Needles

I hate needles. With a passion. The first time I went to Mongolia I had to get five different vaccinations. The last one made me pass out. Sharp pointy thing overload. I still donate blood, though the grimaces on my face makes the phlebotomist nervous. "Are you sure you’re okay?” and “Do you need some water?" and "Are you going to pass out on me?" is the final question they usually ask as I scrunch my eyes up and probably turn deathly pale. I can't help it. It's the fight or flight response in over-drive. However, I have no problem putting sharp pointy things in other people. Yet, I can definitely empathize with the look of panic that crosses my patient's face before I make the plunge into their skin.
Why all this sharp talk? Well, today I received the most beautiful TB skin test and flu vaccine ever. I was lucky number 300th poke, so this lady was a pro. I didn't feel a single thing. Usually when I get a TB skin test, I end up with a ginormous bruise on my forearm within a matter of minutes. This time... nothing. My deltoid usually aches for days on end after a flu shot. This time? Nothing! I'm as surprised as you are. I didn't even flinch. Maybe I’m conquering my fears after all. Or maybe I just need to be number 300 more often.

To market, to market...

I went to the farmer's market with my friend after work this morning. I love the farmer's market. It's what living in this semi-big city is all about. On every corner, you’ll see a different musician or street player, from a classical violin to bongos on a bench, trying to outplay each other, but creating a pleasant mixture of sound together. Among the noise floats the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon roles and the smell of earthy-ness from the various veggies and herbs in mouth-watering arrangements. Calls from vendors that were perfected in the days of Newsies also vie for attention. Food for the stomach: "get your warm, hot, spicy cheese bread over here, fresh from the oven!" and food for the soul: "get your peace, everlasting peace over here!"
I love this open market atmosphere and the good-natured heckling and banter you can eavesdrop on between booths. The one thing that's different in this open market than from other open markets around the world is that there are fixed prices. No haggling over how much you're going to pay for a pound of spinach. (Though you can pretty much be handed the I-swear-it's-safe-spinach free these days.) Don't get me wrong, the prices are more than reasonable, but sometimes it's fun to barter. Though I'm very much a softy, so I'm the sucker most vendors would pray for. It’s mostly just the remnants of Mongolia speaking now.
After walking around the square twice, I decided on some beef jerky, grape tomatoes, raspberries, sunflowers and these weird magenta flowers that look like coral from the ocean. I have no idea what they’re called, but I had to get them because they’re the coolest looking plants I’ve ever seen. I should also mention I got some green beans, green peppers, pears, apples and cheese curds. As you can see, I just randomly grabbed things that appealed to me. That’s my favorite type shopping, just spontaneous buys rather than an agenda. And the market is the perfect venue for that. Especially after working all night and everything begins to look blurry in the daylight. Now I’m off to eat some raspberries and cream. Well, raspberries and skim milk… but that’s almost the same… right?

Found

My journal that is. One word: yay! With my personal rantings, outpourings of angst and the odd dream or two, I'm sure if offered some interesting summer reading to the people who happened upon it. But as long as I never have to meet them, I'm totally okay with strangers reading (and most likely laughing about) my innermost thoughts. I had just resigned myself to never seeing my beloved book of candor again, and was starting afresh when my mom told me it had been discovered and was now racing its way in the mail to my house. Again: yay! Now I can write my most intense feelings into a book with a front and back cover, feel the pen flow across the page, and write about the more trivial things on my blog. Finally: yay!

Messed Up

I am completely messed up. Well, let me rephrase that, I am completely messed up sleep wise. But maybe I'm just completely messed up too. I wouldn't doubt it. Last night I had off from work, and usually it's no problem for me to stay awake all night and then sleep all day in order to prepare for work the next night. But last night I totally closed my eyes on the couch, knowing full well it would come to no good, and sure enough five in the morning rolls around and I wake up. Instead of prepearing for bed, like I should have been doing. So I'm messed up. Now it's one in the afternoon and I'm wide awake. Luckily I don't have to work until 11pm tonight, or 2300 in good 'ol military time. So there might be a moment or two for napping later this evening. I think I'm going to go and enjoy the sun, in the middle of the day, which is something I rarely get a chance to do. This might not be such a bad turn of affairs after all.

In light of previous post...

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"I can pass this guy."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

Sirens, Lights, Ticket!

Okay, before everyone starts cheering about this because, I, a well known speeder and escaper of tickets, finally got one, let me explain the inhumanity of it all. I'm not one bit repentant. Well, maybe a little. But definitely not a lot. All the other times I've been pulled over, if I HAD received a ticket, I would have nodded acceptance to my obvious guilt and taken it without a single iota of resentment. The police officers, in their graciousness, deemed me to either be
1. a learner from my mistakes
2. a nurse who should know better
3. a really sad, pathetic little girl, who needs to drive away fast before I get really annoyed with her crying
4. an offence worthy of a written warning only OR
5. to have such a good record, it would be a shame to mar it with a ticket.
Yup, I think that's all of them. But this time was different. This time I was not speeding. Technically. In my own opinion.
I was in a 55mph speed zone, I'll admit it. But I could SEE the 65mph speed sign in front of me. So I felt at liberty to increase my speed. And of course, RIGHT before I reach the 65mph sign, a police officer, just waiting for it's speeding prey, pounces like a chimpanzee on a cheeto. There was no pleasant banter, no small talk like I had grown accustomed to. It was all business. This was because he knew it was a cheap trick and wanted to get me out of there as soon as possible because he was so shamefaced. It was written in his every move. Or perhaps he just wanted to get back quickly to his same sneaky position and catch another unsuspecting bug in his venous fly trap.
I have my ticket, and I'll pay my dues, but there is no way I'll feel contrite about this one! Um...but it's made me a safer driver. And better observer for stationary squad cars.

Return

I'm back from Mongolia.
I'm not sure how I feel about that.
People ask me how my time was, and say it must have been so much fun. But that's not how I would describe it. It had its fun moments, but it definitely wasn't fun. It had its exhilarating moments, but I wouldn't fully describe it that way either. There were time-to-go-back-to-America moments, and I-wish-I-could-stay-here-forever moments. Emotionally grueling moments, physically trying moments. God ordained, Holy Spirit filled moments.
I try to explain these things to my family, my friends, my co-workers. It's like trying to describe a sunset to a blind person. You can tell them about all the brilliant shades of colors, but unless you actually see it, unless you are actually there, you will never fully understand the immense experience of it all. But of course, that will never keep me from trying to use all my descriptive ability to impress upon my audience how two weeks can have such a lasting impact on life.

Theological Talks

I'm back from working my "princess shift" a four hour filler shift from 7pm to 11pm. Don't ask me why I have to work this ridiculous period of time, I just suck it up and do it. But now I have a long empty, sleepless night stretching out before me and so I thought I'd bare my soul on my blog because I don't have my journal. Yes, I know I could start a new one, but I'm still holding out hope that it will be found in the near future. Hopefully. I hope. Really, really hope. A lot. A lot of hoping. Sniff.
Last night I had a very long talk with a fellow co-worker about my Christian beliefs. It was, in fact, a three-hour conversation. (It was a slow night, what can I say?) It provided the opportunity for basically everyone in the ICU to hear about my devotion to Christ. Our debate ranged everywhere, from creation vs. evolution to the divinely inspired word of God vs. a book written by a bunch of drunk men to heaven and hell vs. ascending into another plane of existence to God's sovereignty in suffering vs. happenstance to Predestination vs. Free Will, we're talking some very heavy issues here.
The majority of instances when I have these types of conversations I am always so afraid. Afraid of what other people will think of my stance, afraid of being shunned by friends, afraid of saying the wrong thing, afraid of not knowing what to say. Last night I was bold in my conversation, I was always able to answer his questions (not to his satisfaction of course) but it didn't matter. Scripture I had just read the other day was coming to me right when I needed it (albeit I discovered I miss-quoted once, after I rehashed the conversation out with my father.) But still, I'm not discouraged. Do I have it all together? Of course not. Can I convert someone with my own silver tongue? Of course not. But what I loved the most about this experience is that the reason I didn't care what anyone thought of me was because I was filled with an inexpressible joy for my Savior, and I wanted to tell him about it. It overflowed out of me! It was the most amazing thing... may it always be like this, that I would be forever emboldened to share the Good News of Great Joy to all who will listen, and to those who listen, Lord, help them believe!

Responsibilities

This is something I would most likely write about in my unrecovered journal which I'm still crying on the inside about, and venting on the outside about. Anyway, my parents have changed their will and made me their POA's and given me custody of any minors if they die. Even though I'm surrounded by death often, and I glory in death because it brings us face to face with our Savior, I still don't like to think about my parent's dying. And that I might have some say in that. All the time I see families torn because the person who is the POA wants to do one thing while people who don't have the final say in the decision making are trying to persuade the POA do something else. It's heart breaking for families. It's heart breaking to watch even. There are so many variables when it comes to keeping someone alive and when it's time to withdraw care. I know how my dad feels and I know how my mom feels but it's not always so cut and dry when you're faced with a real scenario. But, it is something useless to worry about, and it shows my lack of faith in Christ. I'm not saying it'll never happen, but these are choices I don't have to make on my own, Christ's strength and comfort will fortify me. I'm not being dismissive of the responsibility, or even fatalistic, but I know with great certainty that I don't need to worry about that bridge until I come to it. May "the peace of God which transcends all understanding guard my heart and my mind in Christ Jesus" Philippians 4:7.

Lost

No...not the tv show, but something very near and dear to me. My journal!! Sure blogging has it's moments, but the hand-written word can be so much more satisfying at times. Not that my handwriting is gorgeous or anything, or even legible for that matter (unless on legal documents;). But when I'm in a real rage, or despair, or any extreme mood, flying over paper with a pen is definitely more therapeutic than that tappity-tap of the keyboard. My poor, poor journal....sniff. It had so many personal stories in there, plus some of my best dreams were recorded there...it feels like I lost a little part of me. Or maybe a big part of me. I'm sure I'll get over it but for now I need to find a piece of paper to scrawl my angst across.

Symptoms

Just once I want the doctors to actually be concerned about what I am concerned about, when I am concerned about it. Last night my patient became tachypnic (pronounced "tah-kip-nic", a word that's more fun to use instead of "rapidly breathing") and tachycardic (also a superb replacement for a racing heart). Using these big medical terms I was sure would reach to the brain of the neurosurgeon. My mind is already rapidly racing (um..tachycerebral?) through all the possibilities (or differential diagnosis). PE? Mucous plug? MI? Well, as is always the case, the Doc comes to check my patient out and all of a sudden these symptoms resolve. I swear, this happens to me all the time!! So, because he didn't witness it then it's not a big deal. Well, when the team came to round in the morning I did describe my little episode (well, the pt's episode, not mine...I'm more professional than that. I had my episode at home.) These symptoms seemed to stump even the team, even while using their collective brain powers. Then tests were ordered just to rule out any of the aforementioned conditions. I am however glad it was stumping the MDs and not just myself. Is this trivial of me? Most likely, that's why I love medicine so much, so many mysteries...

Dreams...?

Now that it's daylight, I'm trying to figure out if what happened last night actually happened. This occurs occasionally while working the night shift...it's almost like you're in a surreal state with a foggy sense of reality. You're body is telling you over and over again you should be sleeping and dreaming, and so sometimes what happens over the night feels like a dream. I was sitting at my station, minding my own business, writing some numbers down, prioritizing for the rest of my shift. Then a fellow (male) co-worker comes up to me. I give him a glance and ask “what's up?” He says to me, "let me preclude this comment I'm about to make by saying it's not a come-on or anything." "ooookay" I respond, not quite sure what this is about.
"I have to tell you, you are absolutely gorgeous."
Ummm, even with the scaly skin, bags under my eyes and stylish scrubs?
"Well, thank you very much," I manage to get out. I would not have expected this comment from this particular co-worker. I'm a bit stunned.
"I wanted to tell you yesterday, I thought you should know." He walks away. Um...
"It's a good thing you started this conversation out the way you did, or I would've wondered," I quip, trying to make light of a situation that's very quickly making me feel very awkward. He laughs, I laugh and then no more is said about the matter.
Yet, it's amazing how a compliment like that can make you feel. I have to say I was flattered, a little creeped out, but still flattered. And my mom thinks I should curl my hair for work! Imagine the comments I might get then....

Cooking 101

Eggs are definitely an important part of a brownie recipe. Salt...you can most likely do without. Vanilla too, if you're really hard up. But eggs, well, eggs are very necessary. Otherwise you're left with something that is trying really hard to resemble brownies, but looks and tastes more like chocolate sand. And not very good chocolate sand either. So let this be a lesson to you all, if you're going to make brownies, and you're going to forget an ingredient, make sure it's not the eggs.

Skin

I think my skin is confused with my new schedule. Since I'm awake mostly when it's dark out, and winter is usually dark, my skin believes it is winter. And thus, my eczema is slowly turning me into the lizard lady. Seriously, I could be part of the freak show at the circus. I am a scaly beast. Normally, summer humidity soothes the skin, it's the dry winter that cracks the already dry parts and I start flaking my own snow everywhere. Now, both of my inner elbow creases, my temples, my right cheek (facial), the back of my neck, my left eyelid...all have scales. I was reading a book about these people who associated with dragons and because of that contact started growing scales themselves. That's how I feel. Except these aren't "bejeweled scales that glisten in the sun", these are white and flaky patches that shed in the sun. Time to crank out the thick as butter hand cream and slather it on. I will not let it get the best of me! Did I mention my hands are scaly and nasty too? There is no hope...

Silver Linings

Erg. I did not sleep very well today, it was too sunny, and people, who shall remain nameless, kept calling me...on purpose. (I can sense your gasps of astonishment, but it's true!) What’s even worse is by the time I get adjusted to the night routine again I'm going to have to switch back over to days. Ah well, such is life. Work was intense last night, or I should say this morning. My patient started emitting bright red blood from his OG tube, it completely freaked me out. Of course, I kept my calm and did the necessary things and everything turned out okay, but I always get scared around GI bleeds. Another one of my patients a while back had a massive GI bleed, dropped his pressures to 80/40 even with vasoactive drips. Pretty scary stuff. Emergent surgery and all that.
But the title of this entry is silver linings. So I should start with the good stuff. Emergent surgery guy is home with his family doing fine. My current patient was stable when I left, always good news. Now I must expose my materialistic side and admit the other silver lining is I made a mistake on my taxes but the IRS fixed it and I get a bigger tax return. Whoohoo!..ahem, I mean, that's nice. Also, I was able to get vacation days so I can go on my family's annual Door County excursion for five days. YAY! Finally, I'll be working straight nights for a straight month, which means an end to the flip-flopping for a time. Life may not always be good, but I'm fairly content at the moment.

Confession

I have a confession to make. I love to look inside people's cars and imagine what sort of lives are exhibited there. For instance, there is a silver car (I'm a girl, I don't pay attention to make and model) that parks next me in the parking garage. I had just pinpointed this person to be a hockey player slob. The bags of chips strewn across the front seat plus the mounds of hockey gear in the back gave it away. Then yesterday evening as I gave a cursory glance in the back end of his car I was confusingly surprised. Sheet music! What kind of hockey bum was this? Stacks of sheet music now served as a coating for the hockey gear. Was he transporting it as a favor? Or did my conception of him need to be radically reassessed? Yes, I do believe this is a musically talented hockey slob. So driver's beware. What you leave in your car may lead me to make assumptions about you, true or otherwise.

Encouragement

Finished with my griping, I was checking my e-mail and discovered a letter of encouragement from one of my dear friends. The beautiful thing about this letter is that I haven't spoken to her in awhile and so she hasn't heard my tirade of despondency, yet she wrote me this poem. It was just exactly what I needed to bolster my heart and remind me why I do what I do, to bring honor to the name of Christ and give Him the glory. To know Christ is everything! I only hope I am able to be an imitation of His love towards my patients and their families.
Here is the poem my friend wrote:

There once was a little frog,

who said "dear mommy, what is wrong?"

She replied, "my work is so very hard,

trying to hop along the yard,

chirping this never-ending song."


The little frog sat for a time,

pondering his mommy's ryme.

Then he cried,

"Mommy, I know what is making you so drawn!"


"You forget that we were put here,

by a Big Man who has a big ear.

And he likes listening to your song.

I think you should remember,

that his Great Son was born in December,

So don't stop singing your song."


"The Big Man will listen,

and his Son's eyes will glisten,

as they think of their great plan for us.

Please don't get so weary,

and do not be so query,

of your job here in this little yard."


"Remember that I'm here today,

to hug and listen and help you pray.

So do not be discouraged!

The Big man and his Son will help you through it.

This makes your tough job in our little yard,

not so very hard."

Discouragement

Work has been, in a word, depressing. Discouraging. Agonizing. Draining. Exhausting. Fatiguing. Emotional.
Okay, so that's more than one word. But this is how I've been feeling. I almost cried a couple times last night..or was it this morning? I don't know. There's been talk about withdrawing on one of my patients. This is distressing in and of itself. But to top it off, this person who has had extensive trauma is getting absolutely nothing for pain or comfort. Nothing. Yet all of his vital signs are exhibiting discomfort of the most serious kind. My sorrow quickly was turning into anger, yes the MD might have had his reasons for no pain medication, but I wholeheartedly disagree with him. So I called the good 'ol resident on call for the night and painted the picture of discomfort and demanded something...anything! I got my morphine and was able to give the poor patient some rest for the night, at least as far as his vital signs exhibited. It was just so tragic, it is so tragic, and unfair, and I felt and feel so powerless. What is the point of being a nurse if we can't advocate for our patients and get results?

Awakenings

Imagine this: everytime you as a service tech go to peddle your company's wares to a customer, said customer is in pajamas with bed head and the look of an angry bear awoken from hibernation. It's also 6:30pm. And you've come accross this twice. What would you be thinking about this customer? Well, since I've been this said customer twice, I certainly hope they jump to the correct conclusion of a person working hard during the night hours and thus sleeping 'til 6:30pm is a natural and correct occurance. Hopefully this is what the Charter communications guy is thinking. And hopefully he'll start coming at a more decent hour! Because 6:30pm for me is 6:30am for the rest of the world. Sheesh.

Wall and Art Showdown

I have conquered my fears of putting holes into walls. Blank walls everywhere rejoice! I will now fill you with art to make you laugh, to make you cry. Emote walls, emote! With screwdriver and hammer in hand and neat little anchor thingies the salesperson said would hold anything I had to throw...er...hang at them, I will conquer the blandness that has made up my apartment these eight long months. I would also like to inform the world that I have the gift of eyeballing. Yes, this technical term refers to the most extraordinary gift I have to visualize the potential hanging place of art and make it perfectly centered and astonishingly symmetrical with all it's surroundings. No need for applause, your silence speaks volumes. I will gladly lend you my gift of eyeballing if ever the need should arise. No empty wall is safe from me now!
Hung to date:
1) Very large ancient map
2) Iron scrollwork clock
Well, I didn't say all my blank wall space would be covered in one night. But I assure you, my walls are trembling in anticipation.

Telemarketing

I refuse to be sympathetic to these poor unfortunate souls. I was before, not so much anymore. I was called by my school's alumni association looking for pledges of devotion towards the university, by monetary expression. This Sophomore, or so he claimed to be, was good at what he did. I really hate hanging up on anybody, and I understand it's their job, but I wish I would have. I feel...used. Here is the strategy...

1) Bring up fond memories of your time at the university so you'll feel gratitude towards the institution
Telemarketer Joe: So ma'am, did you enjoy your time here?
Me: Yes, I did.
Telemarketer Joe: What was your favorite part?
Me: Finishing.
Telemarketer Joe: (nervous laughter) Oh, ha ha, being done, well, yes, good for you, ha ha, well I'm a Sophomore and my favorite parts are (insert long pre-printed list here)

2) Ask for a very large sum of money first, you’ll be more inclined to acquiesce to smaller sums by the laws of telemarketing endurance (they’re going on half dozen cups of coffee; they caught you just getting out of the shower).
Telemarketer Joe: Because of above fond memories, can I put you down for $500 so these memories can be shared for generations to come?
Me: Um, no. I feel I did my part with tuition.
Telemarketer Joe: Oh, ha ha, well, you know, we are not a state supported school and blah blah blah, can I put you down for $200?
Me: Still no. (I am perversely staying on the line to see how long this will continue)
Telemarketer Joe: (rattling right along) if you've been on campus lately you'll see all the fine renovation projects in progress, last year we raised 1.5 million dollars by contributions from faithful alumni like yourself, and most of this was made up of smaller gifts, can I put you down for $100?
Me: that's a smaller gift?
Telemarketer Joe: How 'bout 50$?
Me: I give you credit for being so persistent, but at this point in my life I really don't foresee myself giving anything to this organization, but thank you for the call. (I can smooth talk with the best of them)

At this point Telemarketer Joe knows I'm going to hang up on him, so he saves face by thanking me for my time and mentioning something about keeping the foundation in mind when I next get a big fat paycheck or something...he was talking so fast it was hard to make out. I looked at the clock, 20 whole minutes! That must've been a record for him, I know it was for me. The whole thing felt so insincere and underhanded, trying to be my friend for the nano-second I talk to you so I'll give you money. Honestly. Which is wasn't.

Ageism

Announcement: I, regardless of appearance, am truly 22 years of age. Yes, I have a four-year degree. Yes, I am a licensed nurse. Yes, I am qualified to take care of your loved one. Yes, I am sure I am not 15.
Most people say I'll be thankful I'm considered younger than I am when I get older. Well, to be perfectly honest, when families and patients look at me like I’m an unqualified Doogie Houser, I wish I had a couple of wrinkles on my face and a few gray hairs. It's not that they don't respect me, they do finally understand that I've been fully trained and equipped to be a professional nurse, and I eventually win them over with my excellent technique and skills, but that initial first impression is a tough hurdle to jump every time I enter a patient’s room. (Unless you're the pleasantly confused gentleman who is in love with me and thinks we should elope. I can deal with that sort of discrimination.) I suppose this is just a soapbox of mine and should stop being so sensitive, but it really does get trying sometimes. And there...I'm over it. I'm so mature for my age...

First Day....Night

Yesterday was my first twelve hour night shift ever, and my first any shift ever, where I worked all by myself. Filled with some Type A personality anxieties, I brought my gianormous lab book with me...just in case. Bring on the traumas! I was ready. Instead, I got a ventriculostomy with possible shunt on one side and sticky sputum on the other. Not altogether the most exciting experience in the world... but then I got to thinking. Your misfortune means my learning experience. Your tragedy means my exciting night shift. Er, please, bring on the sticky sputum! I never thought I'd be sitting on this side of the fence...I have so many competing emotions, it's exhausting sometimes.
To continue the night saga, both of my patient's had icky things growing in their central lines and were quickly yanked. Then came the interesting part of trying to draw nightly labs with no quick access. I'm afraid to say my phlebotomy skills have gone down the tubes (pardon the pun) since I switched to the ICU. It's so much easier to suck blood from an A-line; one forgets the rigors and techniques of poking. So, I get out my handy dandy butterfly needle…I love those things. They're so much neater than the other kind, they have "wings" you can hold onto and a pigtail already attached, so no messes. (Yes, these are actual medical terms used by trained medical professionals.) I even used bacteriostatic water to deaden the pain. Success? Nope. After an hour (I am not exaggerating) I prevailed upon the more experienced. It turns out the more experienced is just willing to poke the patient more times. No wonder their success rate is so high. Blood was drawn, labs were delivered, results computed in, and I left the fixing of the critical values to the next shift. Good luck hanging five supplements through one IV! I'm for bed...

Clocks

My bedroom clock, for some reason not wholly known to myself, is half an hour fast. This mysteriously happened one evening, maybe the power went out, I'm not really sure. But I have yet to set it back to the proper time. I feel it's a mental exercise for me and determines when I'm really awake because I have to look at a clock saying 5:52 am and mentally subtract 30min for the real time and know that I have extra minutes to sleep. It really can be quite difficult for the sleep addled brain but seems to do the trick of mentally preparing me for the day. Try it sometime; you'll know what I mean. And somehow when I lay in bed all day, like I did today, I can make excuses for myself when looking at the clock. Well, it *says* its 12:30, but I know it's only 12, so it's okay to lie here a little longer. It's amazing what the mind does to defend oneself. When I have days off like this it's so nice to just do...nothing. Well, I did re-read one of my most favorite books, so it wasn't nothing nothing, but pretty close. But now I've finally resigned myself to get out of bed and get my day started. I'm switching environments and will be doing nothing on my couch.

Sunrise

This morning as I was witnessing a spectacular sunrise with the rosy edges of dawn curling over the gleaming white dome of the capital building, I was struck by two thoughts. First, I should not have consumed that can of mountain dew, I will be awake forever. Second, while gazing upon the beauty of pink rays merging with the still midnight blue of the sky, was my heart set on the Creator who created it? And I actually wasn't even struck with this thought until driving home still dwelling on the beauty only an insane few who get up/stay up that early are privileged to view. Why did my heart not instantly leap for joy and in adoration of my Creator? Why did I not highly anticipate the even more glorious splendor of His majesty, in comparison to something he so wonderfully wrought? For, "the heavens tell of the glory of God. The skies display his marvelous craftsmanship. Day after day they continue to speak, night after night they make him known...the sun lives in the heavens where God placed it." Psalm 19:1-2. Oh Lord, "may the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer." Psalm 19:14.

Sleepless Days

After a week of night shifts, I've been having sleepless days. Don't get me wrong, when I stumble into bed at 8 in the morning I'm out like a light. It's waking up at 11 in the morning to beautiful sunlight streaming on my face and birds chirping out my window and everything in me saying I'm wasting the day! Get up! is when I find it hard to go back to sleep. I rejoiced on the few days when it was dark and rainy, everybody stays indoors when it's dark and rainy, so I didn't feel guilty for being in bed. Even when I've been up all night. And then there's the dreams. I always dream even when I'm sleeping regular hours, but there's something about sleeping during the day that makes the dreams more vivid. Or perhaps because I'm never very deeply asleep I can remember them with greater accuracy. And they're mostly about work, conversations with doctors, listening to lungs, giving medications, drawing blood. They're the kind of dreams you wonder if you really had... or maybe they happened sometime during that hazy night that was your work "day". The point of all this is... night shifts are not for me. I don't care how many people have told me I'll get used to it, used to living on diet coke and coffee, taking Benadryl to help you sleep at day, covering your windows with thick heavy material, eating lunch at three in the morning, becoming pale and sickly with lack of sunlight, asking your friends why they're going to bed already, it's only two in the morning. No, I don't think I'll get used to it. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to try.