The Perpetual Search for Personal Nirvana

Guilt

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 18:08:00 +0000

Why do I feel guilty when I want to do something for me? Why is it that I have to do one thousand other things before I can feel ability to do one thing that I want to do? Why is it that I have to feel that all the ducks are lined up in a complete row before it's okay for me to do something that I might want to do that is out of my ordinary routine or something that might put me in a "nirvana" state of mind?

I have grown so tired of looking for tools to do the things I need to do before I do the desired tasks. I have grown tired of looking for the shovel before I can shovel the shit to get it out of my way so I can do something; only to find that the shit I shoveled stinks and I have to wash that down with soap just to be in the same universe as the smell. I am not sure how much longer I can take being this "person" who fixes all wrongs and makes the world a better place to walk. I have grown very weary.

Lately, while I have been driving from here or there, I've been dreaming what it would be like to just take off and see where my gas tank will leave me stranded and then see how far it is I can go with just my feet. I have been dreaming about how just walking out into the spance of nowhere sounds so much better than being here to shovel shit and make it smell nice.

Will I dare venture out into the unknown or will I forever remain behind the door that is my home? What is both comforting and unsettling is that I know the answer before I even ask it. I shall remain home behind the door of home and settle for what this house dishes out because I know that the grass is rarely greener on the other side.

I keep thinking of a Bob Dylan line that tells me to "strengthen the things that remain." The things I have before me are truly the things that I love, they are my reason to continue to do what I do; they are even my reason for me to cry behind these words. I can't shake them, nor do I want to. What I want is time for me. Is that too much to ask or should I give unceasingly never asking for what I want? What is it I want? I want time. Time is something you take, it is not something given. "Take the Time." How can I take something that is not mine; is that not stealing? "Steal a few moments for yourself." Is that not a selfish thing to do?

For the first time in a long time I have stopped what I was doing and sat down to write what was on my mind NOW. I am tired. I am weary.

Por la amor de Rios

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 02:58:00 +0000

While at work today I had the opportunity to sit for about 30 minutes with a person I consider a good friend. In fact, she's the only one at work who really knows that I write this blog or even how passionate I am about writing in general. Our conversation started of in generalities as she told me about her sister and how she wishes she had an outlet like I have in my writing. It was just an off the cuff remark which led to other remarks which led to tears.

This woman was sharing something with me that was very personal to her. She was allowing me inside to feel something she carries that she hides from most everyone. I was touched, deeply and gratefully touched that this person would share something with me that was so intimate to her.

Nope, I'm not going to share it with all of you, but I will share my reaction. I wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her all would be okay, but unfortunately time marches on and things change as do we and the ones we love; so my words would have been a lie and I would never want to do that to her. I don't want our relationship to be so superficial that all I can say is "it will be okay."
I didn't know what to say to her, but I did understand, in my own way, what she was going through and how it impacts her life.

I will tell her now, in these words, that although life is not forever it is all that we have. If you could choose to spend one hour with those you love or an eternity with those you don't.....which would you choose?

Hey......that's not her job

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 15:29:00 +0000

I can't tell you how many times I've heard "hey, it's not my job," come out of the mouths of some employees. It was amusingly refreshing to hear, "hey, that's not her job," come out of the mouth of one of my fellow co-workers. I kind of shook my head to clear out the cobwebs to make sure I heard what I had heard. "So tell me, what exactly is her job?"

I grew up in the 50's and 60's in a Union household. My father was a strong union man along with my brothers. The men older than myself worked physically demanding jobs and come home with dirty faces and hands only to shower, enjoy their family and head out to work the next day to the same dirty job they toiled at the day before. They, like most of the men their age, had a very strong work ethic. My father was a firm believer in, "if you don't work, you don't eat." His union association, as was most union officials at that time, was to make the work environment more humane. "The unions did a wonderful thing back then," my father would tell me, "they made an 8 hour work day instead of a 12 or 16 hour work day. They made a 40 hour work week, they did a lot of good things. Now, the people want different things. They want a 12 hour work day so they can suck up overtime and put the rest of the country into unemployment."

My father, to a great extent was correct. The unions did some amazingly wonderful things. They allowed a worker to have security in a job, yet have a family life as well. Unions were good. Please, don't skim over the word "were" because it was placed exactly where I wanted it to be placed.

Having been a member of a union for several years, I chose to leave the union and go into a management position. My reason for leaving the union was not financial because trust me, I did not gain a great deal monetarily. My reason for leaving the union was not based on extra perks because I did not receive any. My reason was to improve the work place. That sounds like an oxymoron doesn't it, but it is the truth. What I see now is that the union protects workers who do not work. The union protects the employee who is habitually late or absent, who habitually talks on the phone, who habitually pawns off their work on others so they can sit and read the news in the newspaper. To top all things off, they union has developed this "brother/sister" kinship that implies that one cannot turn in a family member for less than productive behavior. The vicious cycle begins there because that, by the mere nature of the beast, makes the employees who are not "seeking the protection of the union" do more work.

Now, let's move in the direction of the non-productive employee who has all the bad habits mentioned previously; combine that with the productive employee who states, "I can't believe you [management] haven't fired him. He's always late and when he gets here the first thing he does is take a smoke break, eat lunch and call his friends." Let's investigate why he still works there. Well, he has a union that will not allow him to be terminated because of some misplaced loyalty. They are making sure he keeps his job and continues his ways and in the meantime YOU are picking up his slack. Don't thank management for that, thank your union. Management can have stacks upon stacks of unsatisfactory documentation on him, but the realization is that it will probably take at least a year or two to terminate an employee that is in the union. Of course, there are circumstances that are not negotiable like stealing (if you can catch him red-handed), HIPPA violation (if you can prove that it was him and not someone else who stole his password in an attempt to look up medical records) and of course if you are down right physically violent with another co-worker or patient (and of course that has to be witnessed as well). But, don't fear union workers, your brothers and sisters didn't see a thing when push comes to shove.

Whatever happened to a person's word? Whatever happened to the truth? Whatever happened to a good day's work for a good day's pay?

Hmmm...where did that post come from?

Truth

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 03:30:00 +0000

What is truth and how does one find out who is telling the truth in a sea of lies and deception? Can I believe what my eyes are seeing; or are they seeing a show put on for my benefit? Have some become so adept at their craft that the lie can seem be a truth in the presence of one and that same person revert back to the lies and treachery that surrounds them when one who has the power to discipline and judge is out of site?

The pendulum has swung full circle; those that I thought were telling the truth maybe indeed be the ones speaking lies. I watched as grown adults played their game with me; but not with each other. These adults spoke to me in the vein that I would believe their words but their words did not coincide with the picture I was seeing.

I have to stop and take inventory; but is taking inventory a judgement? I am in a position where I have to make a stand. I have to determine who is telling the truth and whose mouth is spewing lies; or are both parties mixing enough truth with enough lies to make them both believable?

A long time ago, in a science class far, far away (sorry Star Wars), I learned that matter changes if it is watched. Everybody knows they are being watched. It's no secret, I have not hidden the fact that things are going down in this department that I don't like. Have the people changed their behavior for my benefit? Yep, I think they have.

Here is my problem. Why can't the people who are in charge control what is happening? Why do I have to change shifts to identify a problem? Is there a reason that some are unwilling to approach a worker who is falling behind, or does everyone think we should all just get along by letting everyone do what they want.

Should I stay or should I go????

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Today, I read the post from Disappearing John, whom I love to read, that said he was leaving the blogosphere. From what I gather, and I don't even pretend to speak for John, is that he is fearful that his blog may ruffle the feathers of the powers that be and result in a termination via the HIPPA law.

How disheartening but he is right. By the mere fact that we are medical professionals, we are looked upon (or should I say "ready to be pounced upon") for breaking a HIPPA law. Without mentioning exact names, birthmarks, tattoos, piercings, etc... or changing the names to protect the innocent and not so innocent there is no possible way to distinguish one patient from another because, trust me, if you think you are working in a unique atmosphere, you are wrong.

I can understand if I said, "Joe Fufutyfey" came into the ER at "Oh my God" Hospital and gave an exact blow by blow detail of events, well hell, that's a no brainer; that's a no no. But, if I don't mention my name, the name of the hospital, the name of the patient, the exact sequence of events, and change a few things here and there that do not affect what is meant to be said, is there a problem?

I'd like to think that if a lay person were to read my blog, and saw themselves in that blog as....let's say.... a person who abuses the EMS system to get into the ER while the dying patient may be waiting in the lobby.... steps up and says... hey... I never thought of that, that might be a good thing. It might... (and that's a big word there, "might") change their behavior. The situation I just described is NOT unique to where I work but is a major problem across the nation.

There are other major problems as well. Let's talk about the patient who has a penile discharge but throws in, "oh yeah, I have chest pain too," to get himself to the back quicker. If you think it doesn't happen everywhere, you are so wrong. We could talk about every patient who comes into the ED with a child who is "bleeding to death" only to find that you can't find the cut. These are the patients that take time away from those who need our immediate attention.

I'm sure you've always heard it said that the squeaky wheels gets the attention. What about those patients that are too weak to squeak?

Okay, I've rambled enough. Just thought I'd vent.

Time Changes All Things

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 03:12:00 +0000

Eighteen months ago I took a new job and thought I'd be able to change the world. I thought that I knew what my fellow co-workers wanted and I could provide that for them and in doing so promote a better attitude toward patient care. I was excited and zealous. I thought my ideas, which were really their ideas would be welcomed with open arms and we'd sail off into the sunset forever at peace with each other.

Oh, how wrong I was. Each and every idea, change in the regular routine, change in procedure was met with great obstinacy. Eighteen months ago, I thought that if I wanted to invoke a change in the department, I'd have support because I was attempting to do the things that had come from their own lips. Twelve months ago I came to the realization that I'd have to do it alone or just quit trying to change things and recognize the obvious; that some people just want to bitch no matter what the situation. Many people are happier being the bearer of bad news or the town crier who constantly calls out, "It won't work....it won't work...it won't work." I chose the road where the top of my head hits the wall on a daily basis creating a headache and enough brain damage that enables me to carry on in my attempts to make the place I work a better place.

Six months ago I learned that if you are persistent and consistent that change is inevitable and, like me or not, you will know what to expect from me. In my humble opinion, in an effort to poke fun at my methods, one of the management team members made bracelets that said, "WWWD" meaning, "what would Woman do." I chuckled not because she was attempting to poke fun at me and I thought it was funny; but I laughed because something HAD changed and she saw it. She recognized that when I was at work, things ran differently than when she was it work. It a strange way it was both flattering and irritating.

This past week and a half, I have been training a person to be a part of the management team; a member of the shift that makes up little bracelets that say, "WWWD." He states he has many of the same ideas as I do, and I think he might, but I'll reserve all my comments until I've had time to evaluate more completely.

Today, while I sat at the desk watching the person I was training I overheard two of my co-workers talking. The one said to the other, "I like working with Woman, I wish she worked afternoon shift all the time." The other one replied, "Yeah, it is nice. I think it is because everyone is on their best behavior." The first worker then stated, "Hey, at least you know where she is coming from all the time; she doesn't make it a secret and she doesn't pick and choose who to say things to and who not to say things too. If she sees it, she says it. I like that."

Okay, I tried my best to eavesdrop more but I got busy and didn't get to hear the rest of the conversation but what I heard I liked. Here was a department that fought me tooth and nail 18 months ago and today "likes" working with me. I was humbled.

Just when I thought change had not occurred, I woke up and it was there. It was good.

Now, please don't think that everyone likes to work with me because they don't. In fact, before I started to train on afternoon shift a few of the day shift people who work some afternoons told me that the off shift was "dreading" my arrival. Hmm... maybe that speaks volumes too.

Packing a Lifetime

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 19:57:00 +0000

For weeks I've been picturing how I will re-decorate my youngest daughter's room when all her things are moved into her apartment. A scenario plays through my mind as to the color scheme or the wall hangings or what exactly do I want this room to reflect when I move some of my things in to make it my sanctuary. The room will be void of a bed and bedroom furniture so I'll have a lot of room to move things here and there until I am pleased with the placement of each thing I want to bring into this "domain." I've been excited about painting the walls and putting up new curtains, or blinds or whatever I want for quite some time.

Today I decided would be a good day to take the walk up the stairs to look around and try to put things into perspective. Since she's across the country at an international event, I thought I might even pack a few things to help her (and me) get started.

I opened the door to her room and scanned the scene. Yep, she has to be one of the messiest people I know; well at least when it comes to her room. I started to clear out the long dresser that is against the wall since I know that this particular dresser will be the start of a good bonfire when we get out our weenie roasting sticks to cook hot dogs on a cool fall night. I don't know why it surprised me to find most of her drawers empty since she's been moving for what seems like months. I took the remaining clothes from the drawers and folded them neatly and placed them on the chair.

I took in a deep breath as I looked around the room once again. I looked at the television, the Rock Band Drum set and two guitars, the amplifier that is attached to the Fender guitar, the name tag hanging over her mirror from last year's Comic Con Event and I felt the stuffiness begin to build in my sinuses as the tears started to flow down my cheeks. I tried to look passed those things and thoughts only to have my eyes rest on her stuffed animals in the corner of her room. I began to look intently at everything in her room; not one dust bunny escaped my eye. I looked from her diplomas that hung on the wall telling me she was an adult to the PlayStation 3 that told me she was still a child. Before I realized I had moved across the room to her dresser my fingers were gliding along her grandmother's laminated obituary notice that has not moved from her dresser since the day she received it almost 10 years ago.

I gingerly placed the obituary back onto the dresser as I remembered packing my mother's things into boxes after she died. I packed her things alone not even a month after she died because my father couldn't bear to look at her clothes hanging next to his for one more minute. I asked my sisters several times to help me pack her things, but they declined. They told me that since it was "my" dad that was having the problem dealing with my mother's death and having her things around, then I should be the one that did something about it. Not having the emotional strength to argue, I packed her things. I remember clearly opening 6 paper bags and writing the names of her children on the bags; each of us having our own bag. As I packed, I would think, "Mom and my oldest sister loved these things," so those types of things I would put into her bag; each bag filled with special things that I thought the child and parent shared. Her clothing was packed in boxes to give to the city's homeless or to others who could wear them. With each and every piece of clothing I packed her scent infiltrated my senses and permeated the room.

My youngest daughter came home from wherever she was and found me in my mother's room packing and crying. She sat on the bed and without a word she started to help me. I didn't have to tell her what the bags were for because she seemed to know instinctively. The silence was finally broken when she said, "These smell just like Grandma, nobody smelled like Grandma." I couldn't speak, all I could do was nod. She scooted across the bed to me and hugged me. We held each other for what seemed like hours and we cried.

Finally releasing myself from her grasp, or allowing her to be released from mine (I'm not sure which way it was) I tried to compose myself and wipe the tears from my eyes. After multiple fruitless attempts at trying to refrain myself from sobbing, I told my youngest daughter that we were done. I couldn't do it any more. I had to stop. My body was aching from trying to stop my shoulders from shuddering. I was emotionally exhausted.

Once again, I am emotionally exhausted. I stopped packing because I can't do it alone. I can't bring myself to put her things into boxes to carry across town to her new place. I should be happy but I'm not. I'm selfish. I want her here with me. Yes, today I am the baby and I'm not ashamed to say that I'm acting like a child. Maybe one day I'll grow up and be able to pack a lifetime into a box without crying; but it's pretty obvious that today is not that day.

Look at me, I'm a big girl now.

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sun, 07 Jun 2009 03:21:00 +0000

She was born on April Fool's Day; two full months before she was scheduled to arrive. Her tiny body was just a bit larger than my brother's hand as he held his precious package close to his heart. I can only imagine what was going through his head as he held his daughter close to him and looked over her small body complete with a feeding tube inserted into her nose to help give her added nutrition since her sucking abilities hadn't quite matured yet. Her mother, recently released from the hospital from giving her life was always close at hand. As any mother of a newborn child, she fretted; but I assume that her fear was far worse than that of a mother's who had delivered a full term child. I'm sure her parent's can tell you how long she was hospitalized but I can only tell you that since this precious package from God was born to two loving, caring nurses, the doctors felt comfortable releasing her into their care prior to her weighing 5 lbs.

Her parents, being the proactive people they are, notified the local EMS personnel that they were bringing their premature baby girl home complete with apnea monitor. They wanted the local EMS to be prepared just in case anything were to happen to her and the EMS, in their professionalism, brushed up on their Neonatal Advanced Cardiac Life Support "just in case."

Truthfully, if a stranger were to look at her they would probably whispered what an "ugly baby" she was due to her prematurity; but I thought she was absolutely gorgeous. She developed slowly, but not as slowly as one would imagine. The doctors were pretty confident that she would be fine but she may have some "developmental delays." In my mind that seemed only logical and to be expected; we prayed she wouldn't have any neurological problems.

On July 4th of the year she was born, we had a huge picnic in the back yard. Family from out of state were in attendance and the festivities were wonderful. When it became dusk, her parents made their apologies for going into their home early. Essentially they live in my back yard, but they needed to bring their 3 month daughter inside for apparent reasons.

Suddenly, I heard the shout of a man in desperation. My brother was calling to me as I was outside. "Help, she stopped breathing, help me." I ran into the house; my brother, who was naked and covered in soap was holding his lifeless child in arms giving her rescue breaths. I took my niece from his arms and saw that she was now breathing but having periods of apnea. 911 was called, my brother dried himself off and got dressed and I kept biting my niece to keep her stimulated to breath. Where was her mother? She was trying very hard to pull herself together as any mother would who had competent people around her to help her child. Later she told me that if she was alone she wouldn't have known what to do. I told her she would have sucked it up and did what she had to do until someone else could help her. I was and still am confident of that fact.

911 arrived and took immediate control. They were prepared....well prepared. God bless those men who took the parents of this premature infant seriously enough to brush up on whatever they needed to brush up on. Prehospital attention ran flawlessly; my brother rode in the squad while I drove my sister-in-law to the hospital. The squad called in to the hospital prior to arrival that they had a 3 month old pre-SIDS baby in route that was having periods of apnea and her heart rate was beginning to decrease at times. The squad arrived before my sister-in-law and I did and were filled with fear at what we might find.

We went right back to her room to find not one single person except my niece and my brother. He told me he had been triaged and used the words, "apnea, cyanotic, rescue breathing, painful stimuli to keep his daughter breathing" yet nobody was in the room. Nobody. Not a doctor, not a nurse, not even housekeeping with a bucket and a mop was in the room; just my brother and his seriously ill child. While my brother continually stimulated his daughter to keep her breathing, I went to the nurses station several times (being the pain in the ass that I can be) and told them that someone needed to get into that room immediately. This child needed some help and needed it now. "We'll get in there as soon as we can ma'am" I looked around and saw quite a few nurses charting and being an ED nurse myself, I understand that when it may look like the nurses are doing nothing, that in fact, they are doing something. I repeated that my niece had already stopped breathing several times since she has been here and nobody was in the room. Essentially I was blown off. I went back into the room and my brother hooked her up to the monitor, gave her some blow by oxygen and continued to stimulate her. I watched as her heart rate dropped from 160, to 150 to....80 and then I went back to the room in my full blown anger. "You get in that room right now, this child is dying!" They were just about to tell me that I was an idiot when they noticed the central monitor. "Who put that monitor on?" each nurse was asking the other as they all rose to go into the room. "Ummm...that would have been us who did that and thank God we did or you all would still be sitting here."A flurry of activity began. The doctor was called to the room stat and we were asked to leave the room. I started to back out of the room because I knew my niece was about to get the care she needed when I heard my brother's booming voice state, "The hell I'm leaving my child with you people. You have done nothing thus far and I'm here to make sure things get done." Of course security was called to take care of this unruly parent who was probably drunk because it was the holiday after all. The doctor went nose to nose to my brother yelling at him (which I'm sure was an attempt to see if he could smell alcohol on his breath) and my brother begged the doctor to hit him. "Please, hit me, just once." The nurses were taking care of my niece as I called up to the neonatal intensive care unit where my niece had just left the month before. I knew they couldn't do anything but I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't but a few minutes later that 3 of the NICU nurses showed up along with one of the NICU doctor. It seemed just there mere presence made things run a bit smoother and when the doctor showed up to explain to the ED staff exactly what this infant had just been through, things started to look up.

My niece finally was admitted to the PICU and placed on a ventilator where here condition was considered critical. I can't remember how long she stayed there but it seemed like a very long time. Her parents didn't leave her bedside until the day that my sister-in-law was told that her father was very ill and dying. Torn apart, she left her daughter's side and she and my brother went to see her father while one of the nurses (who was off duty) stayed with their daughter.

Yes, he did die and the days after that are fuzzy at best. My niece survived and ultimately came home to a loving and supportive family and the days, months and years after her hospitalization went on without a hitch for the most part until a week after her 9th birthday. She was diagnosed with Diabetes. I can't tell you how devastated her parents were and how often they were told, "it could be worse, she could have cancer or leukemia or something."

I learned a lot about diabetes that summer; more than I ever learned in nursing school. I relived all the complication that diabetes could deliver such as kidney failure, blindness, neuropathy, amputation of limbs not to mention that the mere fact that a person who is diagnosed with diabetes at a young age for the most part lives 20 years less than the average person.

With the help of her parents, my niece has come leaps and bounds in dealing with her disease. She knows more about diabetes than almost any nurse that I know; perhaps more than some doctor's know. She knows about basal rates and how to bolus insulin over a longer time period if the food should contain a higher amount of fact. She recognizes her symptoms of hypoglycemia and always carries her "equipment" with her in case of an insulin pump failure. She and her parents have had to fight uneducated people at amusement parks, wave pools, water slides, that her insulin pump is just as necessary as their pancreas, and if she has to remove her pump, then they have to remove their pancreas. To be honest, her parents have been very instrumental in educating schools, amusement parks and other places of interest about diabetes, the need to carry supplies and what an insulin pump is and how it works.

A week after her 18th birthday, she announced that she has been a diabetic half of her life. My heart sunk. To hear it put in that way hit me like a ton of brinks. I don't know why, but it did. I looked down at her wrist where she wears a yellow bracelet that simply states, "Insulin is not a cure." She is very feisty when the conversation turns to stem cell research and I'm sure that her thoughts and ideas are a direct result of the fact that she could benefit from this type of research.

Last week, she graduated high school. Her pump accompanied her to get her diploma and she doesn't seem to mind if others see the pump apparatus she must wear. It is part of her just like another arm or leg. I was so proud of her as she walked like a young woman across the stage to accept her diploma...........and today, we partied.

Yep, that's my niece!

Empty Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 00:49:00 +0000

Today I was pulled in many directions but my mind kept coming back to the man with the sad eyes slumped shoulders and the look of despair on his face. He admitted he was depressed, he admitted that he would like to go to sleep and never wake up. He informed me that life had become more of burden than he could bear. His eyes were sad but void. They were void of any emotion except utter dismay. I guess that's good to just have any emotion but this gentleman.....this gentle man was closing in on the end of his rope. I could see it in his demeanor, I could see it in his body language and I could almost feel the despair that radiated from his soul.

His mother brought in into the ED to be evaluated for his depression. He admitted that he wanted to end his life by any means that would be the quickest to do so. His mother constantly interrupted his speech giving me his answers that he would start to tell me but she would finish. I gently asked her to let him tell me what was going on when she promptly told me she was well equipped, even better than he was, to tell me what he was feeling. I looked at him and asked him if he felt that was true. He shrug his shoulders and nodded as he said, "I suppose so." He had no opinions that were his own, he had no feelings that were his own, he was totally dependant upon this woman who called himself his mother. His mother told me he has had a series of unfortunate incidents that have lead him to this depression. She told me he's been homeless, hasn't eaten and was generally not able to take care of himself. I couldn't help but notice the meticulous way she was dressed in a pink suit with her hair recently coiffured. She wore a stunning diamond broach along with small but very classy diamond stud earrings. Her nails were freshly manicured and her perfume was perfectly applied and not overpowering.

After I spoke with both of them, I explained at length what would occur in our efforts to get him the help he so desperately needed. I explained to both of them that he would have his belongings taken away from him for his own safety. I stated that if his mother stayed with him I would not have to lock him in a room to protect himself because he felt the strong desire to kill himself. I explained that he would be medically evaluated and then placed in an appropriate place that could help him adjust medications and give him some counseling.

As I stood to take him back to his room I made the assumption that his mother was going to stay with him. She moved toward me and said, in full earshot of the patient, I am not staying with him, you will have to lock his room. I have way too many things I have to do to stay in the hospital so long. You may call me if you need me. With that, she kissed her son on the top of his head and left.

Stoically, as if he were a dead man walking, he followed me to the padded room that he would remain in until proper placement could be provided.

This man has only left my thoughts fleetingly the entire day.

It's About Time

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 19:08:00 +0000

I can't believe it's been more than a month since I've written. The only excuse I have for not writting is because I just haven't made any time for myself. I've been busy helping my daughter get her practice up and running and I've been trying to settle into my job. The former is actually frustratingly fun; the latter has been trying to say the least. At every turn I am met with opposition. At first I thought my opposition would come from the "company" but they have embraced many of my ideas, it's my fellow co-workers that have given me the most trouble.

I thought I knew a lot about people, but this job has taught me that I don't really know anything at all. I've learned that people, for the most part, can't recognize the sign of the times. The hospital business, and it's just that, a business, are directed to make money. The bottom line in any business is the capital. Another part of business is not employing people that are not needed and that sometimes a reduction of staff is a necessary evil.

When our ED went to EMR, I saw the writting on wall that the department may not need 2 secretaries in the ED at all times; in fact, we could do with just one most of the time. I like these people, over the years many of them I have grown to care about in a way more than a work relationship. In thinking that, I developed a plan that would give the secretaries some more jobs since a lot of their job is not taken over electronically. I have tried to designate some jobs that used to be done by nursing to the secretaries; for instance, in the ED when we hold patients because there is no rooms available in the hospital, it has always been the nurse that made up slips of paper to remind herself of what needed to be done at what time, (IE: Labs, EKG, activity, tests, etc.) This is something that the secretaries on the floor do all the time. Do I think that doing that stuff is beneath me? Heaven's no! But it is something that can be given to the secretary to do which will give her another task that will attempt to keep her valuable to the department and give us some justification as to why we need the secretaries we have. THIS is he writting that they can not see; as if it is written with invisible ink.

Oh well, maybe it's just me being pessimistic. Perhaps they have a secure job; I don't know. I can't imagine learning how to do more things could possibly hurt...and it can only help.

"While others say don't hate nothing at all except hatred." Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 19:41:00 +0000

I guess I don't take advice well sometimes because there are things that I hate. More importantly, I think these things should be hated and spoken out against when the opportunity presents itself. No, we don't have to get on soap boxes to preach to be an advocate of what is right and stand up for things that are not right. Given time, every situation presents itself to teach and/or learn a lesson from. I'd like to share with you a few things I hate, and I will not apologize for hating them.

I hate: racism, discrimination, ridicule, and spousal abuse.
I hate that people hate fat people and ask to be moved to different seats just so they don't have to sit next to a fat person.
I hate that people defend others when they make fun of fat people because "they are fat because they are lazy."
I hate the people find racists jokes funny.
I hate that people laugh when they are told jokes about lesbians, faggots, or dykes.
I hate that as a people, some feel intimidated to stand up for what is right because they are afraid of being ridiculed by those that find it easy to find fault in others.
I hate that people feel at ease critizing others before they have walked a step in their shoes.
I hate that it is easier for people to be apathetic than compassionate.
I hate anti-semetic remarks.
I hate that people don't take personal offensive when others are being called Kikes, Niggers, Honkies, Faggots, Dykes, Beaners, Wet Backs, Dagos, WOPS, carpet munchers (just to name a few).
I hate that people are not color blind.
I hate that people take man's inhumanity to man as natural and not a thing to speak out against.

I really hate, that at one time or another, that I have probably been one of those haters that I just mentioned; and may God forgive me for that sin.

In reality, what Bob Dylan says in his lyrics "It's all right Ma, (I'm only bleeding) is true.

"If you could see my thoughts and my dreams, you'd probably put my head in a guillotine."

But it's all right Ma...............................ALL OF US ARE BLEEDING.

"While others say don't hate nothing at all except hatred."

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 19:25:00 +0000

It's all right Ma (I'm only bleeding)

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The handmade blade, the child's balloon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you know too soon
There is no sense in trying.

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words
Proves to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying.

Temptation's page flies out the door
You follow, find yourself at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover
That you'd just be
One more person crying.

So don't fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing.

As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don't hate nothing at all
Except hatred.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred.

While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred-dollar plates
Goodness hides behind its gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have
To stand naked.

An' though the rules of the road have been lodged
It's only people's games that you got to dodge
And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.

Advertising signs that con you
Into thinking you're the one
That can do what's never been done
That can win what's never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you.

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks
They really found you.

A question in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not fergit
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to.

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.

For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, their destinies
Speak jealously of them that are free
Do what they do just to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in.

While some on principles baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social clubs in drag disguise
Outsiders they can freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him.

While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the hole
That he's in.

But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone that lives in a vault
But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.

Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn't talk, it swears
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phony.

While them that defend what they cannot see
With a killer's pride, security
It blows the minds most bitterly
For them that think death's honesty
Won't fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes
Must get lonely.

My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walk upside-down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.

The Variety Column

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 22:53:00 +0000

Blogging makes me sane. Then why have I only blogged 3 times in the month of February? I must be insane.

Blogging releases tension. I have felt very tense in the last month. Could it be because I have not blogged as much as I should have been?

Some people are never wrong? I'm glad I'm not like them because I am always right so I don't have to worry about being wrong.

You know you've broken the color barrier when you have to stop and think if the person you are talking about is black, white, yellow, gold or purple.

You know you've lost your sense of humor when you don't find racist jokes amusing.

You know you have found your sense of humor when you tell the person who is telling an obviously racist joke that you just don't "get it" and laugh inwardly as they flop back and forth like a fish out of water as they try to explain the joke to you.

You know that you are not a religious person when you shake your head as other God-fearing church going religious saints tell sinners the exact reasons they are going to hell in a hand basket.

You know there is something a little different about some people when they do not rejoice at other people's misfortune, even if the other person has been less than kind to most people.

Maturity raises it's ugly head when you realize that some people would rather bitch at what is wrong than to try to be a part of what fixes a problem.

Some people are born to criticize; others are born to be criticized; and still others learn to take part in neither.

Some people rejoice and become physically excited from seeing others fail.

Some people search for happiness before they realize that they have moved in a complete circle and found the happiness they so desired standing before them.

Some children never grow up and some children grow up too soon.

Some children think that they are grown when they no longer need their parents; a grown child knows that they will always need their parents.

Some people are beautiful and some are ugly; the intelligent knows where the beauty and the ugliness truly reside.

Some people have made me cry; some people have hardened my heart. This is something I must work on.

God has kept all of my tears and will wash me clean with them.

Yes, I'm a sinner; no I am not a saint. I don't have to be; God did that for me when he died on the Cross and was victorious over sin and death. Thank goodness, because on my own, I can do no good thing.

Thank you for putting up with my ramblings for today.

Yesterday is Gone

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 23:36:00 +0000

There is a woman I work with who thrives strife and dissension. If need be, this woman will resort to lying. What gets the strife stated? Simply asking her to do her job. In some ways, I think I need to relive the incident that allowed her, for a brief moment to make me want to take her shoulders and shake her in an effort to jiggle the neurons in her brain to see if they would settle down to listen to something other than how correct she is and how management is out to "get her." Yep, in some ways I think she displays some paranoid tendencies, definitely some delusions of grandeur, but mostly a grandiose impression of her importance to life itself.

As a staff nurse, I thought had to tolerate her general nastiness because those in charge were afraid of her potential repercussions. They were afraid of having lies spread about them, or half truths along with the fact that if you didn't do as she felt you should do, things were not done in the manner in which they should have been done; in general making the nurses job more difficult.

I bet your thinking that this person is a doctor, or a nurse, or even a person of high importance. She is not. She is a secretary. Now, do I think being a secretary is a low life job? Absolutely not. A good secretary is worth double her weight in gold. A mean secretary or one that thinks her nastiness is good because she is irreplaceable is more like an albatross hanging from your neck.

I have been in my current position 1 year this month. In that one year I have been "taken to task" with the union because of her. Fortunately, most people know how she is and defending her is hard even for a Johnny Cockran type Union Rep. The first problem? Well, let's just say while one secretary was doing all the work, she spent her time going in and out of the department to have cigarettes and in between she had to speak with "all her men," which in reality are just lost souls that need something to do to look busy.

The second issue is much worse. She returned from medical leave. Her return to work slip had no restrictions. I told the two secretaries that stock needed to be put away. The "bad" secretary wasn't doing anything but sitting; the other secretary was busy scanning things into the computer system. Did I ask "bad" secretary to put away boxes? No, I didn't. I would have thought that two semi intelligent humans would have had the knowledge to let the post abdominal surgery (6 weeks post op) do the scanning while the other put stock away. Did it happen? No.

Shift change comes and bad secretary stays and another secretary arrives. "I want the stock put away. Secretary M. are you putting in orders?"

"Well no," she replied, but I'm setting up the day's call list. Bad secretary is talking to one of her men.

"Okay, bad secretary, you make the call list, Secretary M, you put away the stock."

Bad secretary says to me in the most pitiful of voices, "I can't lift anything because of my surgery."

Innocently, and I do mean innocently, I responded by saying, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you still were on light duty." She said she was told she could come back to work a full day. "What kind of restrictions did they put on your excuse?" She replied, "Well, none really."

"Hmmm," I said almost reactively.

The day went on and she began her harassment of me. "What kind of an RN would make someone who has had abdominal surgery lift boxes?" I just rolled my eyes out of her eye shot because that is the furthest thing from my mind. But she kept going and going much like the Duracell Bunny.

Finally the day ends and I am having a meeting with my boss and she walks in and says, "Do I need a light duty excuse or are you going to educate some of these RN's you have that you can't lift after abdominal pain? To be honest, I had to hang my head so she wouldn't see me smirking since my suggestion to put away stock was not towards her, it's just that I didn't mention a direct name initially.

Forward two days. Another secretary pulls me aside and says, "Did you tell the boss that I refused to put away stock?" My eyebrows raised with my response, "No." The secretary responded by saying, "Well bad secretary said you did." I sighed and said, "I'm sorry, I have grown weary of playing bad secretaries games and I will not discuss her any longer."

In the meantime, bad secretary has informed most of the department that they must choose sides, "if you talk to her, you will be my enemy." So mature! I went about my day as usual, asking bad secretary to do things as I needed them and she responded by doing as she was told, but still being her nasty self. About noon she follows me into the clean utility room and says,(complete with finger wagging in my face almost touching my nose,) "I can't believe what you have done. I don't respect you as a person, I don't respect you as a nurse, and I will have your job just like I got rid of that Jew doctor."

I calmly (which infuriated her) told her that she needed to drop this; she refused. I said, "this will be dropped now. I will not have an entire unit filled with patients and families watch you speak to me or anyone in this manner."

"Oh, I'm sure it's not," I commented, "because you leave nothing alone, not even when you know you are wrong. You make things up until you believe what you are saying is true," I said, but even when you believe it's true, and it's not, it's still a lie."

The day went on and she got....how should I say this.... "kinder and kinder" to me. I kept things on a professional level. I will treat her with courtesy; but trust will never lay between us again. I once considered her a work friend, "but that was yesterday, and yesterday is gone."

On My Mind.....

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 16:22:00 +0000

A few days ago I read in the newspaper that an 18 year old man (boy) with autism beat his mother to death using just his fists. I must have read the article 4 or 5 times because it was so disturbing. No where in the article did it mention where this child was on the spectrum and perhaps to most it doesn't matter. It mattered to me, but I am not privy to that information. The article mentioned that 30% of autistic children have violent tendencies; but they failed to mention where that data was documented so I could not research that part of the article.

The mother did not deny that her child had autism but apparently she did attempt to hide his tendencies toward violence. She admitted to a friend (or so the paper states) that she had to hide in a closet with her back to the door while her son would beat and kick the door in an attempt to get to her. The mother would tell her friend that the aggression was the only way he communicated, whether that emotion was happy, sad or angry. I'm assuming that the more angry the emotion the more physical he got, but that is MY assumption, not anything I read in the article.

The mother's friend told the news reporter that the loving bond that mother and son had was like no other. The communication they shared with their eyes and at times with touch was remarkable. The friend felt that this was the reason the mother chose to hide the aggression. The mother, without doubt, had unconditional love for her child.

It's been a few days since the appearance of the article, and I've looked and looked for additional information on the case but I can't find any. Is this a morbid curiosity that can't leave my mind alone? Why is it important that I know?

I can tell you why. Yes, I am extremely saddened at the death of this child's mother and what she must have endured at the hands of the son whom she loved. My prayers and thoughts go out to the family. But more than that, and God forgive me for thinking this way. I am sick to death as to what may happen to her son. He is 18 and for all practical purposes he is an adult who has "committed murder." Does it matter that when he was interrogated by police that he cried out for his mother wondering why she wasn't with him? Does it matter that he wanted and cried out to his mommy? Did it matter that he apparently had no concept of the finality of what had occurred?

My prayers are with Sky Walker, the son, the adult, the child who no longer has anyone that loves him with all his faults and sees past the faults. Will anyone love him unconditionally as his mother did?

I work with a physician who has a son who is autistic. Often times he comes to work looking tired with bruises and scratches on his body. When asked "what happened, where did you get the bruises?, he simply replies, "my son had a rough night." I don't ask him often anymore because I know where those marks come from.

I sit here selfishly begging to forget what I've read, yet others live with the reality of what I only read about on a daily basis. Shame on me.

Snowday Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 15:56:00 +0000

The snow is piled high on my deck; it's pure whiteness almost blinding me as I open the vertical blinds. The sun bounces off the snow crystals causing my eyes to squint against the brightness; slowly my eyes adjust to the brightness. It's a beautifully frigid Sunday morning. The snow against my sliding glass door must be at least 18 inches high. The snow on the deck is undisturbed. There are no footprints to mar the beauty. I love the snow; but I'm not so sure the snow loves me. As of late, it's icy coldness has crept deep within my bones making it harder and harder to warm myself after being out in the weather for even a short period of time.

My hands encircle my cup of hot tea as I look outside the deck doors. The cup warms my hands and the steam from the freshly brewed hot tea warms me as I hold it close to my lips. My home, being one of character and aged with time and love, has icicles hanging down from the roof. My lips curl up into a smile as I hear the words my mother used to say as I would find a stick and knock down the long icy stalactites, "Stop doing that! If one of those things falls on you it could kill you. My God child, what are you thinking?" I would stop knocking the icicles down until she couldn't see me anymore and then I would repeat the whole process until all the dangerous sharp icicles were removed from the house. What was I thinking? I was thinking I would live forever; that time had no authority over me.

As I grew older, I left the childish game of playing with the icicles behind me as my older brother began to see that I had value and worth and would allow me to play in the snow with him. We'd each build a fort in the snow that we could hide behind. His would be bigger and stronger, mine would be shorter and a tad more brittle. After the forts were built, we'd wage war on each other. I'd be able to get one good snowball throw in and it would land far from it's intended destination and then he'd move in for the kill. He's pummel me with snowball after snowball until I was covered with snow. At first I'd laugh but occasionally he wouldn't stop and I'd surrender and go in the house crying to my mother. She'd make me hot chocolate and life would be good again. Soon it would be time to wage war against my brother once more; completely forgetting how he had just annihilated me. Life was good.

Life marched on and my thoughts turned to sled riding. Oh, how I loved to sled ride. My dad would help me wax up the runners on my sled, he'd put a new rope on the front and oil it up to make sure I could steer it well. My mother would pack some hot chocolate and a roll of wax paper (to keep those blades coated) and I'd be off, dragging my little brother with me. Ugggh. Now I knew how my older brother felt except by the time my little brother was old enough to play with me, he was bigger than me and if things came to blows, he always won.

When I grew older and got my driver's licence and my father thought I was a good enough driver to drive in the snow; I'd pack up my little brother (who by now was the best thing since slided bread to me) and some of the neighbor kids and we'd go down to the lake and sled down the hill. We'd spend hours going up and down the hill. I don't remember whining that I was tired, my energy was endless and so was that of the people I was with. It was only time to go home when we "had" to; a pre-set time ordained by our parents. Geezz.

Years later I became a mother of two beautiful daughters. My husband, being a "southern man" didn't like the snow at all. He called it "the bitter cold from hell." Every once in a while I could coax him into going to the park with the girls to go sled riding, but more often than not it was just me and the girls, and whichever friend they could entice into going with us. The was one big difference when I would take the girls sled riding. There was a point after I walked up and down the steep hill that I grew tired and wanted to go home. The cold seemed to bite at my fingers and toes more than I remembered. The children would beg for "one last time" down the hill. I'd give in and then entice them with McDonald's. It always worked.

It seems that children don't do those kinds of things anymore. I don't see many snowmen being built and the sled hills that usually were filled with children are barren. I don't see any forts or snowball fights. Fun in the snow is done virtually via Nintendo, PlayStation or Wii. Who knows, maybe it's best not to feel the cold air against your skin or come into the house with your face all red.

The tea in my hands is almost gone. My thoughts return to the present as I look outside again. I turn to move towards the microwave to heat up the last bit of my tea thanking God that I don't have to go out into the cold today.

Crossing Barriers

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 23:26:00 +0000

Today, as I watched part of the inauguration on my lunch break I was asked a question that seemed odd to my ears, but I assume it is a normal and natural question to many. Today I was asked, "What would you say if your daughter married a black man?" My initial reply was, "Does this man have good morals?" The person asking the question laughed and said, "Be serious, how would you feel if your daughter married a black man."

I spoke openly and honestly. "If either of my daughters were involved with a person, whether that person was black, white, yellow, green, purple, male or female; and that person treated my daughter with respect and dignity and treated her well and brought joy and love into her life; I wouldn't have a problem with any of it."

Shocked of course the person said, "So you're telling me that you would have no problem having your daughter date a black woman?" I closed my eyes tightly ashamed as to what I was about to say, "Ok, I admit I'd have a problem with it but only because you have just proved to me that narrow mindedness and bigotry still run rampant in this country. The only problem I'd have with it is that I'd have to fear for my daughters life because of people like you." Then I brightened up just a bit and said, "Wait, you know what, I still wouldn't have a problem with it; I'd have a problem with you."

Is My Good Friend Sick?

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 21:03:00 +0000

She lifted her heavy winter coat off the hook and put one arm in the sleeve and then the other. She was so eager to go home. The work day had been particularly strenuous. She snatched her car keys out of her coat pocket and headed toward the time clock to punch out on time. Inwardly, she grinned knowing she would clock out on time but hadn't taken a break or a lunch. It had been 6 working days in a row that she had not been able to take a lunch or a break. She wondered if her staff saw that she made sure they got a break and a lunch, yet she seldom took one. She doubted that anyone noticed. In lieu of noticing, they called out her name with problem after problem that they thought she got paid "the big bucks" to fix. If anyone had actually seen her swipe her card through the time clock, they would have seen her shaking her head side to side. Today, was the first day since she took her new job that she had to fight back the tears to hide her frustration.

She pushed the door open and breathed deeply of the crisp air. The air always smelled so clean to her after working. She plodded through the snow and cold to her car. Unlocking the door, she plopped down into the drivers seat and closed the door quickly to the cold. She breathed heavily through pursed lips and watched as her breath mingled with the cold air and made a cloud in front of her. She rested her head on the steering wheel as she pushed the key into the ignition and engaged the engine.

The car purred as it started. She had wondered many times over the last 5 years if it wasn't time to be purchase a new car, but she didn't seem to be able to let this one go. She liked this car. It was 11 years old and ran wonderfully. The interior looked fine, there was no tears in the seats or floor boards. Yes, it was a bit dirty inside, but nothing that a good cleaning wouldn't cure, and it was winter and she wasn't about to do that now. Except for some paint from scrapping the side of the garage on the front bumper, the exterior of the car was flawless. There was not a speck of rust to be found. Yes, she did love this car and she really couldn't tell you why. The car handled nice, it was quiet, and the best of all, the car had absolutely no payments. Except for regular maintenance and some new tires she had never had any major repairs that cost her any money. In fact, she even got a new engine when the car had a 103,000 miles on it complements of a class action suit that was filed by some people down in the Bible belt for some sort of factory defect.

She pulled out of the parking lot and remembered the car's one flaw that was truly annoying; the windshield washer didn't work. It had quit working a few months ago just after she filled it with special windshield washer fluid. Oh well, she had a plan for that as well. Inside of her car, she kept a spray bottle of "Hot Energy" that melted ice and cleaned windows. The best of both worlds.

Her drive home generally took about 12 minutes. In that 12 minutes she always tried to clear her mind of all the negative emotions she took home with her from her job; today was more difficult than most. By the time she reached home; however, the days work had drifted from her mind as she pulled into her driveway.

The driveway was a little slick from being cleared with a snow blower. There was a thin layer of snow that laid on top of the driveway in a few places. Not much to worry about, but definitely something to keep in mind as the car rolled into the driveway and made it's turn towards the garage.

For several days now, my car has had to share it's garage space with a power saw so the back end of my car stuck out of the garage and the back window would ice up. Today, she thought it was a good day to move the power saw back so she could pull into the garage fully. The task was an easy one. She left the car running, opened the door and went to the saw and gave it a little move towards the back of the garage. The task only took moments and then she was back into the car pulling it fully into the garage.

She took in deep breath and lowered her head giving thanks to God that she had survived another day at work without making any life altering mistakes. She was proud of what she did for a living, yet at the same time knew that she held the balance of so many people's lives in her hands. The thought was both humbling and scary.

She put the car in park and turned off the ignition, but something wasn't quite right. From somewhere in the car she heard a ticking. A constant tick....tick....tick.... She looked around to see where it was coming from before she realized that it was the dashboard lights of her car that were flickering on and off with the ticking. She opened the door to see if the ticking would stop, but it didn't; nor did the flickering dashboard. Starting the car back up again, she engaged the transmission and then replaced the gear shift into park. The ticking continued. She opened the door, shut the car off completely and still the dashboard lights flickered. "What the heck is going on here?" she thought as she tried ever maneuver to get the ticking and the dashboard lights to stop. Finally, with a hard push of the gearshift into park the ticking stopped.

Of course she couldn't let it end there. She had to attempt to re-produce the problem, which was immediately re-produceable. Once again she went through the sequence of starting the car, stopping the car, turning the lights on, turning the lights off, opening the door, closing the door and then pushing the gearshift into place. After awhile the car behaved normally.

She got out of the car and looked at the car she had praised only 12 minutes before. She couldn't help but laugh in spite of herself.

She closed the door, made sure all of the lights in the car were off and left the garage to enter the house. Immediately she was greeted with a flurry of kisses from the 3 things that always gave her unconditional love: her dogs! It doesn't get much better than to be mauled with love and affection by three living things that don't care if you stick, if you've had a bad day, or if your car is on the blink. They love you....and that's it!

Reflecting on the New Nurse

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 00:06:00 +0000

New nurses are so young, or am I just getting that much older? They have the look of youth wearing the latest hair styles and lack the lines around the mouth and eyes that I've obtained through the years. The biggest physical difference between the young new nurse and me is our hands. My face may not show the age (or some kind souls tell me), but my hands belie the years I have spend caring for the patients who seek help from me. They are more wrinkled than I'd like and if I momentarily lay them down neck to a new nurse, the lines and age are show quickly in my hands.

I can live with the physical differences. My hands show my maturity and and I have used them to the best of my ability. What bothers me most about the many new nurses, not all, but many, is the lack of compassion and the attitude of "your bothering me kid" that I see in so many new nurses starting their career. I might expect that from a nurse who has been at the bedside for 20 years, but not from a nurse who should be wide eyed and full of compassion. When did this change? When did the nurse become the aggressor towards the patient? When did the lack of common decency lose it's ability to reign supreme?

As a new nurse, I would never have thought to yell at a patient because they were taking up too much of my time. I would never have told the family that they will be taken care of when "I can get around to it, and besides, you could have gone to the doctor's office anyway." I may have thought it; but those words never escaped my mouth.

I can't tell you how many times I have bit my tongue and swallowed my pride just to nod and let a patient vent. The new nurse feels that she doesn't have to be treated in such a terrible manner nor will she allow such a thing. I have to admit, there comes a time when you must be stern with a patient and their family; but the time to do that is not from the first moment of contact.

I find keeping a patient informed, even if it's just a brief update will keep even the most persistent desk visitors at bay. All they want to know is that they are in the loop. I don't think that's an unreasonable request.

Being health care professionals and knowing the doctors on a more personal level gives us the privy to look things up in the chart and read about what is going on. These patient's family members do not. They are left at our mercy to do even the simplest of things, like using the restroom. Can you imagine how demeaning that can be?

Recently, I have noticed that new nurses, a few in ER, ICU, CCU and telemetry have become hardened in the heart which projects a negative attitude towards the patient. The patient feels they are an intrusion to the nurse; when it is the nurse that should feel like she is the intruder into the family circle. Yes, it is our job to take care of the patient to the best of our ability, and sometimes that means that we must do that to the cost of the patient/family bond. Ultimately; however, as soon as possible, we should quickly allow the bonding of the family unit to continue.

On my death bed, it is not the nurse I want to see as my last vision on earth; it is those that have loved me through all of my faults.

If I could give a new nurse some advice, I think it would be to leave your mouth shut most of the time; and listen with two ears and your heart. Not to mention, hold a hand once in a while and singing a nice song goes a long way - even if you think you can't carry a tune in a bucket.

I've been a nurse for a long time, I'm the one that should be cold and tainted; but I am finding out that it is not I that shout and proves my authority - it is you.

Please, restrain, refrain, bridle your tongue and let only the kindness of your heart fill the ears of the patient. I know, it's harder to do than one might think, but well worth what is giving back in return.

Where has the time gone?

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:40:00 +0000

I can't believe it's been over a month since I've written anything. I've missed writing. I've been a bit "under the weather" since I wrote last but apparently it isn't anything a few nerve blocks couldn't cure.

I've been in steroid hell for the last month and I didn't even want to talk to me much less have all of you listen to my ...... well, if you've ever been in steroid hell I'm sure you understand.

I don't have much time to write tonight but soon I'll be back ranting as usual.

Union vs. Non Union

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 23:13:00 +0000

Not too terribly long ago I was a huge proponent of unions. I felt they did the best for the workplace, the people that worked, and the company in general. In my father's era, the unions were strong and focused on fair wages, shorter working hours, beneficial breaks, benefits and in all tried to make the work environment a better place to work. I commend those people who fought against insurmountable odds to held the common work have a better workplace.

When our hospital decided to vote for or against a union, I was one of the major contributors to having a union workplace. I thought nothing but good could come from a united front to serve and protect the workers while offering better care for our patients.

I was wrong. Horribly wrong. From the onset of the union in our hospital, I have seen a decline in the quality of patient care because of the attitude of "that's not my job." I have seen the health care providers move from a common goal of taking care of the patient, to a divided goal of taking care of "themselves."

It is very disheartening to hear co-workers speak openly of "poor care" that is given in this hospital. Do they not realize that they are part of the reason that "poor care" is being given. I've even heard nurses say out loud as orients are in ear shot stating, "I am sick to death of orienting people, I really hate doing, but if I have to I have to." Now, isn't that a nice way to start off your nursing career to hear that people hate orienting you.

Nine months ago, I took a management position. I took that position after having 18 years seniority in the union. Some would call me a fool, and who knows, they may be right. All I know is that I am happier doing what I am doing. I am happier taking care of patients they way they deserve to be taken care of. I am happier telling people that the person in Room 5, 8, or 12 needs their assistance and I am certainly glad that I am able to provide care that others can not do for themselves.

Call me a fool for giving up 18 years of seniority. Call me a fool for potentially being fired tomorrow if the management doesn't like the type of care I give. Call me a fool for being happy at giving a patient the dignity to regain his health or assist him in his hour of need.

Union or Non-union......shouldn't the goal be the same? Where did the patient go?

Back Pain and Whining

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 14:22:00 +0000

I don't like whining. I don't like it when people whine when they have options. I understand why they whine, I understand that they may not like the options they have; but I still don't like it. I don't like that I am whining today. I don't like that I am whining and I have options to correct my situations. I don't like that I don't like my options.

So, here are my options: 1. Go to a neurosurgeon and let them do surgery on my spinal stenosis which the doctors are now calling "severe." 2. Go to neurosurgeon and allow them to manage me medically with pain medications. (AKA pain management)

Let's consider why I hate both of these options. Option one: Another surgery. I'm not sure I can handle another surgery emotionally. Just the thought of another surgery sets me into an anxiety ridden state. I know this may not be rational, but I've had enough. Over the past few years I've had enough surgeries to last me a lifetime. Surgery for me means a battery of tests which include a cardiac stress test. It involves me seeing a number of doctors to make sure I can medically handle surgery. I know it's called the CYA syndrome, and I don't really blame the surgeon or my cardiologist; it is what it is. I'm high risk. I know I'm high risk. I don't want to admit I'm high risk. Surgery for me would also involve a long conversation with the anesthesiologist because of my "intubation history." I'm one of those lucky ones that is a difficult intubation because of my anatomy. It has something to do with the fact that my anatomy seems to be backwards from other people's anatomy and I have to have what they call "fasttrach" intubation. I'm not sure what that is, but I have to carry a card with me that states that I'm a difficult intubation. I suspect "fasttrach" and RSI are pretty much the same thing but I'm not sure.

Now the Option two: Pain management. The thought of me being in pain management sends shivers up and down my spine (no pun intended). In the ED, I know we see the worst of the worst when it comes to pain management. We see all those drug seekers who have run out of pain medications because they have used them recreationally and now they need (want) more. I've also seen the list of pain medications these people are on, which at a glance, is staggering(again, no pun intended). I also know what many (not all) health care professionals say about a patient who is on pain management. I'm not sure I can handle that.

My drug of choice is Motrin. Motrin 800mg QID is really very effective the majority of the time, if I catch things quick enough. Motrin around the clock for a couple of days is usually enough to get me through difficult times; however, there are other times when the Motrin is not effective and I begin to walk all hunched over because straightening my lower back is about as pleasant as having hot needles poking me in the eye. For those times, I take a firm stance on the couch, get out my ice pack for the first 24 hours and lay on my back with my legs bent up and the ice pack on my lower back for 20 minutes every hour while I'm awake.

If all those attempts at alleviating my back discomfort fail, I take a Vicodin. (Uggghhh, I hate even admitting that). I know I should not feel ashamed that sometimes a narcotic is what I need, but I do. Again, I think this stems from me being an ED nurse who sees the worst of the worst and hears what other health care professionals say about this "kind of patient."

When all of that fails, I go to my primary care doctor (that's right folks, I don't run to the ED for my ailment) and ask him for a steroid. Generally the steroid works and I praise God for the discovery of steroids. Of course, I do get a little "roid rage" so I have to warn those that I love that I'm about to take them; but it only lasts about 7 to 10 days and it's better that they feel the pain of my rage then I feel the physical pain. (insert smirk here)

Anyway, I have my doctor's appointment this afternoon and hopefully I'll be all better soon.

Tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 16:48:00 +0000

Today

My jaw is clenched tightly

My head aches

My throat hurts

My chest is congested.

Today

My muscles are strained tightly

My eyes ache

My neck hurts

My lower back is in spasms.

Today

My father has made me angry

My husband has made me angry

My brother has made me angry

My daughters have made me angry.

Today

My pictures on the wall are crooked

My dogs are annoying

My laundry is piled high

My attitude sucks.

Today

My plans are not my own

My control has been lost

My life is not my own

My husband tells me it's my fault.

Today

My anxiety is running high

My mood is running mean

My life is out of control

My thoughts are too loud.

Today

My ideas are not heeded

My ideals are askew

My breath stinks

My focus is on me.

Today

My thoughts are relieved

My body is relieved

My spirit is relieved

That there is a tomorrow.

Dona Nobis Pacem

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 01:49:00 +0000

I can't say it any better than this

Muttley

noreply@blogger.com (MY OWN WOMAN...) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 01:57:00 +0000

Muttley (and she knows why I am using that name for her) is Daughter #2's significant other. Today is their anniversary and they are off somewhere celebrating a love they have shared for (I think) 5 or 6 years. In an age where people think commitment is something that lasts a few months, their love has endured a bit of time. This is especially remarkable since their relationship is one of an alternative type. I'm not going to say their relationship has always been easy, but they have managed to work through difficult times and have learned to compromise and grow.

In the beginning, Muttley and I had a few issues. Actually, we had quite a few issues. I'm glad that I am as outspoken as I am because I was able to tell Muttley exactly how I felt (which wasn't pretty.) I allowed Muttley to be open and honest with me and in turn, I was brutally honest and open with her. I'm sure my open and honest approach with her was very painful for her at times but it allowed her and I to be "real" with each other and sometimes reality sucks.

Initially, Muttley had some jealousy issues. She was jealous of the relationship that Daughter #2 and I shared. I explained to her that what Daughter #2 and I shared was a bond that could never be broken. If Muttley made Daughter #2 make a choice between her and I, Muttley would lose. I'm not saying that Daughter #2 would have chosen me over Muttley, what I'm saying is that by the mere fact that she would want this person she professes to love to make a choice would have, in and of itself, killed part of the relationship they share. Muttley and I had a few conversations on how the love she feels for Daughter #2 and the love I feel for Daughter #2 can co-exist.

Time has passed and we have all grown. Muttley is very dear to me. My heart would ache if anything would happen to her; and it aches now if I know she is hurt by something or someone. I may not always express that, but that is how I feel. If something adverse were to happen to the relationship that Muttley and Daughter #2 share, my heart would ache; not only for my daughter but for Muttley and myself as well. I would miss seeing her face and having her simple innocence enlighten my life. In many ways she is my daughter-in-law, and in some ways she is my daughter.

Today I learned that Muttley reads my blog almost daily. I'd like to think that Muttley reads my blog to find out more about me; and that touches my heart.