This Isn't Going to Work

I learned something about being a nurse recently. I need to be in way better shape for it. After my dad died I went on antidepressants for a few months, and put on about 15 pounds. Then, in December I was in a pretty decent car accident that did a real number on my neck and my back (nobody involved was very seriously injured, thank goodness). I managed to put a few more pounds on since then. Those two things, combined with a relatively depressed state, have got me in the worst shape I may have ever been in. I feel clumsy and weak, and I have been anxious to get back to a fitness regimen, partly in order to be a worthwhile nurse. For instance, as I have recently learned, CPR is no joke. Compressions are exhausting. Glasses sliding down the sweaty bridge of your nose, arms buckling, heart pounding, exhausting. I mean, I’m supposed to be able to thrust with all my strength and weight against a human body 100 times per minute, squeezing a heart between a sternum and a spinal column, which in theory will keep blood coursing through a person’s arteries, and keep their brain oxygenated long enough for that heart to be able to take its job back over. The rules say you’re supposed to switch out the person doing compressions every two minutes. I only lasted one minute. It’s a lot of pressure. It’s scary. And, my body is just too weak to handle it right now. This is my turning point. Every day I am going to put good things in my body, and strengthen it so that I can be physically ready to save lives. 

Oh! P.S. I turned my graduation application in last week! Whoop, whoop! 

New Semester

I am two weeks into my second semester of nursing school. During our first week we met our clinical instructors and found out where we would be going for our clinical rotations. I found out I would be assigned to the oncology wing of one of our local hospitals. I have to say I feel a little dissociated lately. The word oncology made me say out loud, "This might be hard." But, really, I didn't feel anything. I've been going through life not feeling things, and just saying what I think is probably appropriate. Until one day I'm sitting in a lecture, and my professor is talking about deep vein thrombosis, and how you want to be careful about not rubbing the legs of patients who are at risk for it, and I am suddenly no longer in the lecture hall, but I am gently rubbing my dad's legs, trying to offer him relief because he is in so much pain, and his legs are so swollen with edema, and there's a small part of me that is thinking would it really be such a bad thing if he had a pulmonary embolism, because at least then he would die and this would all be over. So, I go from not feeling, to my eyes uncontrollably welling up with tears in the midst of a lecture on some totally innocuous subject, and I have to quickly get to the bathroom where I lock myself in a stall and have a good, ugly, snot-face cry, and pray that nobody follows me in.  

I have a lovely friend who has been along side me for about two years of school, and is in both of my clinical groups. She asked me over lunch if I was going to be okay. She is worried about me. I'm a little worried, too, frankly. I thought briefly about asking for a different assignment. But, is that the kind of person I want to be? Somebody who runs and cowers from life's challenges? There is something so perfectly orchestrated about the situation in which I find myself. I'm not shouting divine intervention here, but would this count as situational irony? Thanks, God. But, seriously, let's just say I'm living out somebody's screenplay. What would be the ultimate challenge for a girl whose dad just died from cancer? Oncology ward. What would that girl need to help her rise to meet that challenge? Here, have a friend who will be right there for you, and knows what you've just been through. So, fine, cosmic playwright. Challenge accepted. And, help appreciated. Now I get to dig a little deeper into myself and find out just what the hell I'm made of. Stay tuned for Act II. 

Trying to Get Back On My Feet

I haven't known how to talk about anything since my dad died. I hear other people talk about him, and I think they seem so much more reflective. Articulate. Feeling. Anything I try to say now will never, ever be enough. So, why bother? I'm shuddering right now.

I thought I was going to die myself while he was sick. My blood pressure was skyrocketing. My head pounded with intense pressure all the time. I was never in the right place. If I was in Savannah going to school I needed to be with my dad because I knew he was dying. If I was with my dad then I wasn't studying enough. There was always a test to get back home to, and for several of them I sincerely never even cracked open my books. Because I needed to watch him breathe, hear every word, sing every song. 

Even when he couldn't walk, and the words he said didn't make any sense, and I'm not sure if he could really see us anymore, he could pick up his violin, and his fingers would find the right spot on the strings. His bow would glide easily across them. He could pick up his harmonica and play you something so mournful, or soulful, or foot-stomping that you couldn't hold yourself still. Here's Daddy playing one last time with Sonia Leigh, maybe a month before he died. My aunt, his youngest sister, was able to take him out this night. I wish I could have been there, but I am so glad he got this night with her. 

My husband stayed with my dad every single day until he died. In some ways it feels good to share my grief with him. He loved my dad so much. I know he will never run out of patience for the feelings that overwhelm me out of nowhere. My dad's sisters and parents all hugged my big, anti-social, stand-offish husband, and told him he was an angel. And he was. He is. He really got my dad. He was able to finesse everybody's personalities as we were all falling apart around my dad. He translated for him when his brain had him speaking "brain salad." Our time with my dad could never have been as meaningful as it was if it weren't for my sweet husband. He carried my poor, sweet daddy to the bed where he died. He helped the hospice nurse clean and dress him. How do you ever show somebody how grateful you are for something like that?

God, there's just so much more I want to say. I don't know how to do this.

Next time I'll talk about puppies. 

Sometimes Life is Stupid. Precious, but Stupid.

Day 1: Sink explosion. Clogging of the drain on the right hand sink caused backup of water to explode out of the failing seal on the left hand sink. Full sink seal failure. Gallons of yucky water, and me in my sock feet. Gross. Refuse to study after clean up. Life is stupid. 

Observe the air that exists between the thing coming out of the bottom of the sink and the thing that should be taking all the gross sink water out to sea. Or wherever gross sink water goes. 

Day 2: Study and Assessment lab. No issues. 

Day 3: Study and Skills lab. No issues. I'm feeling pretty on top of things. I am not worried at all about my Pathophysiology test on Friday. 

Day 4: Study from 10:30 to 4:30 and get through one stupid chapter. I realize I know nothing about Pathophysiology, and I am going to absolutely fail my stupid test. Call husband and remind him to replace the back seat in his Jeep so we can all go to our friends' house for dinner. He informs me that he has misplaced the hardware for the backseat, and he can't install it. I tell him to make it as safe as possible for me to sit back there. I ride on a folding camping seat on the floorboard. Very classy. We eat delicious burgers with smoked Gouda and peppered bacon, sweet potato fries, and a yummy salad. And, we laugh a lot with our friends. Then, on our return home, proceed to fight the traditional Thursday night math homework fight with our son. Both my son and my husband have lost their tempers and their minds. In the middle of this I look at my phone and see I've missed a call from my sister. There is also a text message from her that says, "Call me, please." This is not going to be good. I call her back, and she tells me that our dad is in the ER and there is the possibility he has had a stroke. They are going to be performing tests, CT scans, MRIs, etc. She'll call me when she knows more. I'm not sure how to tell my husband and son this. They can tell I'm upset. The fighting stops. The atmospheric pressure drops in our house. Our house feels somber. We pray for my dad. 

I stay up late working on school stuff. I talk to my dad around 12:30, and he is on morphine. I wonder if a stroke would cause lasting pain that would require morphine. I don't think I have all the information. I don't say any of this to my dad. I am more worried after I hang up the phone.  

Day 5: Test day. I'm definitely not prepared. My mind is elsewhere. I keep checking my phone, but I have to turn it off during the test. I am anxious. I start my test, and I know almost all the answers. I can reason my way through the ones I'm not sure about. We did a test analysis immediately after the test was finished. I made a 94. What the what?! I'm shocked. 

My school day finishes at 4:00, and I wait until 5:30 to call my sister. She is en route to the hospital and will call me when she gets there and has news. At 6:00 she calls and sounds upset. She asks if I'm at home and can talk. My body is very tense. I close myself into my bedroom and crawl into my bed. I'm prepared for the very worst news. She tells me that the MRI revealed several lesions on my dad's brain. His melanoma has insidiously returned and metastasized to his brain. Jesus. 

I don't know how to tell my son. He loves his grandfather so much. His Grampa (Gumpa, The Green Goblin, Pick). But, I do. I am crying into my husband's chest, and I explain what I know. Our hearts are breaking. So slowly. But, we get to spend time with him. We get to say goodbye. We may still see a miracle. God, please, make him better. 

I start making arrangements to travel to Atlanta. My husband is taking me to pick up a rental car when I call my mother. She happens to be in Charleston, not far from Savannah, and offers to come pick us up. She is going to cut her trip short and rush home also. I take her up on this, and my son and I drive up with her that night. My husband will join us the next day so he can make arrangements for the dogs. 

Day 6-7: We leave for the hospital in the morning, stopping on the way for breakfast and coffee for everybody, and clean clothes for my dad. Mom, my sister, my son and I all hang out with my dad for a few hours. Then I spend Saturday night and Sunday alone with him. He is so slow. He seems so much older than the last time I saw him. I don't know if it's the cancer or the drugs. I am trying to stay positive in front of him, but I am so sad. I help him with his food, and I sneak down to the family waiting room to get him good coffee. I try unsuccessfully to study for the Assessment test I have on Monday. I just hang out with my dad. My in-laws drop off a rental car for me, and my son and I leave around 5:00. My husband stays behind to help my sister take care of some business. We get home close to 11:00, and I let my son sleep in bed with me. We are both sad, and scared, and don't want to be alone. 

I'll return to Atlanta on Friday after school. So I can hug this wonderful man so tight. 

   

My First Check Off, Thankfully Not My Last

This was a short week. We had Monday off for MLK day. This leaves me with the feeling that I still don't really know how rough this is all going to be. Two easy weeks in a row. 

I say easy, but . . . Wednesday I had my first skills check off. This was the first opportunity I had to lose my spot in nursing school, and the amount of internal pressure I felt was immense. I'll jump to the end of the story to save you all from feeling anxious for me. We had to make a 90 to pass, and I made a 97. I passed, so breathe easy as you read on. The skills we had to perform were simple enough: oral temperature, pulse, respiration rate, blood pressure. You are awarded points for successfully completing all the various tasks. Some of your points are dependent on simple things that you have to do before or between tasks. Walk in, wash your hands, introduce yourself, make sure you've got the correct patient by checking an imaginary armband on your partner, have them tell you their full name and date of birth, provide privacy by drawing an imaginary curtain closed . . . There's a lot of miming, so it's easy to forget things. I practiced all my skills as the day came closer, and I felt really confident going into that room. I had butterflies in my stomach, but I felt good. I mimed knocking on the door, and introduced myself while I was sanitizing my hands. I asked my lab partner for her name and birth date, and when she said her birthday my lab instructor said, "Your birthday is July 17th?! Mine is July 21st! We're both cancers." My lab partner responded with something about Leos, and birthdays, and I just stood there, feeling like a deer in headlights. I was completely disrupted. I didn't know what I had just said, or what I was supposed to say next. I was lost and confused. My heart started pounding, and I could feel the pressure in my head building. The clock on the wall that had been unobtrusive before was suddenly pounding in my head. It was all I could hear. I took a deep breath to try and center myself, and regain my focus. Out loud I said, "What did I just do? I checked her armband. What do I need to do next? Temperature? Temperature. Okay." I grabbed the electric thermometer from the table in front of me. I narrated my actions, and then realized I'd forgotten to mime closing the curtain for privacy. I backtracked, and closed the curtain, then proceeded. We're supposed to count pulse and respirations at the same time, but I couldn't see my partner's chest rise at all. I asked if I could crouch down so I could see better, and started over. Then I realized I'd forgotten to ask my partner all kinds of background information about whether she'd had anything hot, cold or caffeinated in the last thirty minutes, her activity level, her emotional state, smoking . . . ugh! I hopped up and asked her all the appropriate questions. I had been derailed, and I was still not back on track. My blood pressure was skyrocketing. I was starting to feel ill. I could no longer find my partner's pulse because all I could feel was my own blood throbbing in my fingers. I switched arms. I found her pulse, but couldn't consistently distinguish between hers and mine. I flubbed finding her estimated systolic reading. Which meant I didn't inflate the blood pressure cuff high enough when I was trying to get her actual blood pressure. I had to do it over. I was so far off that my instructor had to tell me how high to inflate the cuff so I could get an accurate reading. I felt faint. I don't know if I was documenting everything correctly because I felt like I was becoming detached from my hands. I got an accurate blood pressure, and although I did it in a schizophrenic manner, I managed to do and say all the right things in the end. Praise the Lord. 

I felt absolutely ill for the rest of the day. My head was pounding. My stomach hurt. My resources were depleted, and my muscles all felt weak and exhausted. As soon as I got home I climbed into bed. I think I ate dinner with my family. I must have helped my son with his homework. It's all kind of a blur. Thursdays are my day off, and I spent this one in my pajamas. I had a decent cry -- the first of many, I'm sure. Thank God it's over. Next time should be easier. 

Week One Recap

Week one of nursing school is in the books! My class schedule is far from overwhelming, although I already feel like I'm behind in my studies. My labs are intimidating, but fun. I am in both Skills and Assessment labs with seven other girls. We range in age from very young (twenty, maybe?) to fifty-seven. Everybody has a good attitude, and seems encouraging and helpful. Most importantly, I feel very smart in my uniform.

Meanwhile, life continues . . .

We are living on a shoestring budget right now. We absolutely are not prepared for disaster of any kind. And, what should happen the day before nursing school began, but the failure of my car's transmission. I have a wonderful friend who was also accepted to the nursing program, and whose schedule is consistent with mine, who has been taking me to and from school. So, I've got my ride covered. Whew! I foresaw scheduling conflicts on the horizon, so I made arrangements for my son to ride the bus to and from school. His rides are covered. Double whew! So, despite the compounding chaos that was doing its best to derail me, I have kept calm. I know, without a doubt, that this path I'm on is the right one, and nothing is going to deter me.

I have a wonderful family, my own as well as my husband's, who have been supportive beyond measure. Last semester I realized work and school were absolutely not going to be able to coincide, so I committed myself to student loans. Gulp. I'm currently in a state of delaying bill payment while I wait for this semester's money to be dispensed. For two months now I've been dependent on these financial miracles that keep coming along -- like manna from Heaven. For instance: I spent $120 on uniforms which weren't ready on time for my first class, so I popped my head into the office of one of the admins, and asked her if she knew what I should do. She asked me what size I need and produced two uniform tops for me! I was able to return the tops I purchased once they arrived at the uniform store, and then there was enough money for another week of life!

Last week, out of the clear blue, I received an email from an old friend who I've only had superficial interaction with for years. Out of respect for her privacy I won't give too many details about our interactions, but she and her husband offered to contribute to my school costs. The exact nature of their contribution remains a surprise, and it's honestly irrelevant. The way God moves in the world blows my mind. I haven't asked for help. I haven't started a Go Fund Me page. I just needed this very specific kind of help, and far away, in a person from my past, God stirred something inside of them that saw my need and acted on it. I am overwhelmed and incredibly grateful. 

My family's needs are consistently being met. I feel utterly cared for. I am learning to let go of worry.  

"Do not worry then, saying, 'What will we eat?' or 'What will we drink?' or 'What will we wear for clothing?" . . . "But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you. So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

The Purge

I've been organizing my life in preparation to start nursing school. So much junk has been thrown away. Bags have been packed and taken to Goodwill. My desk has been cleared and dusted. Years worth of paperwork that I have been neglecting has been sorted and filed. I realized that I have been running short on room in my filing cabinet. There was one folder that was packed particularly densely. The tax folder. I pulled it out, and discovered that my records go back to 2002. I googled: How long do I need to keep my tax returns? And, straight from the IRS website, I got the answer three years (there are reasons to keep them longer, but I don't have any of those reasons). Why have I been holding onto all this junk?

My family encountered some financial drama when I was a kid. Even though I am an adult, and I'm perfectly aware of how much money I have in my account, I still get a nervous feeling whenever I swipe my card at the grocery store. I just know it's going to decline my card. I know I'm going to have to leave all my groceries melting in their bags, and walk out embarrassed. I know the IRS is going to audit me one of these days. Even though I have only filed simple tax returns for almost my whole life. There's nothing I do that should raise a red flag, but I still have saved every single tax document of my entire adult married life. Since 2002. This morning I have done something huge. I just took every tax document from 2002 to 2010, and threw it in a burn pile. Okay, so I haven't actually burned anything yet. I might publish this and then run and rescue everything, and put it all back neatly in the filing cabinet. But, I think I'm ready to say goodbye to all that rubbish. I think I'm going to be okay.    

I am going to get control of my life. I am not going to be perpetually surrounded by chaos. I might be surrounded by whimpering Labradors, and mountains of laundry, and sixth grade math homework, and VA nonsense, but I am going to stop giving into irrational fears, and throw away garbage if that is what it is. And, I'll hide underneath my headphones to block out the sound of the Labradors.