It's all in the name

It isn't that difficult to change your name once you're married.  The only hard part is remembering all the various things your maiden name is attached to.  I've been married for a year and I thought I'd covered them all.  But apparently not.  My mom called me the other day and left a message on my phone... "The library just called and informed me your Oral History of WWII that you placed on hold is now available.  So you need to change your name and address with them so they won't call me anymore.  Oh, and why do you want a history on WWII?  Bye!"

At first I was confused.  Because for those of you who know me, I enjoy fictional, happy-ending stories.  Granted WWII had a happy ending in a general sense, but I still don't need to read about all the death and destruction.  Because real stories make me sad.  But fictional death and destruction?  I'm weirdly not as depressed by that, because I know it's make-believe.  But ONLY if there is a happy ending.  All of this to say, I also wanted to know why I was getting a book on WWII because I was pretty sure I hadn't wanted to.  Until I remembered, I had put a hold on WW...wait for it... Z.  As in Z is for Zombies. 

When I told my mother that was in fact the book I had placed on hold, not something on WWII, she was mildly disappointed.  "Here I thought you were being all intellectual and it's just one of your weird sci-fi books," she lamented.  But now I know how to survive a Zombie Apocalypse.  Need to go and start putting our house up on stilts now.

Rainbows and Marshmallows

Do you want to hear something gross?  This is invariably the start of my conversations about work, and almost always seem to happen at the dinner table.  It's not my fault that that's when my largest audience congregates.  And whatever response I get to that question, I always tell my story.  Like when I got mucous in my eye.  Or poop on my head.  Or pee on my shoes. Fun stories like that.  But finally my brother could stand it no longer.  "If you're going to talk about poop all the time, can you at least call it something else, like, I don't know, rainbows or marshmallows?"

So one time I stepped in a pile of rainbows that had slid off the edge of a patient's bed.  And then got marshmallows all over my shoes when someone missed the commode.  He's right, that does sound better.

Arachnophobia

       Spiders love me.  The feeling is most definitely not mutual.  In my old apartment, I didn't see them too much.  That's because they knew they would feel the wrath of "Julia the Spider-Killer!"  Okay, I need a better super-hero name.  But that is my super power, killing spiders.  Unless they're really big and hairy and my husband is home.  Then he gets to be my sidekick and kill them for me.  Hey, even sidekicks need the spotlight every now and then. 
   The worst experience ever of spider interaction was when I was waiting at the bus stop. I leaned my head against the bus stop shelter trying to catch a few more winks. Then, as I was boarding the bus I felt something wispy brushing my forehead. I thought it was a stray hair or my bangs and kinda brushed at it and the feeling went away. Then as I took my seat, in true horror movie style, I felt something crawling down the side of my face and down my neck. I looked down and there was a giant spider. Big and black and leggy and spidery. I had one of two options: 1) jump around in the bus screaming wildly saying "getitoffgetitoffgetitoff!" or 2) calmly brush the spider to the floor and stomp on it with my slayer skills. I went with option two because I wasn't interested in a trip to a mental institution that morning.
      However, spiders have yet to receive the message here in my new home that I am the ultimate spider slayer.  The day after we returned from our honeymoon a spider greeted me in the bathtub.  Hiya!  Dead, instantly.  Then I found one on the kitchen ceiling.  Ninja stealth chop!  It met it's demise. But wait, there's more!  My husband and I were reading before bed when movement caught my eye.  Another spider!  Crawling across my lap atop our bedspread.  I shouted "don't move!" to my husband who immediately jumped out of bed squealing like a little girl and I almost lost the spider.  But thanks to my spider killing instincts and years of intensive training with monks in a mountainous region far from civilization, I was able to keep tabs on it while I maneuvered it onto paper and then squished it in my mighty fist of justice!  So, if you ever find yourself in need of a spider killed, just call my name, I'll hear you.  And then I'll give you the number of the exterminator man.  Because just one super hero can't kill them all.

How to get blood off a hardwood floor

Apparently all it takes is some water and a little elbow grease.  Because when my plumber came stumbling up the stairs holding a bloody hand to an even bloodier face, that was the first...but fleeting, I swear... thought I had.  "Aaah blood! Dripping on my brand new floors! Aaaah!"  But then the compassionate, competent, calm nurse side of me came out and I grabbed some towels to help put pressure on his laceration, all the while asking pertinent questions such as: "are you dizzy/light headed?  What's your name?  How many fingers am I holding up? Etc.." He was feeling okay, so I put him in my car and drove him to the emergency room.  A few minutes and a little super glue later he was back to hooking up my sink while I scrubbed out all the blood.  With water from the toilet's water tank.  Now how do I get THAT out of a wood floor?

An ode to remodeling

To be read in the style of If you give a mouse a cookie. 

If you give a girl a microwave, she's going to want to put it over the oven.  And if you put the microwave over the oven, you're going to have to move all the cupboards over.  In order to move the cupboards over, the pantry has to go.  Once the pantry is gone, you will have to decide to build in a soffit where the pantry was, or just tear out all the soffits.  You tear out all the soffits, and then discover there are some wires and a pipe hiding in one side, along with some mold.  You partially rebuild the soffits you just tore out.  Since all the cupboards are hanging out in your garage, you might as well paint them and then rearrange them so you have more counter space.  And to make room for a dishwasher.  Which means you need new counter tops to fill in all the new counter space.  And if the cupboards and counter tops are new, well, then you might as well get a new floor that may or may not take twice as long as you originally thought to be put in place and finished.  Which means you have no sink for two months and end up doing dishes in the bathroom and rinsing raw chicken in the bathtub because you want to finally cook something in a crock pot instead of eating microwaved meals.  In fact, you vow once the kitchen is done, to never use a microwave again.   

Stubbornness

Working in a neuroscience intensive care unit, I saw lots of crazy things.  But it never ceases to amaze me how long people will let things go until they finally get checked out by a doctor.  For instance, there was a gentleman I cared for who had lost his hearing in his right ear at the age of thirty.  Inexplicably.  Suddenly.  Perfect time to get a medical exam, right?  Naaaah, it wasn't *that* debilitating.  He continued to live his life, got married, had some children.  Then one day he's like, huh, the right side of my face is all numb and tingly.  Oh well, it's probably nothing.  And continues to live his life.  But soon he's finding the right side of his face is starting to get all droopy, complete with drooling and slurred speech.  His wife suggests going to the doctor, but no, "hesh jusht phine."  Shortly thereafter he can't chew or swallow, so he starts pureeing his food.  He is MASHING up his food because otherwise he'll choke, and he STILL won't go to the doctor.  His family ends up kidnapping him and taking him anyway.  No lie.  A head CT shows a large, slow-growing auditory tumor.  It was so large it not only had severed his auditory nerve, but had been putting pressure on his facial nerves causing the recent difficulties.  It was so large that after a 16 hour surgery they still hadn't gotten it all, so the surgeons had to stop and come back another time.  So please, the next time you find yourself severely altering your behavior to compensate for a physical ailment, go to the hospital.  I think I'm going to go get my hip checked out now... 

Descriptive Descriptions

Have you ever read a book and wished it were less descriptive? Like this: She got into the bright blue sedan with chrome hubcaps that sparkled in the sunshine like giant sparkling diamonds and rubbed her hands along the braided leather steering wheel with sweaty palms that oozed all over the rough leather of that round steering wheel all in black. The black leather upholstery was sticky in the summer heat and she could feel the leather stitches holding the dull black leather together digging into the backs of her legs as she placed her well-heeled foot against the gas pedal that also happened to be black with tiny ridges for traction pressing against the sole of her shoe which was, did I mention, well-heeled?

Sure, some descriptions are nice, but sometimes I find myself skimming until I find the action or the dialogue. Now, does this mean that I am a lazy reader, or is the author too indulgent? Sometimes I feel bad for skimming because I'm sure the author went to a lot of trouble to craft a captivating paragraph and I read maybe one or two words of it just to get the gist. It's okay to tell me it was cold outside, but to devote an entire paragraph to say just exactly HOW cold it was?  It seems a little much. A sentence would do: it was so cold it hurt to breath and the moisture in her nose froze her nostrils together with every inhalation....aaaaaand end scene.

To keep or not to keep...

My husband is a keeper.  And in this instance I'm not referring to the fact that he's a great guy and I'd like to keep him around.  He is that, of course, but what I'm referring to is the keeping of stuff.  My husband keeps stuff.  And I, like any good opposites-attract story, am a discarder.  A thrower-awayer.  A declutterer, if you will.  In other words, I like to put things in the garbage.  For instance, a receipt from the year 2001 recording that epic purchase at Taco Bell probably doesn't need to hang around.  A to-do list from the mid twentieth century... if it didn't get done then, it ain't gonna get done now.  A used paper towel.  Pretty sure we won't be using that again.  So I throw it away.  It just feels so right to throw away scraps of paper, toss out old ice cream buckets, random bits of metal, instructions to a machine you no longer own.  I am a disposal.  A ravaging machine of destruction.  A tempest that cannot be stopped!  A whirlwind of whirliness!   You would think then, that I am a very organized, neat and tidy person.  But you would be erroneously engaged in such a thought pattern if that was what you were thinking.  Because as my family, former roommates and current husband would tell you, I'm really rather messy. 

Here is the important thing though.  I know where everything belongs.  So maybe my clothes are on the floor in a big messy pile.  But, I know which ones I should hang up, which ones go into the wash and which ones are just plain ugly and should be donated to Goodwill.  Maybe the kitchen sink is full of dirty dishes but I know where each one belongs, the exact spot on the shelf.  There is a dust ring there to prove it.   Sure I might not file that neatly arranged pile of papers on the desk, but the point is I know where each one SHOULD be placed, they each have a folder nicely labled and ready for them.  But there they sit.  And this fact of knowing the place for everything, skipping the part of everything in it's place, makes me feel organized, whether or not I truly am.  But any scrappy scrap of paper or object that has no place and no potential for any organized spot in our home gets tossed quicker than you can say "hey, I needed that receipt!". 

Eyeballs

Aren't her eyes pretty? They belong to my baby baby sister. (as opposed to just my baby sister. I have two of them you see.) I see these eyes all the time. Aw, you think, she must be at her parent's house frequently to see them all the time. Mind you, I am home quite often. But I see those eyes even oftener. Do they haunt me in my dreams? Do I see them every time I close my eyes? Nothing so fine sounding, I assure you. It's because she's a thief. Yup, a thief.
Anything that I own that is a recording device somehow, sometime, when my back is turned, when I least expect it, this little monkey scampers around the house taking pictures of her eyes. Then when I upload my pictures, or flip through my phone photos, or go through my ipod tracks I see a familiar eye looking unrepentantly up at me. Much the same when I confront those eyeballs in living color. I suppose she is right. Whenever I'm missing my baby baby sister, I have many opportunities to pull up a picture and gaze into her eyeballs.

Death

Life really isn't like a box of chocolates. Because even if you get a gross filling, at least the outside was sweet. The outside was covered in chocolate, so there was that moment of "this might possibly turn out okay" before the cherry cough syrupy center implodes in your mouth. Life is often unsweet from bitter beginning to bitter end. Sometimes I can't even wrap my mind around all the pain and all the suffering of this world. I see so much of it, yet I'm sure it's still just a small taste.
Why do people blow their heads off? We try to laugh about it at work, and tell our families the 'best' way to shoot yourself, if you're going to do it. But it's not funny. There is no 'best' way. It's just horrible. It's horrible for your soul, it's horrible for the people you leave behind, it's horrible for the people who take care of you until the final, inevitable end.
I didn't even know you, but I knew your family for a brief moment. I felt their sorrow, I felt their anger, I felt their resignation, I felt their despair, I felt their panic. And I watched you die. And now what's left? A hollow empty shell, I zip into a white bag. It's never like the movies, where the body is white and the mouth is closed. Your mouth hangs slack jawed, your skin yellowed. Your wife wants your mouth closed, but I can't even do that for her. Death has truly taken everything. Oh Death, where is your victory, where is your sting? It is here. Right here with a hopeless family, at the bitter end.

Boxcutter+Stupidity=Emergency Room

Many things happen by accident. Or as my mother would say, by stupidity. I think this might qualify. I'll tell the story, you be the judge.

It was a normal rainy afternoon, no threatening bolts of lightening hurtling from the sky as the gargoyle statues loom menacingly in the night. It was just kinda dreary, and I decided to do the fairly normal task of organizing my room. No stitching together a living creature from dead body parts with Igor lurching in the background. But stitches were to come.

In a flash of brilliance, I decided to fit a smaller drawer designed for jewelry into a larger drawer designed for my inconvenience. But the smaller drawer actually turned out to be 1/4 of an inch too tall. It was so frustrating to ALMOST be able to close the drawer, but not quite. I was tempted to howl at the moon it was so irritating. But since it was not night, there was no moon to howl at. So I contented myself with having another flash of brilliance. A box cutter! Of course! I can just cut the imposing 1/4 inch off the box and viola, problem solved.

And then the stupidity...er...accident happened. The box cutter decided it liked the taste of flesh much better and slipped right into my finger. Pulsating blood began to ooze everywhere. Being the level headed nurse that I am I quickly rinsed my finger in the kitchen sink, but making a big splattering mess in the process. And then I decided since I was all alone, it would be a good time to meet the neighbors.

"Hi, my name is Julia, I'm your neighbor, would you be able to take me to the emergency room?"

They were incredibly gracious, and I was kind enough not to bleed on their carpet. Four hours of emergency room waiting later, I was seen by a doctor who had his med-student stitch me up. Let's just say, seeing other people's blood for a living does not prepare you to see your own blood up close and personal. Or experience all the excruciating pain associated with it. Moral of the story, don't be stupid, especially when sharp blades are involved.

Independence

Well, now we can all see how good I am at keeping resolutions. Wasn't this a fun experiment? The pressure was building to keep telling funny, creative stories. But nothing funny or creative was happening in my life, all I could think of was sad things to write about. And who wants to read a sad blog? I know I don't. And so I left it. And now I'm back! And it's the 4th of July. A happy occasion, which I can write about. Unless you start thinking about all the bloodshed which transpired for Independence to come about. All the brothers and sons and fathers dying and all the sisters and mothers and wives grieving. I hear the sound of firework cannons blasting and my windows rattle, and all I can think of are families huddling in their homes, wondering with each blast if it was their family at the receiving end. Because a king wanted to rule a country across an ocean. When will all this death and dying and suffering and grief and loss end? When our true King returns, and calls us home. It can't come soon enough. And that my friends IS a happy thing to write about!

Time is money

Consider the following conversation:
"I need to go to the time machine first before we go."

"Um, okay Julia, you sci-fi weirdo."

"How is that weird? Or even science-fiction?"

"Time machines don't exist."

"Yes they do!"

"No they don't!"

"Then where else am I supposed to get my money from?"

"The bank?"

"Time machines are at the bank. You've never heard of one before?"

"Only from H.G. Wells."

"No, no, not TIME machine, TYME machine. You know, Take Your Money Everywhere?"

"Never heard of it."

After several phone calls to prove I wasn't off my rocker we finally did a drive by so the proof could be tangible. Because I do know time machines don't exist. But teleportation on the other hand... well, that's a different story.

Ewww

*WARNING: this post is bordering on the gross, read at your own risk*

Yesterday I dealt with a lot of snot. And I'm not trying to be poetic. There was nothing poetic about the thick and creamy ooze coming out of my poor patient's nose. And snot should not be thick and creamy. Only my Wendy's frosty should be described that way. It was also stringy and sticky. Like string cheese. Or taffy. And it was a lovely yellow color. Like puke. Or cream of broccoli soup. Which, incidentally, is what I had for lunch.

This is why I get in trouble with everyone I know. I can't help but describe the disgusting things I see and deal with, in vivid detail, because it's more fun that way. How am I supposed to help it if it always comes up during times food is present? It's because when it comes to food and bodily secretions, the analogies are endless. Think about it. I'm sure you could come up with a few. And now I'm going to eat some broccoli soup with side dish of string cheese and a frosty for dessert. But hold the puke please.

Worshiping

The ixthus. I have always liked this symbol. Not in a cool faddish type of way. But in thinking about it in the context of the historical church. How Christians were killed for worshiping together, and so developed this symbol to recognize one another safely. I can just imagine, going to the market place to pick up some fruit and seeing the fish symbol carved into the wood of the fruit stall. I meet the eyes of the stall-keeper with a knowing glance and outline the fish with my fingertip. He understands my meaning and gives an impercebtible nod. "We'll be discussing everlasting fruits at my house this evening, come and join us." Finally found, a place to worship, all through the simple image of a fish.

I have one on the back of my car, the outline of an ixthus. While I praise God for being able to openly worship Him, it is a good reminder to me of all my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ who are unable to do so. May they still have found ways to gather together and praise His name this past Easter weekend.

Tornado!

Whenever I'm stressed, or some big change is coming along, I dream about tornadoes. It's very predictable. The night before taking my nursing boards... cyclones galore filled my head. Last night was no exception.
I was driving down a deserted road. Roads are always deserted in dreams. I can hear the warning sirens. I see two funnel clouds behind me, meandering destructively close. I see two more starting to form in front of me. There's no way to avoid them all. I pull over on the side of the road, thinking I'll lie flat in the ditch. Then I spy a farm house. There are some children playing in the front yard and their pregnant mother is hanging laundry in the wind. Can't they see the impending doom?
I run over to warn them about the tornadoes, telling them to get to a cellar. Because of course, farm houses never have basements, but they do have cellars. I find out these dream people can only speak Spanish. I know even less Spanish as my dream self than I do as my real self. But the tornadoes are coming closer and speak for themselves. We rush to a cellar. The two little kids, the pregnant woman and myself squeeze in. We close the doors and I magically have a flashlight in my hands. We all crouch on the floor around the light. We hear the wind, feel it rattling the cellar doors and the ground. Then it feels like we're flying. I peer through some loose boards and we're definitely up in the air. But none of us are scared anymore, because as long as we stay in the cellar we'll be safe. And then I wake up. The thing is, I can't figure out what I'm stressed about this time.

Smiley-Face Saturday

Maybe the basketball was artfully placed... but the swing has always been there, with the ropes knotted just so. Happy Smiley-face Saturday!

Smiley-face Saturday

Some days, there isn't much to smile about. So all the more reason to have a Smiley-face Saturday! This is a picture my sister sent to me on my phone. She saw a pile of junk mail and sitting atop it a smile! They truly are everywhere when you start looking. Happy Smiley-Face Saturday!

Mighty to Save

Everyone needs compassion,

Love that's never failing;

Let mercy fall on me.

Everyone needs forgiveness,

The kindness of a Saviour;

The Hope of nations.

Saviour, He can move the mountains,My God is Mighty to save,

He is Mighty to save.

Forever, Author of salvation,He rose and conquered the grave,

Jesus conquered the grave.

So take me as You find me,

All my fears and failures,

Fill my life again.

I give my life to follow

Everything I believe in,

Now I surrender.

My Saviour, He can move the mountains,My God is Mighty to save,

He is Mighty to save.

Forever, Author of salvation,He rose and conquered the grave,

Jesus conquered the grave.

Shine your light and let the whole world see,

We're singing for the glory of the risen King...Jesus

My Saviour, He can move the mountains,My God is Mighty to save,

He is Mighty to save.

Forever, Author of salvation,He rose and conquered the grave,

Jesus conquered the grave!

written by Reuben Morgan and Ben Fielding from Hillsong Church

Pain

I can only say... too true... and I've always wondered how often patients feel this way when we ask them our ridiculous questions!