pretty big event, and we're all really pumped about it. For the first time in my life, I'm participating in Easter service, where our church will take over the downtown amphitheater and turn it into an outreach event like I've never seen before. We're partnering up with local service organizations to make Easter a true service for everyone, whether you have a million dollars in the bank or barely a penny to your name.

For the worship team, it's a huge opportunity. We have actual roadies and professional sound/lighting people coming in to work this event, and we have a stage like none we've ever played on. The sound, just from where we'll be standing, will likely knock our socks off, and that's not even the full scope and range of the sound the congregation will hear. It's going to be incredible. I think I'm going to feel like I was kidnapped by, like, U2, or something.

But if I can be a little transparent and vulnerable here... it's easy to get selfish. Rather, it's easy for me to get selfish. I think it would be almost a cop-out for me to say that Satan was attacking me last night because he knows that this weekend is going to be like nothing Orlando has ever seen - my behavior was really my own last night, I'm afraid. By all accounts, rehearsal went very well last night, the music sounded amazing, and everything came together the way it should. Except I just wasn't feeling it at all. That bothered me, being part of Holy Week, and being unable to focus on anything but myself. I was irritated. Bothered by little things. Hearing only mistakes, wrong notes, bad choices, instead of all the good things happening. Wanting to go home and sit on the couch because I was just that tired and over it all. Even during opening and closing prayer, I felt a million miles away from the excitement and anticipation of this weekend, and even farther away from the One I knew was right there with me.

Being part of such a highly-visible ministry, it's hard to know what to do with myself when I don't feel particularly worshipful, and yet I still am up on stage, being called to lead. My friend Kelly, also sharing the stage with me, has told me before that when it's not happening for her, she throws herself into it anyway, which, in the end, has the same effect of a depressed person forcing themselves to smile: before you know it, you're genuinely happy, you're worshiping, you're right there with Him. That didn't work last night, and it usually does work.

One of my favorite artists, Brooke Fraser, put it best in a song she wrote entitled "Faithful":

There's distance in the air and I cannot make it leave
I wave my arms' round about me and blow with all my might
I cannot sense you close, though I know you're always here
But the comfort of you near is what I long for

When I can't feel you, I have learned to reach out just the same
When I can't hear you, I know you still hear every word I pray
And I want you more than I want to live another day
And as I wait for you maybe I'm made more faithful

All the folly of the past, though I know it is undone
I still feel the guilty one, still trying to make it right
So I whisper soft your name, let it roll around my tongue,
Knowing you're the only one who knows me
You know me

Show me how I should live this
Show me where I should walk
I count this world as loss to me
You are all I want
You are all I want

Last night's experience made me realize how desperate I still am for Him, even after years of this journey together. I think the times I need Him most are exactly times like last night, when I'm so not feeling it and can't get into the worship mode no matter what I do, or even days like today, this rather atypical version of Good Friday, with the sun is shining, the breezes are soft, the temperature is perfect, I'm well-rested (score!), I'm feeling pretty great, and it would be so easy to forget the constancy of God, no matter what my mood is at that moment. This weekend is all about the elimination of distance, for me and for the entire world. Jesus died and rose from the cross so that the sins that kept us at a distance are forgiven, wiped clean, taken on by stronger shoulders and cast away. And remembering that, particularly in the moments where I put so much emphasis on "feeling" it and making that feeling the basis of my worship, makes me praise Him for being so much bigger than emotion, fickle as emotion is, and being so constant and so ever-present that even my worst moments of selfish pride, navel-gazing, and self-absorption cannot pull me away from Him. I may feel a million miles away from God, and yet He is right there with me. His promise holds true.

Come, Lord Jesus, come.

eating for two

I've had several times in my life where I've kept a food diary, usually as part of a class, school assignment, or in some effort to lose weight and eat better. It was always revealing, usually humbling, and sometimes highly amusing, highlighting my food cravings like a gigantic yellow Sharpie pen.

(Actually, I'd usually end up doctoring the diaries, especially if I was going to show them to someone, even more so if I was going to get a grade out of them. I knew how I was supposed to eat, but I just didn't, so I would spend ten or fifteen minutes creating the diet I knew I should have, with some carefully placed "indulgences" so that it didn't look like I'd fudged it. Consequently, I got great grades/remarks, earned the nutritional praise of whomever I was trying to impress, and never lost any weight.)

If I would have kept a diary of my food intake since the beginning of this pregnancy, I still think it would be revealing, humbling, probably sobering, and amusing still. Some things I have done right: I've not had one drop of alcohol, I've kept my caffeine intake to the bare minimum, and I have not eaten things like raw cookie dough or fresh sushi or tuna steaks or Brie even though I LOVE ALL THOSE FOODS. So I get an A+ for toxic food avoidance, right?

Other things... well, I don't know. I'll probably earn the ire of every mommy reading this (all, like, TWO of you) when I tell you that I have not been good about taking my prenatal vitamins. There. I said it. It's out there. They make me violently ill, even the fruity chewable Flintstone and the slightly tasty chocolatey chewable Viactiv ones. In fact, any pill makes me gag uncontrollably as I take it, makes me feel mildly nauseous right after I take it, and then makes me want to hurl exactly 45 minutes to one hour after I take it. This never happened before pregnancy - I always prided myself on my ability to swallow any pill, no matter how foul or big, with minimal fluids and no gag - but it's here now. I've heard every piece of advice and hint imaginable, including but not limited to: take it right before you go to sleep, take it on a full stomach, take it on an empty stomach, take it with applesauce, and the ever-popular "did-you-ask-the-doctor-for-something" question, followed quickly by the "is-there-anything-he/she-said-you-can-take" question? To the first question: YES, I HAVE ASKED. MANY TIMES. To the second question: NO, THERE IS NOT, as the existing anti-nausea medications out there are only in pill form, at least for those of us not hospitalized.

My friend Rachel tells me that preggy women tend to crave the nutrients their bodies need the most, so in addition to chewing on well-fortified cereals a lot (and occasionally torturing myself out of massive mommy guilt with the occasional prenatal vitamin and subsequent nausea), I've tried to listen to what I'm craving. At first, I tried to eat what I thought I should be eating, like a fresh salad. Except that a couple of hours after I had that salad, I entered the bathroom and didn't come out for a good 45 minutes. And kept visiting. Often. It might have been that particular salad, but it left a pretty strong aversion to anything green and leafy. After a few more attempts at meals like that, I threw my hands up and said FORGET IT. Clearly, my body is not liking what I am doing, so I'm going to eat what it is asking for.

What has it been asking for lately?

CHEESE.

You could have probably guessed that, given my recent rhapsodic post about the blue box and macaroni and cheese in general. Shortly after that, I purchased a loaf of honey oat bread AND a stack of white American cheese and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich. "Grilled" might be a loose term, as it was actually pan-fried in a cast-iron skillet with cooking spray and a little butter. But oh, was it good. And whenever Jason asks me what I would like for dinner and gives me possible suggestions, I always think, is there cheese somewhere in there? And generally, if the answer is yes, then it's for dinner. That food diary I mentioned earlier? It would show grilled cheeseburgers, grilled cheese, macaroni and cheese, some sort of pasta and marinara with cheese, and pizza (with cheese, of course) over the past 2-3 weeks.

My stomach has been happy with this arrangement. And there seems to be much truth to what Rachel told me, as I recently read that our baby's skeleton, previously made up of rubbery cartilage, is now busy turning into real bones over the last few weeks. You know, bones that need CALCIUM.

And the most unusual twist of this whole food saga? I weigh exactly the same now, at 18 weeks along, as I did before I got pregnant. All my clothes are mucho tight around the waist, the girls are growing like they are preparing to feed not one baby but the entire U.S. Armed Forces, and I am still the same weight. My face is thinner, confirmed not just by my own reflection in the mirror, but several comments from friends and family. I have not exercised (yes, another point of criticism - tsk away if you must). I have not tried to lose weight. I have eaten a LOT of cheese. And red meat. And assorted other foods that aren't low in fat. It's actually almost disturbing, except that I know it's only temporary, and in a few short months, I'll feel like the Goodyear blimp and waddle around, wishing for smaller days.

100 things about me: 15 more

Since I published my extensive, almost-exhaustive list of 100 things about myself, I have seen at least 4 other people I know do the same. Inspiring creativity and prose from others with my own excessive navel-gazing warms my heart and makes my toes tingle, folks. I encourage you to jump on the bandwagon, wherever your platform may be, whether it's your own blog, Facebook, MySpace, or e-mail. On second thought, don't do it on MySpace, 'cuz I deleted my account there and I won't be able to read yours and learn about you.

Writing the original 100 was a difficult task. Thinking of about 10 billion more things in the days that followed the posting was insanely easy, except that I mostly neglected to write many of them down, so now I'm trying to remember them all. And not remembering them quickly is probably a good thing, because I thought of 99% of them while I was driving, several were probably "I hate/detest/can't stand" comments about Orlando drivers and local traffic, and anyway, do you really want me to hold up a green light while I finish writing these things? I didn't think so, you impatient lot.

But y'all inspired me again, so here are some more things. It kept me from brooding about work for a good hour or so.

101. I would want Anne Hathaway to play me in a movie about my life.
102. I don't really look like Anne Hathaway, but I look a lot more like her than I do, say, Cameron Diaz, Julia Roberts, or Scarlett Johanssen.
103. There aren't many bad situations in my life that can't be made better by a good chicken parmigiana sub.
104. My favorite day of the week is Sunday. Sunday morning, to be specific.
105. I don't like watching American Idol.
106. I am on Facebook way too much.
107. 75% of my clothes are from Old Navy.
108. I read the obituaries almost every day, mostly to see if any former patients are listed.
109. I sometimes go to their funerals.
110. I'm most definitely a cat person.
111. I know what the word "pannus" means. It's not dirty.
112. If I've driven it at least once, I will always remember how to get from one location to another, no matter how much time has passed.
113. I love birthdays, and I still get excited about my birthday each year, even when I am at an age where most people I know wish that they were younger.
114. I also love getting gifts, and I'm not afraid to say it!
115. I am, unfortunately, really bad at remembering other peoples' birthdays.

doubting it all

Last night, I had a rough time of it at work. One of my younger patients had a very overprotective and overtired parent who chose my conversational moment with him to unleash his frustration. Yelled at me enough that I think I feigned calm for all of ten seconds until I could get out of his way, then ran into the bathroom and totally burst into tears. I have never grown that ability to shake things off like most of my coworkers have, the ability to not only not take moments like that personally, but to stay in the moment and turn it around to something lovely and positive. To add insult to injury, when the morning came, I had to tell the day nurse, back for another day with this patient and family, why the patient was no longer my patient: I'd had to switch with another night nurse who was more familiar with the patient and with whom the family was much more comfortable. I am telling this story with no small amount of wound-licking: I did all that I could and sweat bullets over this patient for the first few hours of my shift, and it was thrown back into my face like I didn't care. Right after recounting the story, I look over into the patient's room - and there is the parent. I know that there is quite a bit of whirring and buzzing and whooshing in patients' rooms already from all the various machines we use, and there are so many loud conversations going on at the nurse's station anyway, but I was still afraid he'd heard me, and now had yet more fuel for his fire. Ugh.

And sometimes, after yet another night of locking myself in the bathroom and crying my eyes out because of something that happened to me during my shift, I wonder if I've made the right choice. In a way, I can't even allow myself to think that, after all the hard work and BST (blood, sweat, tears) it took for me to get my nursing degree, as well as all the loans I've borrowed and the looming bills ahead. But I still wonder. A hermit's life looks so much more appealing after nights like these, when all hell breaks loose and you haven't even been at work for a full hour of the twelve you will work. I have prayed and tried and begged for years for a tougher skin, a more calloused set of emotions, and that just ain't happenin', folks. I will always be what my mom once termed "hypersensitive", which is terrific if you are a poet or some other reclusive type of artist, but not so great when you deal with injured people and their relatives, day in and day out. So many of my patients (and their families) are really wonderful and appreciative of the job I do, and I am grateful for them. Not ten minutes after I had made it out of the bathroom with red-rimmed eyes did another patient tell me how wonderful it was to have me as his nurse for the past several nights... and it almost made me cry again in gratitude. It's just the ones who think you don't care or didn't just spend the last hour practically neglecting your other, more stable patients to help their family member who become like a nasty scar you will never lose.

I'm sorry this post sounds like such a massively negative pity party. It is, really. I promise to come back soon with some more positive postings when I don't feel like burying my head in my pillow and crying.

oh, the irony

Recently, a very memorable, unforgettable patient was discharged from our trauma floor after "living" with us for quite some time. So that the HIPAA Gestapo do not come running after me with sharp objects, I won't disclose too many details about who this patient was or the sordid details of her very sordid injuries, except that they were not pretty and required many weeks of healing and grafts and stuff. And when I tell you that this patient was, quite possibly, the most challenging patient of my very short nursing career thus far, it still doesn't fully paint the picture, but anyone I work with will know EXACTLY who I am talking about. Because everyone I work with has been her nurse at some point, and knows very personally and intimately the struggle of caring for such a patient who grates on your last remaining nerve.

I was talking to a close friend about this patient (HIPAA, I was good! I promise!) and how drained I would be after just half a shift of caring for this patient. So she asks me to explain why this patient was so much more challenging than some of the other patients I've had. Well, I tell her, where do I begin? First, she cried ALL NIGHT LONG. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Without a break, without taking time to sleep. When awake, you could hear the cries all over the unit - you couldn't escape them. Secondly, she cried aloud about everything, and it was a constant struggle to keep her placated because her communication skills stunk. Was she cold? Hot? Hungry? Thirsty? And she needed help with EVERYTHING. Even the simplest of things, like pulling her sheets up or down, or changing the channel on her TV. She pooped and peed constantly. We were constantly wiping her backside, a process which made her cry even more and sometimes even pee and poop while we were cleaning her. Her nurse had to go in every five minutes. She was calm once you were in the room with her, but then began the cries again the moment you left. You couldn't get anything else done, like charting or taking care of your other patients, for more than a five minute stretch. I mean, how could ANYONE put up with this, day after day, night after night?

And when I am done telling my friend this story, I am genuinely frustrated in remembrance of the struggle. Somehow, my friend is shaking. Hard. Tears streaming down her cheeks. Biting her lip to keep from letting out a huge, raucous guffaw. Well, I'm pissed! How dare she laugh at me?

Then it hits me exactly why she's laughing, exactly why she is probably just waiting for August and the following months after that, excited to see just how well I'm going to adjust to motherhood after telling a story like this.