The Bell Pages

Quotes From The Psych Ward

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 06 Feb 2011 19:39:00 +0000

The three of us were at the back nurse's desk, discussing the other nurse's relationship with her boyfriend, as you do while at work. One of our more psychotic, unpredictable patients approached:

Need

PANTIES!

She sounded seriously pissed. Clearly she was in desperate need of hospital grade disposable panties. Our psych tech, Kurtis, had been charting while dishing up life advice. "Ok, let me finish this up, and I'll get you some."

She stood there boring a hole into his head with her eyes while he finished up. On his way to get them, the phone was ringing, so he stopped to answer it. This apparently did not sit well with her. She leaned over the desk, got up in his face, shooting him the evil eye. I'm fairly certain a couple of squirrels fell dead from their trees outside the window as a result.

Get

off

THE PHONE!

He calmly continued his phone call (which happened to be a family member of the same patient). I went ahead and got the disposable panties for her, even though it would have been more amusing to see what happened next.

"Are these the same as all these other women get?" I assured her they were. "Alright. Good. Thanks . . . . BITCH."

I've decided this is how I'm going to greet people from now on. I'm going to randomly, angrily, loudly, demand panties. You see, I've not laughed that hard in a long time, why not share the wealth?

The Denial of Dying With Dignity

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 05:56:00 +0000

Lying alone in a hospital bed in Ohio is an old man, my husband's grandfather. When I first met him this man was full of life and vitality. He was active in his church, an avid performer in local theater, a lover of music, which was evident as he tended to break into song at any given moment. He enjoyed life, people, and performing, to the point that he would embarrass his family to no end in public on occasion, as he was utterly full of piss & vinegar.

Was.

The throat cancer came first, then colon cancer. It was of course, accompanied by the tag-a-long illnesses that always seem to plague the chronically sick.

The biggest plague to his family however, is Bonnie. When I first met them, it seemed an unlikely friendship. Jerry's grandfather is a small, neat man. An ex-cop full of stories, a smile on his face, willing and ready to share with anyone and everyone.

In comparison, Bonnie is a large, greasy looking, dour woman. I haven't spent an inordinate amount of time with her, but smiling and basic hygiene is something which appears to be an effort for Bonnie. She accompanied him on a visit to Kansas, where she sat at my mother in law's table sullen and silent. Somehow seeming to look down her nose at everyone present with her little piggish eyes. I had never felt so blatantly judged by a complete stranger before, and found lacking to boot. No one understands this chemistry which has led to this odd relationship.

My mother in law has offered, and then insisted that she move back to Ohio to help him out and simply be near. She's been refused, repeatedly. In fact, he made Bonnie his Durable Medical Power of Attorney. Which brings us back to the beginning.

An old man lies in a hospital bed. On Christmas eve, his Do Not Resuscitate order conveniently 'lost' (ahem, this nurse calls bullshit), he coded. When I heard this, I had to give a bitter smile, Jerry's grandfather doesn't do subtle, even when it comes to dying.

He was intubated, against the written wishes in his Advanced Directive, against his DNR. The hospital has their far share of blame here. Someone dropped the ball. Someone dropped a big, very important freaking ball. The end story is, without oxygen to his brain during that period of time, there is probable brain damage, as evidenced by the EEG. As far as the family knows, there have been no significant periods of consciousness, no improvement.

There likely won't be.

He did not want people jumping on his chest, shoving tubes down his throat, or stabbing holes through his abdomen into his stomach in order to tube feed him. He wanted to die with dignity. While all of these "heroic efforts" serve their purpose at times, as a witness to their use on the weak and elderly, there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING, dignified about any of it.

Yet wielding her DMPOA as a weapon, Bonnie has managed to destroy even the thinnest veil of grace, that right of decorum which everyone should have as an expectation while dying.

She has had him re-intubated, has had a feeding tube placed, has completely restricted any family from visiting him, as well as terminated any updates or information allowed to be given to his family. She has taken the advanced directive written by him, in preparation for this, and completely disregarded it.

Thus far, meetings with physicians, the hospital's ethics committee, as well as attempts at guardianship, have proven fruitless.

This man has lost his wife, his son, and two grandsons, to death. Now he has lost the rest of his family without need, thanks to Bonnie. There is no money, no estate, nothing to benefit her, other than the complete control of another person and his family.

I have gone over and over the situation in my mind for years, not understanding the motive for Bonnie's repeated efforts to isolate him from his family. The power trip is all I've got. She can't have him up and dying, because then she has no one to control, no family to ostracize and emotions to play with. In essence, the woman is a hateful, hell-bound, cunt.

I don't have the history with Jerry's grandfather. I've met him a handful of times, but I know how much Jerry has always looked up to him and loved him. I'm sure that the intensity of my hatred for this woman is born from seeing the pain she's causing the man I love. Not only that though, but by God, the caregiver in me wants to kick her really fucking hard. How dare she purposefully disregard another person's written directions for his own care and end of life decisions, and then isolate him from his loved ones, for her own amusement? I am offended as a member of his family, as a nurse, and as a human being.

So this is the part where I preach:

Make out an advanced directive, and be specific.

Talk about those decisions with your family. Make sure they are comfortable with those decisions.

If you name a DMPOA, make sure it is someone who will honor your wishes if you cannot verbalize them yourself.

Seriously. Go do it. NOW.

Edit:

Just a few hours after I wrote and published this, Jerry's grandfather died.

Bonnie was the only one with him, she called my mother in law and Jerry's aunt, but made the call too late.

No family members were allowed to say goodbye.

My Child Now Lives In A World Where Murder-Suicide Is Reality

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 04:12:00 +0000

I've worked with her when sent to work on the medical unit. She was in the computer in-service I attended two weeks ago. We've spoken on the phone for various reasons, we smile and say hello in the hall. I know her as a quiet girl, and a really good nurse. That's about the extent of our interaction, yet I cannot stop thinking about her.

Last Wednesday night she dropped off her two children, ages 5 and 10, at their grandma's house. As she was leaving, her husband appeared from his hiding spot, shooting her twice in the shoulder and at least once in the head. In front of her children. He then returned to their home, two blocks away from my own, and hung himself in their basement.

She's alive. In critical condition, but alive. Miraculously she was able to call 911, and remained conscious and talking upon the police's arrival. She is now in a coma, as the doctors and her family wait to see where she stands neurologically. She may need to have her arm amputated due to the damage done to her shoulder.

Her oldest child, a gorgeous 10 year old boy, is Julien's friend. "Mom, that just makes me want to cry. To think that their family has just been torn apart like that. I wish I could make him feel better somehow".

Yeah, my kid is kinda wonderful.

That night I had to explain that sometimes, people are horrible to each other. Sometimes, people commit heinous acts against those they are supposed to love and protect.

That night, he crawled into my bed tearful and sleepless. He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if I were dead.

Dammit.

So It's December in Kansas. Why Do I Feel Like I'm In Arizona?

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 04:41:00 +0000

In the line ahead of me were a young pregnant couple, and a middle aged Lothario. I had run into him several times while grocery shopping, he of the longish, graying, feathered hair (Yes, I said feathered). Wearing a Harley bowling shirt which aptly announces "I'm still Rock & Roll!" Probably drives a Camaro, doesn't have a friend within ten years of his own age, and trolls the club looking for the drunk and recently divorced.

Yes, while at the highly esteemed Aldi grocery store, between the 65¢ can of green beans and the "Cheese Club" brand macaroni & cheese, I'm completely judging you. Now shut up.

We had all progressed to the "bag your own" table, when Mr. Past-his-prime-but-doesn't-know-it began ~~interrogating~~ conversing with the couple. I didn't really pay much attention to them, as they weren't laughable enough for me.

Casanova: So is this your first baby?

Poor Kid: Yeah, she's due in 3 weeks.

Casanova: Do you have a job?

Poor Kid: I work in construction.

Casanova: How long you been doing that?

Poor Kid: About four months.

Casanova: Hey, (exaggerated whisper) you work legal?

I had been happily bagging my groceries, grateful he had decided to talk to them and not me. This however, was the point when I stopped bagging and stood there openly agape.

Poor Kid: Uh, what?

Casanova: You know, do you have a Green Card?

I think there was a visible though bubble over my head with WTF blinking on and off. The kid was dark in complexion, but seriously? I was waiting for Camaro to unzip his unnaturally tanned skin suit and step out in full Nazi regalia demanding the kid's papers.

Poor Kid: A Green Card? What's . . . . Oh man . . . I'm American . . . I'm half black . . . I'm not Mexican or whatever . . .

Casanova: Ohhhh, I thought I heard you speaking Spanish. Oh well, take care.

They stood there, looking at each other as he left, then turned to me. All I had to offer was "Don't look at me dude, I thought you were Lithuanian". Which left them even more confused, because apparently I am not funny.

In Which My Husband Validated Masturbation On Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 03:59:00 +0000

"What the hell? I just posted this! I already have a message about it, and I don't even know who it is!"

Jerry, being the witty guy he is, had just updated his facebook status to this:

While he may have expected an onslaught of 'likes' and comments, he wasn't prepared for this guy. (Someone needed to update his privacy settlings, but then again, thanks for the blog fodder babe.)

Please note, my husband does not know this man. He isn't a facebook friend, nor is he friends with any of Jerry's friends. He is a total stranger, who evidently trolls facebook looking for sex education. Speaking of which, of all the angles to pursue in Jerry's original post, he goes for the masturbation? Really? At first I was sure he was going to dazzle us with his political views, or begin a religious debate.

Clearly I am over-estimating America's college youth.

Did your parents encourage it?!

Now it's one thing to talk to your children about things like this. Don't do that in public; you can't tie up the bathroom with 5 other people living here; you'll go blind, etc. But parents encouraging masturbation? I'm fairly certain someone in that situation is spending entirely too much time in therapy to be screwing around on facebook.

I am in awe of Jerry's polite even responses. Starting to border on creepy? I'm afraid I would have been all "WTH, ya pervy little bastard . . . " Which is probably why I don't have an abundance of internet friends.

Rubbed it out? Holy hell, I can't stand boys.

Anyway, this was the end of the exchange. Apparently our new friend had received whatever substantiation he was looking for. On Facebook. We waited for a response for a while, until it dawned on me:

Ooooooh! Gross! He's doing it right now!!

Holy Hell, It's Turning Into a Dog Blog!

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 01:22:00 +0000

Ok, not so much. Isaac is learning the saxophone this year, which was painful and distressing at first. The first day he brought home the sax, Julien asked me worriedly "Mom! Is that how it's supposed to sound?"

"No!" I whispered, "now shut up!".

Jerry and I though are really enjoying listening to him practice now. It's amazing to hear him get better day by day, and he loves it. We aren't the only ones either. Frodo the Wonder Dog has granted his approval.

Asthma or I Hope Baby Jesus Doesn't Stab Me In The Face

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 12 Sep 2010 06:01:00 +0000

Conscious thoughts for me. I am the moron who has to tell herself to breathe in and out all day. At least when my asthma is active.

Oh, and the coughing. The coughing that threatens to blow off the top of my head, occasionally causes me to vomit, rips my throat raw, and destroys my voice. The wheezing I can deal with. It's the coughing. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes there are moments when I can't stop. I cough, and cough, and when I finally reach for another breath, it isn't there.

For years I've avoided things I know will trigger an attack. Beer, scented candles, prolonged exposure to firework smoke. However respiratory infections trigger me as well, and those aren't as easily avoided.

Then comes the "treatments" that are supposed to make me feel better. A regular inhaler doesn't do the trick for me during an acute phase. I can't inhale deeply enough to actually breathe in the medication. So there are the aerosol treatments. They taste awful, make my heart race, make my hands shake, and make the cough worse. Sometimes if I hold a towel tightly down on my head with both hands while holding the nebulizer between my teeth, the cough won't hurt as much.

The steroids are a nightmare. There is a special place in the 18th level of hell for the inventor of Prednisone. The purpose is to decrease inflammation, enabling me to breathe easier. I am also served up a side of insomnia, raging appetite, moon face, excruciating joint pain, and a huge case of bitch-itis. After an afternoon with me on Prednisone, Baby Jesus himself would want to stab me in the face.

I make my poor respiratory therapist husband listen to me with a stethoscope asking him jokingly "Am I going to die?" . Sort of jokingly. I am scared. I feel like an alcoholic, only with air. Each inhalation/exhalation is a victory. I cannot think long term, it's too overwhelming if I think about all the breathing I have left to do. One breath at a time.

I didn't have asthma as a child. Lucky for me, the scented candles and beer were kept to a minimum as an 8 yr old. We won't discuss the 2 pack a day smokers I lived with though. Incidentally, smoking doesn't trigger my asthma. I go for years without an exacerbation, cigarettes honestly don't seem to be a factor. Not that I shouldn't quit. I'm just sayin'.

I was diagnosed at 24. I'd been having attacks for about a year at that point. they would resolve within the day, with steamy showers and hot coffee. One day it wouldn't go away. No matter what I did, I couldn't fucking breathe. (Yes, that's exactly what I said to the Emergency Room nurse. Only like this: "Can't . . . gasp. . . fucking . . . gasp . . . breathe!")

They gave me aerosol treatment after aerosol treatment. Shot me full of steroids. The Physician's Assistant on duty actually called in other people to listen to my lungs. "Listen to this dude! She's barely moving any air! I can't believe how calm she is!"

Finally I was given a shot of epinephrine, which allowed me to feel as though I were breathing through cotton. This was an improvement.

I've been hospitalized for my asthma a few times. The shortest stay was a week. The longest was two and a half weeks. (during which I was transferred to a Kansas City hospital) At some point during my hospitalization I end up crying. I hate crying. My goals with asthma are firstly to breathe, secondly to not go into the hospital, thirdly not to cry. At times these are lofty aspirations.

An Open Letter To The World

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 24 Aug 2010 02:49:00 +0000

Dear People,

This is a nurse:

This is an emotional punching bag:

They are not the same.

Not even the same freaking ballpark.

Love,

Honeybell

Reasons My Husband Won't Let Me Go Join The Members Of Sea Shepard In The Arctic Ocean Even Though I Really, Really Want To

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 19:33:00 +0000

So I've been watching Whale Wars for several weeks now. I'm on the edge of my seat throughout the show, cheering on Sea Shepard every step of the way. What an amazing experience it would be to out there on the ocean, actually doing something to make a difference in the world! I want to be right there next to Admiral Paul Watson throwing butyric acid and kicking whale-killer ass on the high seas.

My mean husband, however, sees things slightly differently:

Daneen, you have never, in the 12 years we have known each other, mentioned a deep and abiding interest in saving the whales, or any other sea creature. As a matter of fact, I've seen you tear through 2 lbs of crab legs like Amy Winehouse to a crack pipe.

What do you mean? As a Kansas girl, the whales mean THE WORLD to me. I LOVE THE WHALES. Seriously? Take me to Sea World and I'll totally make out with Shamu.
That's disgusting.
Shut up. No one likes you.

You DO realize that the Sea Shepard crew eats only vegan on those ships.

What are they gonna do? Inspect my baggage? No one will notice some slim jims or those cute little snack tuna packs.
You mean the tuna with the accidental dolphin in it?
Shut up. No one likes you.

You're going to end up going to jail or getting killed by the Japanese whalers. They consider Sea Shepard terrorists.

No way. The Japanese are lovely people. They wouldn't shoot me. I love it there, they'll just want to touch my hair.
Yes. You're very cute. Sea Shepard costs them millions by stopping the whaling. Cute doesn't make up for that.
Shut up. No one likes you.

You know absolutely nothing about row boats, much less a ship. You haven't even seen an ocean in 20 years.

I know plenty about ships! I read Mutiny on the Bounty! I even saw the movie! It won't be a problem at all!
Oh yeah? Which side is Starboard?
Shut up. No one likes you.

We have children. Jobs. Bills. Responsibilities. You cannot run off to the Arctic Ocean to save whales for 3 months.

Um . . . Oh shut up! No one likes you!

So there we have it.

While I am a shining beacon of light for all of nature's finned friends, Jerry is a bad, bad man and no one likes him.

Singing In The Shower

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 05:34:00 +0000

Sir no Sir! Vegas is not involved at all Sir!

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 02:07:00 +0000

Elopement Risk

On the psych unit, there is no romance in these words. Generally it means watching your back when entering and leaving the unit, and making sure the door locks behind you. Somebody's trying to leave when they really, REALLY shouldn't.

One of my patients eloped.

(Shut up. I am not the topic at hand here.)

Like the good nurse I am, I took the patients outside for fresh air before lunch. While I visited with some of them in the shade, the others played basketball. Until that is, one of them jumped the 7 ft privacy fence. (I had no idea my company was that intolerable.)

Often patients will ask playfully "What would you do if I went over the fence?" My answer is always the same. I am too damned old and tired to be chasing people. I call the police and spend the next 2 hours filling out paperwork.

Because my eloper was a soldier, I also had to call the MP's at the local military post.

************************

Me: "We have one of your soldiers here at the hospital, and I need to let you know that he just eloped."

Confused Sgt: ". . ."

Me: "Um, yep. He's gone . . . "

Confused Sgt: "M'aam, define elope."

Me: "Well, um, he jumped over the fence and ran away."

Confused Sgt: *burst of uncontrollable laughter* "You've got to be freakin' kidding me!"

Me: " . . . . Sir, define freakin'."

(Yeah I know. It's no wonder he ran away from me.)

I Loved You Mel Gibson

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 17:49:00 +0000

The Lethal Weapon movies were my "go to" entertainment when I was bored.

Braveheart was one of my absolute favorites, I can't count the number of times I've watched it.

Signs was awesome.

I thought the scene in Passion of the Christ during which Mary watched her son marched to his death, and flashed back to his childhood, was absolutely brilliant. As a mother of little boys who can still kiss boo boos away, I thought that demonstrated incredible insight into motherhood, and brought out the emotional, human side that I find often lacking in biblical stories. It was the only movie that has ever made me cry. I didn't find it anti-semitic.

When you got drunk and spewed a hate filled rant at police, I was disappointed. It made me sad. You weren't my favorite anymore, and I was a little ashamed to be a fan.

But now? This nonsensical verbal vomit directed toward the mother of your child, in which you managed to also include hate speech toward blacks, mexicans, and anyone who isn't YOU?

And now I can't watch some of my favorite movies without incredible guilt for enjoying your performance, since you have repeatedly revealed yourself to be this incredible asshole!

What the fuck Mel Gibson? What the fuck?

Dear Weirdo "Christian" Wife Spankers,

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 19:27:00 +0000

I know you've had a lot of backlash from feminists (and any women & men with a bit of sense) how despicable the idea of husbands 'disciplining' their wives is. It's spousal abuse, it's degrading to women, blah blah blah. I have a different type of complaint today. My basic problem with your theology centers around my husband finding it hilarious.

Lately here at the 'ole Bell house, every time I utter "oh fuck", forget to pick something up, burn dinner, etc., my ATHEIST husband is bending me over the nearest chair and threatening to "beat The Word Of The Lord" into me. You see, I'm pretty damned sure Jesus wouldn't do that. Jerry however, finds this hysterical.

Now then, if you want to explore kink, by all means! Explore some kink! But please, don't drag God into it. I can assure you, you are dragging Him in kicking and screaming. God doesn't want to know about you S&M practices, or your so called "Christian Sex Toys". As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure you're creeping Him out.

You have the permission of the almighty Honeybell to be one kinky MoFo AND a Christian. Just don't combine the two. Because . . . EWWW!

Thank you for your time,

One possibly sore assed Honeybell

Tattle Tales in The Computer Age

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:37:00 +0000

I could have cropped it smaller, but I also had to show off my beautiful iGoogle page. Isn't it lovely?

I'm not sure which bothers me more, that Julien sent this to me when I was just upstairs, or that he knew I'd be on the laptop. The main reason for the e-mail (according to Julien) is that when he comes to me to tell on his brother, Liam comes screaming at the top of his lungs: DON'T TELL MOM!!! So he thought this would be quieter and less disturbing to me.

How thoughtful.

Because My Kids Are Kind Of Cuter Than Yours

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 31 May 2010 05:38:00 +0000

Ok, not a kid, but still cute:

Where The Hell Have I Been?

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 11 May 2010 03:44:00 +0000

Yeah I know. My poor neglected blog. Somebody call BPS! (Blog Protective Services)

Just so you know, I haven't just been sucking in the blog world, this is some equal opportunity suckage.

My mood have been up and down, all around. I'm taking my Prozac dammit, I'm only supposed to suffer with this crap when I bring it on intentionally. Not when I'm being all medication compliant.

Somebody fell asleep at the switch at the 'ole happy pill factory.

Not to worry though, it's not like I'm wandering about weeping and wailing. It's much more of a "blech" phase. "Blech" meaning complete with that loogie hawking sound in the back of your throat.

I'm hoping this small wave of depression is situational. Jerry was going through a difficult time, since the older boy's mom has moved back locally this past year my role as their step-mom is ever changing, my effort at becoming an RN has come to a stand-still, and finances are really stinking right now. Maybe I'll expound on some of it in future posts, but I just can't bring myself to write it out now.

In the meantime, enjoy this video I posted on Facebook a while ago. It still makes me smile.

Why No One Invites Us to Ice Cream Socials

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 03:28:00 +0000

We are all gathered in the kitchen, drinking our delicious homemade milk shakes. Just a nice family treat after the boys finished their chores. Isaac recently had seen the standard 5th grade puberty video at school. Taking advantage of the cozy family bonding over ice cream, I ask him "Did you learn anything new and interesting?"

"Hmm, well we learned why a penis gets hard . . . and oh yeah:

Hey Thorin! Do you ever get wet dreams???"

I don't think I've ever seen Thorin speechless before.

Isaac breaks through the hyena-like laughter from all of us with "What? They told us to ask our brother!" Jerry has stopped laughing long enough to ask "They seriously told you to ask someone that?" Isaac answers "Yeah, they said to ask an older brother, or if we didn't have a brother, to ask our dad."

"Well Isaac" responds Jerry, "I sure am glad you have an older brother."

Thorin meanwhile, is cracking up and backing away with hands raised: "I am SO not having this conversation!" But by this time Isaac's already moved on to other unexplored territory. "What's so bad about ED anyway? My friends and I sing the Viva Viagra song at school all the time!"

We should have ice cream more often, the entertainment is spectacular.

Quotes From The Psych Unit

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 15 Apr 2010 01:40:00 +0000

"Eve was naked! Why can't I be naked too?!" (Important to note: this was yelled while running through the day room nekkid)

*******************

I sat on the floor in the kitchen alone with a psychotic patient as he ate his snack. Out of the blue he yells: "I'm not a rapist you know!" (My response with thumbs up and a big smile: "AWESOME!")

*******************

Me (whispering): "Sweetie, your underpants are on the outside of your pants." Patient: "Oops! I was playing Utopia Girl Saves the World in my room, and forgot to take them off. I'll do it now." Drops undies right there in the kitchen.

*******************

"I will take you to outer space!" (motions to huge air conditioner out the window) "I'll sit on top and you can ride inside!"

*******************

"I realize how important it is for you to have a model of normalcy here for these unfortunate people, but I really need to get home, I simply cannot do any more of your work for you." Yes--this was from a patient.

*******************

Me: "Sweetie, I think you might be experiencing some thought blocking." Patient: "That's because YOU'RE BLOCKING ME!"

*******************

"Shall I request my patient records? You know, for the next time I have a mental breakdown?"

*******************

My self mutilating patient has just informed me that she has inserted an object into a freshly cut laceration. After sending her to surgery to have the foreign body removed I tell the rest of the staff: "We need to do a sweep, make sure there aren't anymore things available for her to shove into that wound, pens, pencils, maybe small children . . . "

Things I Learned At My Husband's Vasectomy

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 04:55:00 +0000

Don't take the Ativan until you see the whites of their eyes.
They still have Highlight's magazines in doctor's offices, and when kept waiting for an hour 39 year old women will read it.
The guy that sat across from us does not have any type of erectile dysfunction. His girlfriend agrees via cellphone.
I can't stand bitchy nurses.
Boys don't know what to do with the paper drape.
Urologists are not paid comedians for a reason.
It's interesting to watch someone else go through the "socks on or off" question.
It's probably bad manners to ask to watch the surgery.
My husband's urologist was disappointed that we are not going on vacation, and felt comfortable voicing his opinion while cauterizing the Vas deferens.
It's rude to giggle when the doctors states "We need to tape this bad boy out of the way."
After violating your testicles, the doctor and the staff would like you to have a nice day. AND GET THE FUCK OUT.
My husband finds the irony of ME holding HIS hand while he's up in stirrups and telling him to BREATHE is hilarious. And he's glad I didn't tell him to push.
After suggesting that we should take photos of his bruising, I realize that through this blog, I have effectively destroyed any sense of BOUNDARIES the man ever had.

Today, I Am A Bad Nurse

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 04:27:00 +0000

I am faced every day at my job as a psych nurse with the results of childhood sexual abuse. A co-worker has even been heard to say "If these people would quit [sexually abusing] their kids, we'd be out of a job."

Is that crude? Yes. Is it true? Hell yes. The human condition at times, makes me want to vomit.

It is easy to be sympathetic with those patients. Who wouldn't be? However we also get the other end of the spectrum. The sexual abuser. More often than not, the abuser at some point has also been a victim. That fact, in my opinion, is completely fucking irrelevant. We all have temptations in life, we all have choices. No matter how fucked up the origins of the temptation is, the result is ultimately a chosen one. The abuser has made a choice to disregard the humanity of another human being in order to gratify him/herself.

In some cases, I am the abuser's nurse. In every situation I've spoken to this person gently, as I do any other patient. I listen to the soft sobs of remorse, the pondering of the hows and whys. Not that I believe them. I believe these abusers are horrified not at themselves, rather they are horrified that they have been found out. He knows, I know, but we both sit and pretend that he's really a good guy and that I actually care. I'm okay with this. In fact I need this. I need to suspend my disbelief long enough to hand out a pill cup with a smile. I need to put aside my revulsion long enough to touch a shoulder as I place my stethoscope on a chest. I will allow myself to be fooled by misdirected remorse in order to do my job of caring for people, all people, because that's what I do. I am a nurse, not a judge.

What happens though, when there is no faked remorse? There is, instead an abuser that delights in knowing that he disgusts those around him. He brags to anyone who will listen. I feel trapped at my own workplace as he moans appreciatively, loudly, seductively at a child on TV. He frequently references children, and even manages to turn an art group into something faintly forbidding and vile. He constantly begs "won't you comfort me?" and weeps loudly because he's going to prison. I am nauseated. My skin crawls. I come home where even an hour long bath cannot soak away the hateful, filthy feeling.

I spoke with one of my favorite counselors. We talked about my inability to speak to him in a civil manner. We talked about my past predatory patients whom I was able to work with without issue. We talked about the black hole of borderline personality disorder. She reminded me that his inability to even fake remorse is a result of an illness. That there is likely a physiological mis-firing in the brain rendering him incapable of recognizing how vile he is. That no mentally healthy person would behave in this way.

That's when I realized: I don't care. I don't care about his sickness or his jacked up brain. If that makes me a bad nurse, then fine. I will revel in it, I will bask in it, roll around in it, and shout Yoo-hoo! at my lack of compassion for this person.

Because as much as I am disturbed by my lack of caring and compassion for a person such as this, I know that any empathy I could possibly feel would disturb me so much more.

Honeybell's Birthday: A Tale of Sorrow and Hilarity

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 18:55:00 +0000

We Are Dorks

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 20:13:00 +0000

Me: "I heard a voice while I was in the shower earlier and you were gone. I think it was Thorin, but I was prepared to attack the bad guys with water from the shower head, you know, just in case."

Him: " . . . "

Me: "YOU MAY KIDNAP AND KILL ME, BUT YOU'RE GOING TO BE REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE WHILE YOU DO IT!"

Him: (in a not-so-bad cockney accent while shuffling away) "Oh no! She's got a towel!"

Which is probably only funny if you've actually seen or read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. What are you waiting for? Go watch it now! So that you may appreciate our hilarity!

He Didn't Realize It HAS Skills or NO! I Don't Urinate In Public!

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 04:54:00 +0000

I got home and once again the across the street neighbors had parked in front of our house, because when they aren't busy weeping and wailing in their yard, they aren't parking in their own freaking driveway.

I hate them.

Anyway.

I was forced to parallel park. I suck at parallel parking. My father refused to teach me to drive because he was afraid he would "beat me severely about the head and shoulders". So it was left to the Drivers Ed. guy, who probably just assumed I was a lost cause, because he never taught parallel parking either.

The parking took about 5 minutes and pissed off a couple of other cars behind me (screw you people, take it up with the assholes and their empty driveway across the street). However I finally managed to get my car positioned only like a foot or two away from the curb. I was so embarrassed, I sent this text to Jerry:

Some people CLEARLY do not feel my pain.

Because this is the text I got back:

Liam, Glorious Liam

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 20:09:00 +0000

How can so much person be in such a tiny little body?

How can I one moment want to find a roaming band of gypsies to sell him to, and the next find my heart in my throat for him?

How many times in a day can I think

"What the hell are you DOING??"

How can I be so infuriated and so in love at the same time?

How can I make it to his college years without becoming an alcoholic?

How can I keep him from continually changing my picture and password on my Windows User account?

How can I keep him prevent him from ever being hurt, and always being happy?

How can his sweet little face melt me everyday?

Parental Responsibility and Columbine

noreply@blogger.com (Honeybell) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 04:07:00 +0000

If you have read this blog for any amount of time, you are aware of my interest in Columbine. What brings me back to the tragedy over and over are the two killers. Watching the videos they made, reading their journals, the things that drew me in. Those videos and journals spoke to me, as I knew boys like this in school. I hung out with, was friends with, and occasionally dated boys just like this.

Awkward, intelligent, shy, with a wry sense of humor. They were complete dorks.

The common misconception is that Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold had terrible parents. Their parents must have been neglectful, uncaring, responsible. After all, how could good parents raise mass murderers?

We console ourselves with that thought. We breathe in and out all day knowing that our children could never do such a thing, that we are good parents.

We don't want to know that Eric Harris' parents would launch surprise searches of his room, take away car or computer privileges for breaking rules, or that mental health professionals failed to inform his parents that their son admitted to frequent homicidal and suicidal thoughts. We don't want to know that there is an entire videotape the boys made detailing how cunningly they hid weapons and bombs from their parents. We don't want to know that the Klebolds were in favor of gun control, to the point of forbidding their young son's from having toy guns. That Tom Klebold considered himself to be so close to his son that he considered Dylan to be his best friend, or that Susan Klebold described Dylan primarily as gentle, "and was gentle until the day he died".

We don't want to know these things because as Carolyn Payne, a Harris family friend stated, "We are all but one bullet and one pipe bomb away from the agony of Wayne and Kathy Harris".

To know these things is to know that we could possibly be mere observers in our children's lives. To know that while they are an integral part of who we are, we may not know anything about them at all. It is to know that after years of unconditional love, sacrifice, joy, heartache, and labor, that we could end up second guessing everything.

It comes down to doing the best we can. Teaching our children what we know to be right and wrong. Raising them to be independent thinkers and responsible world citizens. Remembering that any culpability must firmly lie on the child's shoulders, no one else's.

The Bell Pages

Quotes From The Psych Ward

The Denial of Dying With Dignity

My Child Now Lives In A World Where Murder-Suicide Is Reality

So It's December in Kansas. Why Do I Feel Like I'm In Arizona?

In Which My Husband Validated Masturbation On Facebook

Holy Hell, It's Turning Into a Dog Blog!

Asthma *or* I Hope Baby Jesus Doesn't Stab Me In The Face

An Open Letter To The World

Reasons My Husband Won't Let Me Go Join The Members Of Sea Shepard In The Arctic Ocean Even Though I Really, Really Want To

Singing In The Shower

Sir no Sir! Vegas is not involved at all Sir!

I Loved You Mel Gibson

Dear Weirdo "Christian" Wife Spankers,

Tattle Tales in The Computer Age

Because My Kids Are Kind Of Cuter Than Yours

Where The Hell Have I Been?

Why No One Invites Us to Ice Cream Socials

Quotes From The Psych Unit

Things I Learned At My Husband's Vasectomy

Today, I Am A Bad Nurse

Honeybell's Birthday: A Tale of Sorrow and Hilarity

We Are Dorks

He Didn't Realize It HAS Skills *or* NO! I Don't Urinate In Public!

Liam, Glorious Liam

Parental Responsibility and Columbine

Asthma or I Hope Baby Jesus Doesn't Stab Me In The Face

He Didn't Realize It HAS Skills or NO! I Don't Urinate In Public!