Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell. 

Mayhem

Not really, but it is a really cool word. Mayhem. And one that describes how my desk looked when I left work every day this week. I hope I don't die this weekend, because no one--NO ONE--will be able to come in to my office and have a freaking clue what I was doing with any of it. 

But, that's life.

I have decided to go back to school for my masters degree in Strategic Healthcare Leadership & Management. Which is a fancy and overblown way to say, "I like looking at processes to improve our fractured healthcare system and move to more streamlined and cost-effective processes that actually are acessible to average human beings and that won't leave everyone completely bankrupt every time we have to ask a health provider a simple question because getting advice from WebMD is like asking my two-year-old to manage my finances and will a HUMAN BEING PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE I'VE BEEN ON HOLD FOR TWO HOURS! And don't you DARE transfer me again." 

Ah. I feel better. 

So, I'm doing this online course about communication in healthcare. (Perhaps I should enroll every insurance company on the face of the planet in the next term. I'd be doing the Universe a favor.) The topic of discussion this week is "Health Care Literacy", and where the responsibility of teaching health literacy lies. It is an interesting discussion, with some really good stories. 

However. 

Because the course is online and I've never met anyone in person, I must be mindful and professional of what I'm typing. Which means that you, dear reader, get to find out what I'm really thinking. 

So the question, then, becomes thus: Who is responsible for teaching common sense? As in, if you are allergic to peanuts, don't eat peanut butter. And not all white round pills are the same medicine. And perhaps the actual correct dose isn't, in fact, the entire bottle. And just because your ex-boyfriend's step-mom's neighbor's dog's groomer kicked that nasty bug in North Dakota by eating raw duck egg in yellow snow last winter, you probably should still get a second opinion. From, say, someone who is qualified to carry a stethoscope and stab your ass with a needle. And who knows what a Sphygmomanometer is. (That's a different font because I had to look up how to spell it. But I know what it is and how to do paradoxical pulses with it. See, I gave you a clue. It's a noun. You get bonus points if you know how to pronounce it.)

To be fair, it's an incredibly complicated issue. Health care in this nation is complicated beyond recognition. It's almost as complicated a brain surgery or rocket science, and it's waaayy harder than cursive. 

So, who's responsibility is it? And what do you think is the FIRST step? 

(I will delete any comments deemed offensive or inappropriate all by my bad self, so don't be too obnoxious. You are, however, allowed to be sarcastic.) I saw a quote on FB yesterday that said, "If I eliminate sarcasm as a form of communication, interpretive dance is all I have left." Perhaps that applies to me in this post. 

hope for the BETWEEN

The events of this past Friday are burned into the public consciousness like the Challenger explosion, Columbine, 9/11. And, for my parents' generation, JFK. We will never forget where we were when we first heard. 

We all hugged our kids a little tighter that night, and cried as if our tears might lessen those of the parents whose lives will never be the same. 

There are a lot of questions. A lot of speculation. A LOT of finger pointing. 

In more than 13 years of working with people diagnosed with cancer, I have looked into the eyes of the dying more than I can count. There are few absolutes. 

Ultimately, we live in a place Between. Only those who are near to bridging the gap can actually see it, be it. And I have been blessed and honored to have them share it with me. We live, are ALIVE: BETWEEN. (It is a strange word to look at. It's not elegant or graceful, no matter what font it's typed in. It's awkward and clumsy and filling a space. Like us when we're there.) Between peace and war. Between birth & death. Between hope and heartbreak. 

Between heaven and hell. 

By being on this earth we are privy to witness aspects of both the real (trust me, very real) heaven and hell.   

And many ask where GOD is in times like this. We search, fearful and fragile, looking for the solid ground in the midst of the wiggly-green-jello-nebulous search for TRUTH. (And green jello is very wiggly, and very hard to stab with a fork, and barely passes for "food".)

Of course, GOD is here. Always was, always is. In the entirety of scripture, GOD is given the opportunity to describe itself, in its own words, only once:

"I AM."

GOD is here. 

Between. 

With us. 

Always.    

Octoberfest

Last year, we bought Liam a costume for Halloween. He had been saying for weeks that he wanted to be Optimus Prime. So I went and blew $20 on a cheaply made costume at Target two days before Halloween. Then on "dress-up day", he woke up and decided to be Dobby the House-Elf, and wore a pillowcase all day long. So much for that $20. 

This year, I told the boys that I would buy exactly nothing for their costumes, but I would be happy to paint their faces. They chose characters, I slopped on some face-paint, and voila! 

Darth Maul, Kittty, Savage Opress

The night before, both boys decided to go to school as Harry Potter in the invisibility cloak (thus the sparkles). That night, before trick-or-treating with their cousins, they changed again into General Grevious & a skeleton (the invisibility cloaks morphed into capes). 

  

Pirate Elizabeth, Corpse Bride, General Grevious and Skeleton Boy

This giraffe was immune to the fact that everyone thought she was a boy, and once she figured out she could get candy just by looking cute, she forgot about being shy. Her "trick-or-treat" quickly turned into "choc-ate peez?" 

I am so very blessed. And lucky. I look back at these pictures and hold the creative, unfettered fun of these kids as balm for my emotional exhaustion. I find myself holding them tighter every day, as others' tragedy highlights how tenuous this "normal" is.

 Oliver Wendall Holmes is credited with saying, "Too  many people die with the music still inside them." 

My prayer is not for a long life, or an easy life, or a comfortable life. My prayer is for a full life, one that is noisy and joyful and creative. I don't want to be immune to the pain of others. I shudder to think that I may be jaded to the music, no matter how discordant it may be. I want to be vulnerable enough to let it out, and give my kids the passion and freedom to share theirs as well, for they are the harmony.

Please, God, don't let me die with the music still inside me. And may there always be 'choc-ate'. 

Please.

Fullness of Friends

I have two goals for today. One is to update my blog. I haven't for at least a month, I think--I can't remember without looking. 

The other is to carve our garden-grown pumpkins (there are three--perfect!) with some of our closest friends. 

I hope to work these things in between the usual Saturday routine of doing laundry, trying to pick up after the kids, and generally making sure everyone has at least one clean pair of underwear for each day of next week. (Saturday is the one and only day I have to get caught up on the house. It's also the only full day I have to spend with my kids, unless we skip church on Sunday.) Chores are relegated to a lower priority than my kids and are reduced to the bare minimum, the least work by which to sort of maintain a little bit of space to move around in each room and make sure most things are put close to away.  

I confess that my home sometimes is an embarrassment. I do not welcome unannounced visitors, with few exceptions, and there are people we don't invite over because of their meticulous habits. I'm afraid they would be grossed out and uncomfortable. 

But. I digress.

I am very, very much looking forward to carving pumpkins. There will be six (count them--SIX) children ages 2-9, each with their own pumpkin. (Thank goodness there is an equal number of adults, even though the liklihood of us behaving as adults is slim to none.) It's sure to be a mess. No one is wearing anything I will be sad about throwing away. 

These friends are the kind you find, and can't imagine how you got through life before you knew them. These are the people you call in the middle of the night and know you can lean on. These are the people you aren't afraid to talk about the annoying habits of each other, because you know they will understand without judging. These are the people with whom you aren't afraid to laugh so hard you snort, cry, be vulnerable, share your dreams, skeletons, joys, fears and your children with. (Isn't it amazing how many friendships change when you add children in to the mix? That could be a whole different blog.) These are people I'm comfortable having in my house.

Gracie & Brek

My kids don't even realize that we aren't actually related to them, and that they could, theoretically, marry each other. They think they are all cousins, and I hope it stays that way. 

I'll try to remember to post pictures of the Great Pumpkin Carving. If nothing else, you can probably see them on FaceBook, between mine and Clay's page.       

Ferris Wheel & Garden

I rode a ferris wheel last weekend. I got on and tried to remember when the last time I did it was. I know I have, but it's been so long ago I can't remember anything except doing it. I don't remember where I was, or whom I was with, or what I saw.

I was like a kid at Christmas. Look at my face!! And we hadn't even had a glass of wine yet! I usually dislike amusement parks because they're so very overstimulating. But, lesson learned: do the ferris wheel first.

Tonight, we completely picked our garden clean in anticipation of a frost tonight. It was hard to believe that it could get that cold when it was nearly 80 out this afternoon, but even as we picked the wind started.

Our tomatillos conveniently forgot that we live around 6000 feet and are well north of Mexico; the rest of the garden followed suit and I had to look up whether or not green peppers can be frozen (yes, blanched first).

(While we picked, Gracie discovered that sand doesn't taste like brown sugar even though it looks the same, and the boys played 'Killer Zombie Apocalypse' tag like good Mennonite boys.)

It'll be several months before weather is nice enough to consider a carnival again. But I'll wrap my sweater tight around me tomorrow and look forward to drying basil and freezing peppers and green tomatoes tomorrow.

Waiting . . . .

My flight was scheduled to leave at 1:50. It is now 5:41 and we have made it from the terminal into the airplane. That was an hour ago.

People who are waiting are interesting. People read, mess with their luggage a little, go get coffee, play Angry Birds (guilty!).

And, eventually, they start talking to each other.

I've overheard stories about where people are going and where they've been (figuratively & literally). There is a scrabble game going on next to me that Is almost over, and I'm going to ask to be included in the next round. A lady and her partner just pranked a very good-natured flight attendant.

I met a chiropractor who has a practice in Woodland Park. She is looking for a bike; I'm looking for a chiropractor. We exchanged information while waiting for an agent (who never materialized) to rebook the connecting flights we have probably missed.

It's interesting what it says about human nature, and I'm sure there is a sociologist somewhere who could iterate all kinds of information about human tendencies. We are capable of a lot while we are waiting, which we do a lot of.

We wait to grow up. We wait for our turn at the bank window. We wait on the elevator. We wait at stop lights. (I once passed time in traffic counting how many people I could see who were picking their noses while they were waiting. It was really, really gross.)

And why do we stop talking when the waiting is over?

Perhaps I should start making eye contact with those around me instead of stressing about the ENTIRE afternoon of lost productivity and fulfillment. Perhaps I am missing other opportunities . . . .

So, how about that scrabble game?