Clay

Sometimes I like to forget that my story is just a small part of God's big story.
I like to think that my story is the ONLY story, and God is just a part in it.
I like to tell the potter He should really shape me in a different way, because the current molding process is no fun and I don't like it.
And it's all about what I like.
And then, when I finally come to my senses, I'm so thankful He does things His way and when my story once again aligns with His big story I can truly become CONTENT.

NPR and Chocolate Chips

I was listening to NPR this evening. Not really because I'm interested in the current happenings of the world, I rely on Yahoo news for that. Seriously, NPR was discussing the recent Hudson river airplane crash (I bet seat belts made a big difference, by the way) and lo and behold it was on the front page of Yahoo news, with pictures and everything. Who says Yahoo isn't a reliable source of news?

So, maybe I wasn't itching for the news, but I was listening mainly for nostalgia's sake. My entire growing up life I remember waking to the "morning edition" music. Da da da da da da da da da da da da da da da! For those of you not familiar with the morning edition music tune, then all of those da's were completely random and useless. If you are familiar then please sing along. I know I did. I also remember listening to morning edition while eating a bowl of oatmeal. Not the pansy kind of cinnamon, spice, sugary oatmeal, but the real deal. The bland, tasteless real deal. Which is why my dad would let us stir in chocolate chips. FIFTEEN to be exact. Really, really exact. My dad was a wise man. He quickly learned children can spot a miscount in chocolate chips very quickly. Vitamins, no. Peas? Hardly! But if one sibling gets even ONE extra chocolate chip the offending parent will very quickly hear about it. So we each got FIFTEEN, our eagle eyes made sure of it.

While waiting for the oatmeal to come to its fruition we would line our chocolate chips like little teardrop soldiers around the edges of our bowls. Of course my brothers would make wailing cries of the fallen as they snipped each chocolate man into the boiling sludge. I wanted to be like my brothers very badly, but somehow my chocolate chips always seemed to make pretty melting chocolate patterns on the top of my oatmeal. Funny how listening to NPR can trigger childhood memories. And now I'm sorta craving some oatmeal. The REAL kind, with exactly FIFTEEN chocolate chips.

Stress

I found this post in my draft file. I think I was waiting to post this a little farther from the actual incident when my sister might be more inclined to think it funny rather than insulting. Hopefully now is the time, because here it is:

I work in a hospital. People die. This is stressful. Two weeks ago, two patients of mine died in two consecutive days. This was stressful.

My sister works in retail. People are rude. This is stressful. Last week, my sister says "I had such a hard day, it was so stressful." I reply, "Did someone die?" For some reason, my sister missed the humor in this.

Time-Space Continuum

I was out shopping yesterday. Stay with me, this is exciting. Or more like, a rare insight into my mind. Which can be exciting. So, I was out shopping. I was looking for a particular game, namely, the Game of Scattergories. (Terrific game, if you've never played it and you're looking for a terrific game to play.)

I stand looking at this massive wall of games. Floor to ceiling, every game ever made, from chutes & ladders to cranium, it's all there in it's glorious game delight. My eye's scroll up, they scroll down, left right. Where is the terrific Game of Scattergories? My mom is always telling me I don't look for things hard enough and can't expect them to just jump out at me. That's mainly when I'm looking for a pair of shoes I've left at their house. And then they're usually found underneath something and I was really only wandering around the house expecting them to jump out at me. I mean, they belong to my feet, so you'd think the shoes would want to be reunited. The whole jumping out thing makes perfect sense to me.

But remembering my mother's advice I crouch low and read each game title. I peer high, looking behind boxes of different games. Finally, finally, I must admit defeat. No games jumping out at me. My eyes aren't detecting anything. I ask for help from the red-shirted worker-helper man. He gets out his cool scanner ray gun.

"According to this, it should be right here." He says, pointing to a space not filled with the terrific Game of Scattergories, while gazing into the digitizing main frame. I'm totally having a Sci-fi moment. And I almost, ALMOST, say in return, "Maybe it's been lost in the time/space rift that is located at precisely this point. So it IS right here, but in a different dimension. Cue Twilight Zone: Doodoodoodoodoodoodoodoo..." but I refrain. No point in scaring the poor salesman. But maybe someday, when I least expect it, it WILL jump out at me from that alternate dimension...along with my missing sock.

Smiley-face Saturday

My baby sister is always helping my mom find hearts for her blog. So I ask her to help me find smiley faces for my blog. It's only fair, right? She grabs my hand and a pen, and before I know it, I have a smiley face for my blog.
Happy Smiley Face Saturday! :)

Fear of Bugs

Often when working in the medical profession one can get a case of hypochondria. I have a headache equals I have a brain tumor. My toe aches equals bone cancer. A sore throat automatically equals strep, and don't even get me started on chest pain. We love to diagnose our friends and family, and they are more than happy to share their aches and pains. It's a win win situation really. But sometimes, if you let it, it can start to fester and grow in your mind. A little bit like an infection. Which is the source of my post, an infection. And the source of the infection was my poor patient's urine. It was diagnosed with VRE. Vancomycin-resistant-enterococci. Say that ten times fast. That's why we in the medical world like to shorten everything into acronyms. Much more convenient. Anyway, VRE is an especially potent little bugger that likes to share it's defences with other bacteria. Kind of it, don't you think? I went to some websites to see the likelihood of someone exposed to VRE becoming a carrier or contracting the disease, like myself. Basically, the only documented cases of VRE have happened in a hospital. If you don't want to get VRE, don't go to a hospital. Well, that's lovely. Another website says to avoid contact with people who have VRE. That's rather a no-brainer, but thanks. Today, being my day off work, I keep thinking I'm feeling ill. I'm warm... do I have a fever? I feel a bit achy. My stomach feels queasy. Am I infected? Or is it all in my head? All this to say I'm a bit paranoid I'm a carrier and if I ever take antibiotics for anything it'll attack me. And one more thing, if you ever shake my hand, you might want to strongly consider washing yours quickly after.

Ice, treachery...doughnuts!

I was driving to church early this morning. There was a beautiful glazed doughnut look to the world as I made my way on the sandy sprinkled road. But it very quickly changed from a pastry world into a dark and treacherous vegetable world. The asphalt roads began to take on an eggplant sheen with no fun sprinkles in sight. Unlike my usual self, I was exercising caution and restraint by going UNDER the speed limit. Cue surprise gasps.

It played out like a horror movie. The oblivious driver, singing to happy-go-lucky tunes on the radio, as ominous music begins play. This is to let you know something ominous is about to happen. And then it did! My car swiveled out of control and hit the snow! Then my car made it's very own snow-car-angel and I was facing the wrong way in a ditch of frozen snow.

Here is where I began thanking God for many things. First, I wasn't dead or injured. Second, I hadn't hit the tree three feet away from me. Third, I wasn't wearing heels or flats or a skirt like I usually wear to church. Fourth, a kindly farmer in his big sturdy truck stopped about two minutes after the horror moment and was able to push me out of the ditch with the help of three teenagers also in a big sturdy truck. In fact, I think I was the only one not in a big sturdy truck who was braving the back roads. This should inform everyone of the intelligence of my decision. But I was soon on my way again and left the eggplant behind me and everything became spun sugar and sweetness again. The End.

Moral of the story: Don't eat eggplants.

Smiley-face Saturday

My mom takes pictures of hearts occurring in life every Thursday. I see smiley faces occurring in life everywhere. I now declare Saturday as smiley face picture day. :) Okay, so maybe it's a one eyed smiley face, but maybe that's because it's eye was poked out in a tragic accident as it saved a little girl from certain death! So don't stare, it's impolite. Poor, brave smiley.

Question

Why do Airplanes have seat belts but Buses don't? Think about it. Please fasten your seat belt as we prepare to plummet to the earth. The seat belt will save you from the impact. Riiiight. But buses, because they own the road, will NEVER get in an accident.

Any other ideas why this discrepancy exists?

Resolution

New Year's resolutions. You know, the ones you make sporadically as you start the ten minute count down: 10-9-I-vow-to-loose-ten-pounds-2-1... happy new year! Or the premeditated list of top ten things you WILL do this year that you had been planning to do last year but only managed to read a third of war and peace and then just gave the whole list up as lost. Speaking of which, LOST, I mean, not new years resolutions, but the show, I vow to not miss an episode this year. So I will actually understand whats going on. Like when they zoom up on a face and a look of significance is exchanged, and if you'd seen the previous episode you would've known why there was a look of significance and then you can scream at the television : "I knew it all along! Whuahhahahahah!"
Back to resolutions. I'm easily distracted. Maybe I vow to become more focused. Or go to bed on time before work. But I'm not doing that right now because of my actual resolution. Which, I almost forgot to do and the new day of the new year isn't even over yet. Sad. So here's to my chances of keeping this one: I vow to blog every single day. Excited, aren't you?

Tag, I'm it

SEVEN weird and crazy things about me, tagged by Veralee

7. I cry at Hallmark commercials

6. Ask me to name any song from any musical and I most likely can, and then I will sing it for you without being asked

5. I used to believe God made the wind blow with me when I sang

4. I get ear zits from my stethoscope

3. I've eaten a goat eyeball

2. I enjoy wound care

1. I sigh in my sleep

Digressions

I was riding home from work last night on the bus. Not an unusual occurrence, I know. The bus and I, we're good friends. We have an understanding, you see; it arrives on time, I arrive on time. But sometimes one of us doesn't hold true to our agreement. When that happens, I feel more like how a dog feels when it chases a car. You know you'll never catch it, but you simply must try. But I digress.

So, I was riding home from work last night on the bus. And two "gentlemen" were sitting behind me. I use the term "gentlemen" loosely because they didn't seem all that gentle and were certainly not men. They were more like rough hooligans. But I digress again.

Yes, last night, I was riding home on the bus, from work. And two rough hooligans were sitting behind me. They were, I might add, talking at the top of their lungs for the whole bus to hear, whether they wanted to or not. And trust me, no one wanted to listen to this conversation. I was privy to "hiding-pot-and-smoking-paraphernalia-from-the-police 101." I do not lie. Nor do I digress. So, if you're in the market for this type of information, see me after the show. And as a preview, I'll leave you with this little jem: dealers don't like when you pay with singles.

Needles and shaking hands don't mix

I see a worried mother, standing outside her daughter's hospital room. Tears are beginning to well from her lacrimal ducts. "What's wrong?" I ask, responding to the silent plea for help that is blasting across the open space of our ICU.
"That nurse is being needle happy with my daughters arm," she snaps at me.
I look into the room. It's one of our newer nurses. She's a good nurse with killer instincts, but like all of us, we have to practice on someone before our butterfly needles slip into veins with ease. It's so easy to take sides. Yes, I want to say, how dare that nurse poke your daughter so many times. You're tired and scared and helpless and all you can see is a nurse inflicting pain and it's too much. On the flip side, the poking is necessary, practice is necessary and only through it will experience be gained, making a good nurse a great nurse.

So I can't pick sides, I know both too well. Instead I say, "let me see how I can help." I walk into the room. The daughter is crying, the husband is crying, the mother is crying. The nurse looks up. "Could you please help me?" her eyes and her mouth ask me. I see now the purpose of the poking. Not for an IV, but we're aiming for the artery in the wrist to test the blood being pumped out from the heart rather than the blood returning. These are much harder and make me nervous. I feel a movie moment coming on, where all you can hear is the beating of my heart as four sets of eyes focus beseechingly on my face. The pressure is on. I gather my supplies. I take a deep breath to calm my racing heart. The pulse of the girl preparing to be poked matches my own. I clean the site.

This is no big deal, I've done this a million times before, I've never missed, I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. Somehow, having a traumatized audience watching over your shoulder makes all of those rationalizations fly out the window. My hands are visibly and uncontrollably shaking. Adrenaline is a weird thing. I'm sure the mom is freaking out at this point as she sees the shaking hands with the sharp pointy needle heading towards her daughters wrist. I hold the tip of the needle against the skin for a brief moment to steady my aim, then push through. "Oh fuuuuu....." is all I hear.

And then, bright red blood pulses steadily through my syringe. I feel euphoric, relief floods through me much like the blood is doing in the syringe. Funny the metaphors you find in a traumatic situation. The specimen is sent, I'm hailed as a hero and the rest of the day nothing can truly go wrong enough to take away that feeling.

Mother Duck vs. Crows

Nature is sometimes cruel. I was driving home this morning into my underground parking and I saw several crows circling above. Probably some dead squirrel carcass, I think, how gross. Instead I hear low pitched chirpings and see an anxious mother duck with her 12 ducklings trying to shield them all with her body. I almost started crying as I saw the crows hopping towards her. There was no way those fuzzy little ducklings were going to make it all the way to adulthood. And where was that absentee father to help out? I just wanted to scoop them all up and carry them to safety. I honked my horn and waved my hands at the crows like a madwoman but I only managed to scare the ducks. The crows just stared at me malevolently, biding their time. It made me really hate crows. And then I had to laugh at how I assign human, malicious feelings to animals. And then it made me really want Christ to return all the more so we don't have to see the evidence of sin even in creation. And then I cried.

To smoke or not to smoke...

The hospital where I work just became smoke free. No smoking in the hospital, around the hospital, under the hospital, above the hospital. All space occupied by the hospital, all property owned by the hospital, no cigarettes allowed. While some may rejoice in seeing the dingy little hovels where the clear paned glass had turned a lovely nicotine brown removed from the hospital premises, those who looked to them as a haven from hospital woes aren't as thrilled. But seriously, if you are a health care worker and you smoke, well, this little order won't stop you. Think about it, not only are you bombarded with education (we practically throw "quit smoking today!" packets at every patient that walks in the door) but you've also withstood seeing firsthand evidence of what smoking can do to you in the patients you care for. So, where there's a will there's a way, and I stumbled across the way this morning. Across the street from the hospital, there is a little grove of trees that screen you from the all seeing eyes of the hospital's many windows. And behind these scrawny little trees is a make-shift garbage bag ash tray with several hospital employees furtively inhaling and exhaling as quickly as possible before their shift begins. I catch an eye and the look is of sheer desperation, a silent plea to not report this misdemeanor. I won't, but maybe someday when they're my patient, I'll make sure they're educated on the perils of smoking. Because they must not know.

End Game

We stare at each other, gridlocked.
"Please let go, I don't want you to hurt yourself." I plead.
"Well, then stop hurting me." she retorts. I'm slowly prying her fingers one by one off of the arterial line. I look at all the tubes we have her hooked up to, the oxygen mask, her incisions. If I didn't know I was in the hospital, I guess I'd think everyone here was trying to hurt me too. As I'm filling with sympathy, her hand gripping my wrist lunges at me. I instinctively jerk back, but not in time to prevent getting two long scratches down my hand. I think I see some drops of blood pooling to the surface. My 72 year old, sweet-as-could-be patient, just drew blood! I manage to loosen the last of her fingers from the A-line and without loosening my grip I tie her arm down to the bed with a restraint. The next hand quickly follows, though I stay far out of reach from those dagger like nails. Once securely fastened, I ponder this paradox. I tell her we're not trying to hurt her, and now she's tied to the bed like a criminal. I have a feeling she's not going to trust me again. I go to call the doctor and scrub some Purell on my hands. The stinging I feel reminds me of the battle just fought. Well, score one for the 72 year old, I think.
___________________________________________________________________
Update: This patient was suffering from delirium, which is pretty common in older patients in the hospital, especially when medications and lack of sleep are involved. She is now doing fine but remembers our little adventure, and thankfully no longer thinks I'm trying to kill her.

When Patients Attack

"Help! Help!" My patient croaks from her freshly extubated throat.
"What's going on, what's wrong?" I ask my once perfectly sane patient.
She glares at me with all the menace she can muster.
"You know what's going on," she accuses.
"Where are we right now, {insert name here}?" I ask, wondering if this is the dreaded neuro status change.
"I know where we are right now, don't talk to me like I'm stupid."
"I don't think you're stupid {inserted name}, I just want to make sure your head is doing okay." Wrong choice of words.
"Well, that is not.... that is so rude to say my head is not okay. You are just not a very nice person. I want my lawyer. Now. And the police."
I try to smile reassuringly. "{name} you're in the hospital, you hurt your head, you don't need your lawyer."
"I don't trust you!" If looks could kill, I'd be in the morgue.
"Why don't you trust me?" I try to get a reasonable dialogue going again.
"You smile too much." She states, perturbed. I gulp down another grin.
"You can't hold me here against my will!" She starts to panic and I try to keep her from hurting herself as she becomes entangled in all the different tubes and wires we have her connected to. She grabs her arterial line in a vice like grip and I can just envision the bloody mess, not to mention dangerous blood loss, if she manages to pull that out. I grab her hand as she grabs my wrist with her other hand. For a 72 year old woman who's been laid up in a hospital bed for several days, she's surprisingly strong. And while I don't want to hurt her, I can see in her eyes she doesn't care one whit about hurting me. We are locked in place. If I pull, the A-line could go. If I let go, it's coming out anyway. Just as I'm hoping for some innocent passerby to see my predicament and help, my patient makes the first move. To be continued...

The business of dying

I see death often where I work. Not the grim reaper with his scythe and black cape. Less fantastical, but just as traumatic, watching someone take their last breath. Here is something I wrote awhile back after just such an experience...

Rasping breaths, the unmistakable sound of death slowly becoming victor, filled the quiet calm of the room. Loved ones gathered around united for a moment in the face of a common enemy, mortality. Every face showed signs of a different struggle, bitterness, anger, sadness and grief beyond words. You could almost here everyone counting the seconds between each breath, wondering which would be his last, half hoping the struggle would just end, yet pleading for one more breath. Just one more. We're not ready to let go, not yet, please.. quiet prayers lifted up to an unseen God. It never got easier, watching a family go through death. Old, young, expected or unexpected, it was never easy. A cold tear slipped down my cheek, I let it linger. It didn't matter if I was too emotionally involved, I wanted the family to know I grieved with them. How can I not hurt with families, when I already know what they are feeling all too keenly? A breath is exhaled. We wait... It's over.

Mortal Combat

A great and terrible war ravaged the country. Households were being torn apart as young men turned from their parent's ideals, creating enemies between Father and Son. Much blood was shed, with a perpetual call for more. As is the way with most wars, each side believed they were in the right, that God, the true God, was on their side. They would be rewarded in the end, if anyone was left alive to receive it. Yet, those dead and dying men were not hideous, faceless, monsters the "other-side" portrayed them to be. These men were fathers, brothers, sons, loved ones, dear to many. But who would let themselves stop to think on this? It was easier to kill a faceless monster. And still the battles raged on, children becoming fatherless, bothers brother-less and the wide-eyed hopeful lovers became despondent and bitter as news eventually came that their happy ending would never unfold. Unbeknownst to the masses, in spite of man's follies, God uses these mistakes of mortal man for His infinitely good purposes.

Bus rides and Bullets

I used to make up dreams when I was little. Shocking, isn't it? To be fair, my brothers would always have the most interesting dreams, and being the little sister, I had to try and keep pace with them. So I had to lie. Didn't I? Luckily I've outgrown that, I was only five you know. But now, whenever I have a real, legitimate dream, my WHOLE family quickly dismisses it to "Oh, look at Julia, isn't that cute, she's trying to be all imaginative and interesting again." Well people, it's time to put a stop to that! Especially because I do have the weirdest, vividest dreams ever, and it's a shame they're wasted on an audience of one. So, here's one I dredged up from the memory banks.

I'm waiting at a bus stop. I'm always waiting at bus stops in reality, so in dream-land it's rather predictable. It's a busy part of the day, lots of people milling around. I recognize a co-worker and wave hi. We board the bus together. A man, without a face, as dreams often go, boards behind us, and quickly pulls out a gun. I'm always the peacemaker in my dreams, I try to talk him out of whatever he's going to do. I even manage to share the gospel with him. It's all fairly tense. Then he fires and hits my co-worker. Now I go into "nurse mode." I start holding pressure and scream to the bus driver to head for the hospital. The faceless shooter disappears. Justice is not the focus of this dream. I continue holding pressure, but there's a lot of blood. I can feel it, warm and dark. It pulsates out of the wound, I'm sure it hit an artery. My co-worker is still talking to me, and I realize I don't know much about her, where her family is, who her family is. We just work together and we're pleasantly polite, it's never gone much deeper than that. I get personable now, because of course it's perfect timing, with my hands steeped in her blood. She has a daughter, and a grand baby. Now it will be much harder if she dies. We're at the hospital and I'm riding on top of a gurney with her, still holding pressure. Dream travel, I suppose. They tell me to keep holding pressure until they can get to the OR. Her daughter shows up with the baby, they're able to say goodbye. We're in the OR and I'm wearing scrubs and those weird seafoam-green surgical caps. They tell me I can let go now. I lift my hands up and all I can see is a bullet wound that's almost half healed over. I'm ushered out of the OR and the swinging doors close behind me. I know everything is going to be okay now. But my hands are still red and sticky, the adrenaline of the moment still pulsating through my arteries. I wake up with that same feeling. When I see my co-worker later that day, I tell her I saved her life. In my weird messed up dreams. Oddly, it's brought us closer... maybe someday she'll truly be saved, I only hope it won't involve bus rides and bullets.