Nursy thoughts this week:

“And everything that I said I’d do, like make the world brand new and take the time for you, I just got lost and slept right through the dawn.  And the world spins madly on.”

https://youtu.be/ApInErMBGbA

We see a lot of things most people don’t. I still think I am so lucky to have the job I do.  I work with the very best people. We rely on each other in a unique way because the stakes are so high.  It’s a weird job.  We see a lot of weird shit; funny shit; and a great deal of sad shit. We get to be a part of moments that matter to people. Sometimes I feel underneath the water of the suffering and grief; not all the time, or even most of the time, but sometimes. Most days we work; we laugh; we chat with each other and our patients, and we live perfectly normal days that we will forget.  We do our tasks, people get better, or don’t, and then we go home, make dinner, watch Netflix, and go to sleep. But some days we do all these things and it’s different.

This week was one of those that was different.  I don’t know what made it especially hard or stand apart from other days, except that I gave it everything I had, and it wasn’t enough.  I hate that feeling.  I remember several times in my time as a nurse that I have felt like I failed my patients.  Most of these times were during Covid.  I remember their names. I remember those last moments with them. I remember despite what limited time I had, my refusal, to let anyone die alone.  A lot of us have this commitment to our patients. It’s important. 

In this job, we have a glimpse into the end that other people don’t.  Sometimes I watch myself going through these motions and wondering if I am watching my own future death, my loved one’s suffering, my child’s possible future diagnosis.  Those moments that are just another day at work for me, are the days that matters for them; the one they will always remember, or the day that they won’t, because it’s over. And here’s the thing; that day is coming for me; it’s coming for all of us.

 

I held my babies a little tighter this week even though they didn’t really appreciate it, or understand why.  When I could I cried, and let myself feel all the things, because in my mind the thing that is worse than being too emotional and feeling too much, is getting to the place where I’ve built up a wall and feel nothing anymore.  I don’t want to be that person, even if it means I hurt a little more.

Here we go living our lives, going grocery shopping, writing emails, performing tasks, and all the while “this world spins madly on”.  It does this with or without us.   Why is everyone walking around like they have forever? “Don’t let the day go by, always say goodbye, watch the stars from your windowsill. The whole world is moving, and I’m standing still”.

This is 37

My experience as a human, as with many people I'm sure, feels as though I am watching a poorly scripted movie in which the star is fumbling through life, unprepared for what hits and frantically tries  to recover and be better equipped for the next hurdle.  Many times I feel defeated by daily challenges in being a mother, a nurse, a friend,and a partner.  I struggle being proud of where I am because it never feels good enough. It hit me recently that all my hopes and dreams that I wanted for my life ten years ago, I now have.  I worked very hard for these things, and now I have made new goals.  I look at the world I have set up, and I realize I like my job; I like who I am; I like the people in my life.  

We played a game a few days ago in which the question was posed, "If every career paid the same, what would be your dream job?"  I realized that it is what I do now.  It was an important realization for me.  It occurred to me that I am happy.  Furthermore it occurred to me that I am allowed to be happy.  I don't need to create problems, discontent, or drama to sabotage this.  I am happy.  

Just like everyone, I have been very hurt over the years. I have been rejected, betrayed, experienced excruciating heartache and have had enormous setbacks.  I have pushed through obstacles and pain.  I have made difficult decisions.  I have been wrong many times.  I feel that I have lived many lives seeing as the core of who I am and what I believed ten years ago, is now is embarrassing to me.  I can't believe the fairy tales I used to hold to as divine truth to make up for my lack of belief in myself, in science, and in critical thinking. I'm sure in ten years I'll say the same thing about some things I believe now.  I am learning and growing always.  But I do think I have come into my place finally.  I know what I believe.  I know who I am.  I know what legacy I want to leave.  I know this is all temporary.  I know I have one life and I believe this is my only chance.

I did something this year that was scary, that cost me time with my loved ones, my kids, and that ultimately cost me emotionally and financially, but was life altering.  It is something that renewed my fire to make a difference in people that are sick and hurting.  This is the reason I went to live in India 18 years ago.  I wanted to impact the world in some small way.  Although my way of going about it was flawed and fruitless at the time, the motive was the same.  My goal was the same.  I am thankful to have a career now that enables me to go into scary places and do the things that I believe really matter.  

So I am still here; still fumbling; still learning; still seeking.  And weirdly; now happy.

Blinded By Certainty

One of my very favorite pictures from back then.

Ten years ago a transition started for me that catapulted this journey of doubt and questioning.  Now looking back, this was the most heartbreaking event that I ever have been through; more than my divorce.  If I'm honest about it, it still aches when I think about it.  It was the most painful, life altering, earth crushing thing that could have ever happened to me.  And when this happened I started questioning; questioning everything.  Ten years of questioning has brought me here.  Ten years ago made me find who the new "me" was.

Up until this point I always pictured my own evolution as a human as "finished".  Looking back to my years as a teenager I was so sure I had found it; found that thing that I was looking for that would make me finished needing to grow.  I was incredibly concieted because I believed that I knew a secret that no one else knew.  "Truth" was mine; I had found it and my work was done.  Until this thing happened I was stuck in my sense of surety; blinded by my certainty.

And then my sense of security came crashing down along with my marriage and I craved to find myself.  I knew that I was in there somewhere and I had to find me.  I became fixated on finding my new truth and couldn't land because I never ever wanted to be sure again.  Sure didn't save me.  So for ten years I have continued to circle, continued to avoid landing, and resented any pressure to do so.

But lately I have found myself landing.  I don't feel a empty and lonely wandering like I have for ten years.  I have developed opinions about heavy duty principles that are engrained not only in religion, but in the expecations of our society.  And I have realized that I have evolved again.  Except this time I don't want to be stuck, because this won't be my last evolution.  I'm looking around me at people who are at different levels of their development, and I am realizing it is beautiful.  I look at my children who are so sure about some things that I know they will chuckle about later.  Why have I felt the need to rush this?  It is all part of our story.  It won't end on a certain day where we arrive at some destination of enlightenment.  Enlightenment is a journey that hopefully never ends.

I am so thankful that after ten years I have found my current enlightenment.  I have done a soft landing and I know will evolve again at some point but I'm settling in here for a while.



This song came on today and I remember listening to it trying to hold on the the fact that I would come out of this alive and well and better.  And I believe that I did.


https://youtu.be/WY0QcSQf_mc

"It started out as a feeling which then grew into a hope.
Which then turned into a quiet thought, which then turned into a quiet word.
And then that word grew louder and louder until it was a battle cry.
I'll come back when you call me.
No need to say goodbye.
Just because everything changing doesn't mean its never been this way before.
All you can do is try to know who your friends are as you head off to the war.
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light.
You'll come back when it's over.
No need to say goodbye."

Half A Nurse

So you know that last few miles of a marathon that feel like they last for hours?  They hurt so bad and it is sheer WILL to make your legs go.  It's almost like time is going in slow motion and it feels like you are going in slow motion too.

All along this journey my biggest fear has been that I don't have what it takes.  I have always struggled in school.  I struggle with learning, especially in a classroom setting and my grades have always reflected this.  This first official year of the RN program I really zeroed in on some deficits that I have with auditory processing.  I was able to identify some of the struggles I have always vaguely known I have.  My biggest fear has always been that my very best would not be good enough; that I would give 100% and I would fall short; that I actually am not cut out for this.  

Even typing this the emotion of it is overwhelming to me.  One of the biggest challenges for me is that most people think I'm smarter, better, and more capable than I am.  They think I can run faster, get better grades, and do more than I actually can.  I feel like I am in a constant state of falling short from what is expected of me.  And I continue to have these goals that I purpose to achieve.  I'm getting older, I feel I should have accomplished more, and it feels all the time like these goals are beyond me.  But I've known I won't fall short for lack of trying.

This first year of nursing school has been terrifying.  I got in to this program by what I thought was a fluke.  I didn't think I deserved to be here. I have been surrounded by people far more capable and smarter than me. The testing was unlike any testing I have experienced and I was constantly meeting with teachers trying to figure out how to get the grades to get through this.  One clinical instructor specifically had some sort of contagious belief in me that carried me through that first semester..  She insisted  that I claim my place here.  She told me she had no doubt in me.  And then the second semester came.  I knew it would be the hardest.  Again I had a clinical instructor that required excellence and made me want to give every bit of my very best.  I am better because she saw it in me.  The hours that these women spent with me going over my care plans, and test questions was humbling.  They invested so much energy into teaching me how to think and into my practice.  I'm very lucky to have had specifically them as my mentors.

Starting  this semester, I knew that the 14.5 units along with working enough hours to keep my health benefits would stretch me very thin.  I knew that if I wanted to find the time to run, and make my almond milk, and my kids lunches, and cook meals from scratch, I would be up early and in bed late.  I knew that I wanted my kids to read, to not have screen time, and be outside and run and play.  All of these things take time, and my own investment.  I knew there would be very little time for me, and I knew that I absolutely would not be able to do it on my own.

As I was driving to school this morning for my last final I felt like I was in those last few miles of the marathon.  I was listening to this song and all of the sudden I knew that I had so much crying to do and I just had to keep it together until it was over.  I still was scared I wouldn't pass the test just like I always am.  I was shaking just like I always am.  And then it was over and yes I cried.  A lot.  I did what I really didn't know I could do.  And I did it while keeping to every goal I set to keep.  From my grades, to my mileage, to the way I fed my family.  

As I look back at this semester I am struck by all the people that came out of the woodwork to rally behind me.  I have the most amazing village.  I called on every person for every favor imaginable and I am so thankful from the bottom of my soul to everyone that believed in me and picked up all the slack that I couldn't manage.  

To all the "you's" out there who came up behind me and held me up when it was too much:  Every time you took care of the kids so I could stay for lab.  Every little baking ingredient you gave me when I always forgot something at the store.  Every time you dropped bread off for the kid's lunch sandwiches.  Every time you sent me a word of encouragement.  Every time you picked up my kids to go have fun so I could study.  I have the most incredible amazing village and I'm unbelievably humbled by it.  And to my nursing school family.  You know who you are.  I know I couldn't have gotten through those hours of coffee, prosecco and muffins without you. This sounds like I'm getting an academy award, but for reals I'm just very thankful.

And from what I've heard the hardest part is over.  I'm still not a nurse.  But I am literally closer than I ever thought I could get.  

https://youtu.be/BokWa9GN4Ro

The Peach Street Bubble

The Peach Street Bubble

What I learned the week my Opa died.

My Opa lived on Peach Street.  This is the last place he lived.  The last of many houses I loved.  The last of the houses that speckled my childhood with memories.  I remember the thhouse where I first tasted Sunmaid raisin toast with real butter.  I remember the house where he taught me how to ride a bike.  I remember the house where he taught me how to snow skii, and where he taught me how to drive.  I remember the house he let us live in when we were a young struggling family.  This is where he taught me how to make a budget and balance my checkbook.

When I am at the end of my life, and I look back on pivotal points in my story, I think the week Opa died will be one of them.  What is sad is that it is impossible to explain.  And I’ve tried and will continue to try to explain it to those who were not there; but I don’t think any combination of vocabulary will illustrate why that week was special.  And perhaps it isn't important that anyone else understand, but this will be a failed attempt at briefly telling the story anyway.

One Monday in October, Opa had a stroke, and I happened to be working at the hospital when he came in by ambulance.  That was the day everything changed. Before that day it was his story that made him powerful.  His success through a terrible onset made us all look lazy, uninspiring, and apathetic.  He took his nothing beginning, and made it something.  He was the picture of dedication, hard work, and success.  This man, who knew everything, who was strong, and driven, and able, became an invalid.  He was always in control and that day, for the first time, he was helpless.  

After much deliberation and agony, Opa’s wife Linda, my Aunt Cyndi, Diana and I, agreed to discontinue treatment based on his wishes:

“The statement I have signed below is to apply if I am suffering from a terminal condition from which death is expected in a matter of months, or if I am suffering from an irreversible condition that renders me unable to to make decisions for myself, and life-support treatments are needed to keep me alive.  I request that all treatments other than those needed to keep me comfortable be discontinued or withheld and my physicians allow me to die as gently as possible.”

I read it over and over.  I tried to imagine him writing it.  I tried to imagine how angry he would be if we didn’t do what was indicated.  There was really only one option and it was unthinkable to me.  It went against every instinct for healthcare that I have.  It went against everything that my padded and spoiled life have allowed me to experience.  But we did it.  

That night my brother Daniel showed up to the hospital with an overnight bag, and blankets and ask to move in next to Opa.  Thank goodness the census was low.  Thank goodness the nurses were kind to this crying and desperate kid.  So Daniel moved into room 256 bed A.  No one that wasn’t there can understand how beautiful it was to watch my brother care for his dying Opa.  I have never seen reverence and dedication like this before.  With little regard for himself he washed, kissed, and caressed him.  He talk to him; he read to him; he was with him constantly.  I watched my brother have a strength I didn’t know he had, and I certainly knew I didn’t have.  I watched my Mom at his bedside trying to communicate with him.  I watched her pain as she processed becoming an orphan.  I watched her love and accept all the meager attempts that we made at comforting her.  I watched my sisters, who have been estranged from her, come in love, respect and an attitude of peace.  I watched my Dad and my stepmom bring food and support several times a day.  I watched my ex-husband who has not talked to my family in over 5 years, pay his last respects to this man who loved him and supported him.  I watched him reach out to my family in a way I never thought was possible after our divorce.  I watched my Aunt Cyndi first hand be the example of nursing that I have always looked up to.  I watched my brother Mike coordinate all the logistics, details, and paperwork that needed to be organized prior to his death.  I watched Linda, a woman I barely knew at the time, become my Grandma.  She loved and cared for my Opa at his very worst.  She didn’t see the best of him that we all did.  She saw a frustrated, nearly blind old man and she chose to marry him, and love him anyway.  She loved him at his lowest, and continued to love him as he died.  She earned this family with all of it’s dysfunction and problems.  She became my Grandma that week.

I felt the youth and life within my children's little hands and bodies become potent.  To hold their vibrant hands in the same moment that I held his dying hand was powerful.  Their presence within this story struck me as the only future Opa had; the only future I have.  They are our tomorrow.  

We took him home on Hospice on Wednesday.  I felt like it was a story that I was watching happen.  Mike had to help the medics carry him in a sling because the gurney didn’t fit through the door.  Opa’s grandson, who he had mentored and inspired, was now bringing his lifeless body through the Peach Street doorway, to die.  It was too tragic and too beautiful to be real.  

What an alteration in my reality.  No matter who we are in life, we are all at the mercy of our own death; we are at the mercy of human kindness, and we are at the mercy of those we love.

There were many different beliefs and some non-beliefs that accumulated together that week.  It didn’t matter.  I think what affected me the most was watching all these flawed people with their own pain and stories come together.  There were a lot of mistakes made that week.  There were toes stepped on and feelings hurt.  And we all communicated from the beginning that everyone got a “free pass.”  We decided that we were in a bubble in which, “No one can do anything wrong”.  And no matter what wrong anyone did, nothing was wrong.  

The Peach Street Bubble meant that we were all choosing to not be offended.  We were all choosing grace instead of entitlement.  We were so tired, and emotionally drained and yet we still did it.  Everyone did, and it was beautiful.

As day after day, and night after night went by, and he got worse and worse, I was more and more fearful.  I wasn’t fearful of him being dead, I was fearful of the process of death.  I was fearful of him suffering.  I was fearful of him being afraid.  I was fearful I would kill him when I turned him.  I was fearful he would choke on the morphine.  I was fearful of every breath that was farther apart from the last.  

He lived 5 days after the stroke and died Saturday morning at 7:50 am.  And after all my fear, I can say that it was a beautiful death.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.  I’ve never felt such a bond like the one I felt with the five people next to me those five days, and especially those last moments in which he took his last breath. 

The Peach Street Bubble taught me there is more to people than I knew was there; sometimes the most beautiful parts of people come out in the hardest times.  It taught me that anything can change at anytime and to value all my moments.  It taught me that I have been surrounded by the best people and I’m honored to love and be loved in-spite of my brokenness.  I will look at strangers differently; I will look at my patients differently.  Most of all I will see my people differently; both the people that I have chosen and those I have by blood.  I’m honored to be surrounded by so many amazing souls.  

Rest in peace Opa...

Community

It's been over a year since I've posted anything here.  This site used to be where I processed the horrific end of my marriage and the battles that ensued afterward.  The battles continued but the blog died away.  Partly because I was so worn out with my own story that I didn't want to reiterate any part of what was happening.  Writing it down solidified it happening.  I was exhausted.  And now four and half years later, I am still exhausted.  The same stories are happening.  The same battles rage on and I still experience the same heartbreak for my children.

But there have been new stories.  There have been new beginnings and new endings.  I have been sad and happy about many other things.  I have figured out that I am most definitely not a christian.  I have wrestled with my ability to be ok with that, and live with the persecution that has ensued.  I have the same friends that still love me even though they have all moved away.  Their commitment to me can attest to how amazing they are.  I'm an adult now; for reals.  I have purpose and drive that actually has a plan to back up all the dreaming.

So today is about what has been heavy on my heart this week.  I haven't had my kids this Thanksgiving break because they have been with their dad.  Without my kids I struggle with knowing who I am.  Take away my children, take away my running, my work, my school, my family, and who am I?  So much of who I am and what I believe is so confusing.  It is contradictory and impossible to explain.  I feel guilty for disagreeing with my own engrained ideas.  So much was weird in the way that I was raised and that is ok.  But so much of it, weird or not, has created the monster I am today.  I was raised in community.  We were all one big family.  The loyalty was fierce.  Thanksgiving was our biggest holiday and the warmth and love I felt on that day as a child is indescribable.  I had many mothers.  I had many many siblings.  And most of them were not my blood.  Everyone was always there.  When one of our families made bread, we all got a loaf.  When one of our families had zucchini, we all had equal amounts.  Costco was never done alone.  Community-cult; whatever you want to call it, it was beautiful and I loved it.  As I got older I started to realize that it was weird to people.   I spread my wings I realized that it was a rare thing.

And now here I am.  Thirty one years old; missing desperately my community; feeling so alone on this holiday week because it is no longer what I remember.  I don't have that same warm feeling.  No one is making a community soup with Thanksgiving leftovers.

So I had an epiphany.  I've spent the last 13 years of my adulthood mourning the loss of the community I had as a child.  I keep on expecting this magical community to form and it doesn't.  People do their own things and they should!  So next year I've decided to host Thanksgiving.  Nothing will be what it was before.  I need to get over it.  It's gone.  I'm going to make my home my own version of community.  Not just for the Holiday, but for life.  I'm going to open my doors to my family yes, but also those that don't have anywhere to go.  It's time to be an adult and be someone else's community. It's time to show my kids what that looks like.  It's not going to look like my childhood community, but I can take the good things that I loved, and do my best to BE that for others.  I can't expect others to be that for me.  I end up terribly hurt.
How can I be a better friend or family member?   How can I love those I love better?  I guess being a grown up means it's no longer about me.

if i die young

i love this song... for a lot of reasons... its got that folksy thing i'm all about... maybe it's the whole 30 thing... seeing people die... seeing babies born... seeing my children struggle... figuring out what i believe this whole life is about...

i always kinda had this feeling i would die young... there was a part of me that didn't mind this... i figured i would experience a whole long list of stories enough for a few lives and die when i'm still trail blazing through them...

when i had kids i felt a little trapped... there's no way i can be crazy and live the life that will tempt the possibility of risk.  it's a different sort of risk.  it's my very soul out there living and walking and breathing with every danger facing them.   i can't protect them like i want to.  it's the ultimate loss of control and the ultimate blinding, searing, heartwrenching love.  i feel that in many ways i am much older than i am.  i feel that i have lived a lifetime already. 

in this entitled country we might not see the cycle in the same way.   i believe that most people can't have a world view unless they've seen multiple cultures and ranges of quality of life.  there is something about seeing life, death, pain, and joy in different cultures.  it makes us all the same somehow.

i've experienced everything that i knew-that i knew-that i knew come crashing down: twice.  i've loved with all my heart and been left crushed.  i've survived only because my children needed me.  i've come back.  i've loved again.  i've grasp the second vision for my life.  i'm just one of the billions of people in this world that have struggled and fought and lived and lost and lived again.  we are all the same.

every time i type someone's date of birth at work when i'm registering them as a patient, i think about that day.  i think about their mom pregnant with them.  i wonder if she was over due or early.  i wonder if she loved her baby; if she wanted them.  i wonder what sort of story they had.  if they are young i wonder if someone tucks them in at night... if they are old i think about what they must have been like when they thought they would never get old.  i think about that invincible feeling that young people have.  we are so stupid.  before long we are saying "it all goes so fast".  before long we are saying, "what did i do with my life?"  and then it's over... 

at what point in our lives do we think about what we want to be remembered for instead of what feels good right now?  what will our story be?  what will other's say our story was?

it's an honor to be here now in this little blip of time that is my lifetime.  i'm so happy to be placed where i am with the people that i have around me.  

what do we have but our own little corner of the world that we can do our best to make lighter and more beautiful?  what do we have other than choosing love?  what do we have other than giving our children the tools to make their own corner of the world more lovely after we're gone?