At least he's not smearing sh*t on the walls

Things Milo could be doing with his stubborn, high-spirited nature during these times of intense life changes:

1) breaking things

2) punching people

3) making himself throw up

4) launching food and overturning dinner plates

5) marking his territory with urine

6) stashing, storing, smearing, or otherwise playing with his own excrement

7) sneaking out and getting drunk with the guys... 

8) hooking up with the loose girls at day care

9) making fake IDs with my iPhone

10) having nightmares, really falling apart...

I guess an occasional 2 hour bedtime show-down is small potatoes. 

At first, I thought it was standard stalling and tried to be firm. But 30 mins in (20 mins after his older brother had started snoring), I stopped focusing on getting what I wanted and just started rummaging through drawers for a white flag to wave...

When he sat on the top stair, twinkled his non-tired eyes, rested his full, puffy cheeks in his not-so-tiny hands and answered my, "You are going to bed right now" with:

"No.  I'm not."  Then he got quieter:  "I. Am. Not...   Not going to bed...   Not tonight."
Then he looked at me, with pity and exhaled: "no. I'm not."

Serious as a heart attack.

People, I know when I'm beat.  My mama did NOT raise a fool.  I'm all about being the adult - "the parent" and setting limits.  But it was the calm in his eyes- like the sea in a glossy travel brochure; it was his non agitated, purposeful stare...

And as Yoda- oops, I mean - JAKE told me earlier today, "Mommy, do you know the secret to beating your enemies?  Make them your friends."

"Okay," I told my curly haired challenger, "If you're not going to bed, come down here and and help me clean up.  You can start by cleaning up your cars."

Trying to get them to bed early on transition day, I had planned to return the 17 die cast metal cars (we counted them aloud 4 times as he parked then in the shape of letters (and one time in the shape of a "mark" that I when I tilted my head a little I realized was a pretty perfect "question mark") away.

When the cars were away, I had him put the couch cushions back and fluff the throw pillows.  Then I told him to go get two books and we read them each - twice.  Then we headed upstairs and drank a small dixie cup of water and as I laid him down, we talked about his day:  The hole he dug in the sand (It was huge)... The sand he put on the slide (even though his teachers told him not to put sand on the slide)... We talked about kindergarten coming up in the fall.

He didn't know that I had already decided I wouldn't even be trying to leave his lower bunk bed until I was dismissed.

Back when I worked in the ICU, I had this little rule, if a patient/or family rang his/her call bell 3 times within 20 minutes, I would pack up my charts and go in there and sit.  I would first see what they needed, and answer their question or request; BUT then I would pull up a chair or desk and sit there yammering and/or charting until the patient and/or family would say something like, "You must have other work you have to do."

When I stopped peppering Milo with questions and the conversation started to lull, I didn't make a move to leave.  I didn't even shift my weight, but still he grabbed my face and whined: "I NEED you." I held my hands over his hands, tight on my cheeks.

"I need you and love you too,"  I replied

"I WANT you."  He pulled me tighter.

"I'm right here."  I kissed both his palms and offered him mine. 

"I ALWAYS need and want you."

"Me too."  More kisses on his hands and arms

"You always... yell at me."  

I laugh.  "I SOME-times yell at you when you don't listen, but I am not yelling right now."

I snuggled in closer. "I'm staying right here until you tell me I should go."

Literally 10 seconds pass.

"When you hear the 'DING' you go.... DING!"  He high-pitched the last word into a flawless, one-toned bell.

"Okay, when I hear that noise, I should go?"

"No.  It ding'd.  You should go now... it already ding'd."

 Now I'm laughing, hard: "Wait... Now? go now???"

"Yes.  You have to. It already Ding'd.  Sorry.  I love you.  Now go."

Bahahahahahahaha!

Seriously, this kid is ridiculous.

***Doff thy initials

*** Some of you may note, this is the first time I have used the boys' names on the blog.

The truth is, it is just too hard to write about them now using the sterile initials. In real life, they are so 3D and vibrant and textured... AND so much of who they are starts with what we call them.

At least Jake, on occasion, gets called "JB" by me, outside of the sphere of the GSO. But Milo is Milo and writing "ML" instead of "Milo" feels like a big lie. It feels a little too much like creating a clumsy alias "He-who-must-not-be-named"... It feels like having to watch the entire Wizard of Oz in black and white... At this point in time, using only their initials feels like I'm putting a veil or blanket over the heads of 2 of my most favorite people in the whole world.

When they were first born, using initials for the boys seemed like the right way to "protect" them and give them some anonymity. But that does not seem necessary now. These boys are so far from anonymous (especially to the readers of this blog). Continuing to use their initials in place of their names is like trying to explain their personalities without words. Katy and I love the boys' names so much and we think each has grown into their name, enriched the name we gave them beyond even what we hoped it might mean. Each has filled his name with depth and definition and also bent like a moon into the pull of his name. I agree with Shakespeare, that a being would likely be unchanged if it had been given another name. Yet, our boys cannot be separated from their names in my mind. The essence of who they are is entirely intertwined with their names.

We call Jacob- "Jacob", "Jake", "Jakey", "J", "JB", "Jacob Brian". He answers to all of those, but ALWAYS introduces himself as "Jacob". One time, I asked him if he wanted me to call him "Jacob", if he minded that we called him Jake (I held my breath, knowing that this would break my heart a little, if he asked me not to call him Jake. But the first rule of caring for someone in nursing is you ask what s/he wants to be called. If you respect someone, you let him define himself and not impose or omit his name or title... Even if you are the people that named him.) Jake replied, "no, you can call me Jake... or Jacob". He was nonchalant and steadfast. And I felt so relieved that he seemed to really be comfortable with the options we offered him when we named him.

Milo is Michael Logan (yes... like J-Lo). When we named him, we figured, he wouldn't be tied to a "trendy" name if he didn't like or "fit into" Milo. But I would be shocked if he grew to be called anything else. He is "Milo" as much as tree is "tree". "ML" is just off-putting and lame compared to this dynamic little force of light and life and willful opinions and giggles and sweet kisses and musical prowess and hypnotizing stares that we call "Milo".

I love these boys!
I love who they are more than what we call them.
But I do also really love their names.

Not COOL!

So, Um, I deleted the blog today.

It was one of those things where you're trying to take care of business and you are trying to do it with efficiency, say like- while thinking of several other more complicated notions and processes.

Well let me start by saying, I am an author of a few blogs that I don't post to anymore. One of those is the original GSO. But that URL contained our last names, so I created this URL (that you are reading right now) and moved the GSO here. That original blog became a "THE GSO HAS MOVED" page.

SIDEBAR: I made these changes over a year now and I've gotta tell you, it never ceases to amaze me how many of you (according to Google Analytics) are still hopping over here from there!!!
I mean, that must get tired... no??? For the love of Pete, change your bookmarks, people!!!

So, I'm at work and I'm finishing up like 5 things... and for some reason, I'm thinking, "let me scratch that 'DELETE OLD BLOG' thing off my list".

Why?

i do not know.

And I check about 6 or 7 times that I'm looking at the correct page and then someone calls me and asks me a question and I click DELETE and YES, I'M SURE I WANT TO DELETE...

And then, it's there- the old one: "GSO has moved" but "GIN-SOAKED OLIVE" is gone.
In it's place is a tiny message:

your blog has been successfully deleted!

There are a few moments in life that take your breath away.

When I was a junior in college, i struggled all year with Nursing 214. I am totally making that number up- I don't remember the course number- it is irrelevant, but this was the FIRST. MAJOR.BIG.SPECIALTY course that contained: biology, pathophysiology, pharmacology, microbiology, and nutrition. Pause for a second to comprehend that- they couldn't separate those?!? They had to pile them all into one 5 credit course. I mean at least give me a shot with nutrition- but if you combine nutrition with those other crap-cakes, I will always be guessing because it will be too far down on my priority list to ever get any study time.

I was 20 years old, and i had spent 2 years living through chem and physics and other nursing pre-recs. Before that, I spent a lifetime getting As and Bs in the "advanced classes" my public school, but Nursing 214 made a little gash in the tug boat of my scholarly success early in the fall of 1993 and by December we had taken on too much water. The ship was about to go down.

Truthfully, I just didn't understand about MEMORIZATION. Until Nursing 214, I achieved great success by not really memorizing, but learning concepts well and then making educated guesses during tests. I played that 'I'm an American 20 year old' card and honestly believed my own excuse: "I'm just not that good at memorizing". It's like telling your piano teacher, "My fingers are just too short" (which I did) when both of you know that you are just too lazy to put in the practice time.

If there are any 15 to 20 year olds reading this, just cut the shit and put the time in and MEMORIZE the answers. In this example, the drugs, the bugs, the muscles, bones, enzymes, hormones, and chemical names are not "concepts to understand"; they are lists and lists of crazy-sounding, somewhat vital (to a career in health care) details that you need to cram into your head b/c even if you don't use it to save someone's life someday, it WILL be on the exam.

I needed a 70 average in that course to move on in the program, and I got a 69.4.

No. I'm not kidding.

When you went to check your final grade in Nursing 214, it was listed along with 99 others next to each of our social security numbers (I'm pretty sure they can't do that to your SS# now) and there were two numbers: the grade on the final exam, and the final course grade. According to my calculations, if I got a 72 on the final, I was home free. On the final, I got something like a 71.6%. I figured that would round up, so for a few micro-seconds, it was all relief and joy, but then my eyes moved to the next column and saw the SIXTY-NINE... POINT FOUR that revealed my semester's ACTUAL numerical average.

Bullet in the heart... devastation... sudden obstructive airway disease... sheer panic... blinking... Denial. Regret. Pain. Guilt. Remorse. Sadness. Anger. Bargaining. Dry mouth. Then metallic mouth. Then urgent sweating... possible puking... walls closing in...

I walked back to my dorm and sat in the staff office of our residence hall. Head in hands, I guess I had never really failed anything before. A test or quiz maybe, but not like this. Not- "sorry, you'll be in college for an extra year" kind of failure. They didn't last long, but my feelings bordered on sheer hopelessness. My friend Lauren stumbled upon me and without knowing what was going down, she measured her words carefully. Later (when we were laughing about my somewhat dramatic, but very physical reaction) she told me, "I just assumed someone in your family had died."

There have been other, subsequent moments that caused that NOT-ENOUGH-AIR-IN-THE-ROOM-TO-BREATHE sensation:
- When I returned my dad's call that night in October '97 and got the news about John...
- That Monday morning in July '07 when Katy called me and told me "they are all gone"...
- Watching our 3 week old baby have a seizure on the CAT Scan machine...

Yeah, I know- these are pretty extreme comparisons, but that's what I'm trying to convey here.
I deleted the M-F_ing BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It just disappeared. Gone. SIX YEARS OF WRITING. Almost all of my thoughts on our marriage, our children's lives. Nearly everything I've created (except the boys)... holy'omygod!!!

Well, before I get all dramatic, it obviously didn't happen. Blogger has a plan for idiots.
There is a button (equally small) that says,
"undelete this blog"...
So, I clicked it. And here we are.

There was some extreme relief at that point, but does anyone out there know anything about "backing up a blog"; I think I need a little insurance over here.

Come out, come out, wherever you are... Part 2

On St. Patrick's day this year, I was in Texas.

I've talked about how the political climate struck me as a tad bit suffocating in Part 1.

I was having a good time and it is quite lovely on the San Antonio river.

Missing my boys and my sweetie, I still wasn't going to ignore the fact that it was ST. PATRICK'S DAY. And on most years that goes by fairly UN-celebrated by me (due to familial and work obligations, not because I don't want to get all sloppy on green beer and Irish car bombs.)

There was that one time when my sister and I took the day off to spend it in a bar in South-ie...

and we drank all day until everyone in that place seemed like a pal...

But usually it's a toss up: "sleep... Green beer? Sleep... drunk girls in a too crowded bar, spilling green beer everywhere?? Sleep... spending too much money on bad Irish food and over priced car bombs???"

I know... I'm lame. I usually chose the sleep. Especially since the kids were born and wrecked my ability to sleep off green beer.

Anyway, this year, I was away from home, getting plenty of sleep, only responsible for myself. I had intended to round up some nurses or others from the conference to go rouse a little rabble.

It didn't work out. The 2nd day of the conference ended weird with some opting to go visit a site and others rushing away early and I was somewhere in between, ending for the day far too early for dinner. I went back to my room. Had an ichat with my family and then decided to head out on my own.

Going out to a bar on your own is strange, especially when you don't have any sexual favors to barter with or center banter around. It's not my game, but I think I understand why there are those people that travel a lot for work who make up an alias... It can only get you into trouble, but it's just so that you can go out and "hunt" for a dining companion, right? Anyway... I found a bar Durty Nelly's

This place was all set for the night; the piano-man was in the center of it all, singing ditties and limericks and keeping everyone entertained:

I found a seat about 12 feet from the piano, up against one of those boxed-in support poles. There was a small (14") table to my right and one empty chair besides mine. I was there for about 30 minutes when I started to get restless and feel awkward about being alone. I wasn't really in the mood to be so outgoing as to make new friends, and I for sure wasn't interested in giving up my seat to go make screaming small-talk (over the sound of the music) with strangers.

I sat for about 10 more minutes, my blood feeling like mercury rising as it measured my increased discomfort. Then in walked two couples looking for seating. They seemed disoriented like when you step from the sunlight into a darkened room and can't quite find your bearings. After I watched them twirl around a few times scouting for unavailable seats, I motioned that they might want to pull some chairs around the small table next to me.

Shuffling.
Confusion...
I got up and quickly corralled 2 extra chairs, pointing to a 3rd in a far off corner. They were happy and silly and it calmed me. We introduced ourselves and ordered up a few more drinks. The "Hi"s and "Where are you from?"s and "What brings you to San Antonio?"s lasted 10-20 mins. They had a few stories of this long trip they had taken to the western edge of Texas, and being social with them was as easy as stirring up a pitcher of iced tea in the summer.

We weren't too far into it when Mary asked about my kids (I showed pictures) and if they were okay with their mom so far from home...

I paused. I admit it, it is not how I roll usually- hesitating to bring up my wife- but this Texas place is strange. People down there seem to have a special way of not expecting the obvious (or what might be obvious to me...)

I smiled. Giving her the most reassuring and genuinely friendly vibe I could muster:

"Well, they have two moms, so they are doing okay..."

"What's that?!?" Mary asked blinking.

"I'm married to a woman, and our boys have two moms, so they are in very good hands when I'm away."

Two blue eyes stop blinking and fly open - wide as saucers.
SRSLY.
She literally brings her hand to cover her mouth which is now gaping open.

I can't even formulate the mental "oops" because her reaction is so extreme, so cartoonish that I am actually giggling.

I wait. There's not much more for me to say, so I let her get a grip of herself and recover from the (apparent) shock.

The other members of her group are not really aware of what is going on... They are eating peanuts, looking around... the music is loud and they have missed the meat of our conversation. I don't think they have noticed her surprised expression.

She lets her hand fall to her lap and her mouth is still open when she forms the words, pausing dramatically between each one. Searching carefully for each syllable, it's as if she is inventing language from scratch. She leans towards me.

"Are..."

It is too loud in here for a whisper to be audible. Though she is shouting, her eyes focus and her posture grows conspiratory in nature.

"You..."

She glances left and then right.

"A..."

I can barely handle it. Is this for real? Is she going to have a stroke???

She squeals the final word: "Democrat?!?"

I about lose my shit. I expected LESBIAN not DEMOCRAT. I nod enthusiastically as I laugh and smile hard at her. (Unlike being gay, being a Democrat is NOT illegal in any state.) But I am wondering, will this be the thing that prompts her to overturn the tiny table between us??? I just can't figure out what is going on... What is about to happen?!?

"Yes," I tell her again as she continues to stare at me blankly.

Then it explodes:
"I AM A DEMOCRAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
(yes, that many exclamation points)

And a round of hoots and howls and giggles.
She is speaking wildly now- dozens of words a second- it is even more cartoonish than before- Now I freaking love her!!! And yet I'm struck with instant empathy. Here is a woman, deep in the heart of TEXAS, who is so isolated in her liberal politics that an Irish (1/4 Irish-mutt) lesbian from the North-East who shows up at a bar on St. Patrick's day is her best shot of MAYBE...

NOT DEFINITELY... BUT MAYBE...

Meeting a fellow Democrat.

You know what this means, right??? In Texas (And Mary has lived there all her life and presumably been out there looking for others) you more likely to run across an OUT homosexual than an OUT democrat...

I don't believe they aren't there, it's just that they have to hide in the closet!!!

Holy shit.

I about pee'd my pants at that bar... The night didn't end until we had shared a few too many drinks and Mary dialed up her 18 (? I forget his exact age) year old son for me to have a chat with via cell phone. (I have no idea what that was about either, but he was just as sweet as he could be and didn't seem the least bit surprised- It clearly happens to him all the time.)

Though none of her other companions indicated to me that they were also democrats, they seemed pleased as punch that Mary had located another one of us in this quaint section of the world.

I say again, "Holy shit." Can you imagine if I hadn't come out to this poor lady??? She would have spent the entire night assuming I voted for George W. Bush and sent money to Sarah Palin's PAC on a monthly basis?!?

You have no idea how profoundly this effected me. Let's just say, there are people all over the world, that need to know they are not in this alone!

;)

** Let's Talk.About.Thanksgiving... Shall we?!?

Today, the world lost an amazing woman, and extraordinary nurse. I lost a friend, a mentor, and an occasional surrogate mom.

I was 23 years old when I met Deirdre. I was a new nurse, starting a new job in the MICU and everything I needed to know about her, I learned in that first shift: She was all business, no nonsense when it came to the job. At first blush, she scared the shit out of me. But you only needed to hear her laugh to know there was nothing to actually fear - she was full of life, heart, humor, mischief, giggles, and truth. Dee would tell you what was what without batting an eye. She could say to you "Why are you wearing that? You look ridiculous!" but make it sound like, "I've been thinking, and I have a great idea for a make over!" She was what my gram would have called a "rascal". To qualify for the label the way my gram intended it, you'd have to be someone smart, someone that intuitively knows exactly what is going on, someone that pays attention and "doesn't miss a trick", someone that speaks truth in a good-natured way, that can knock an arrogant fool down a few pegs without seeming mean or threatened, someone soulful but who truly enjoys a good joke.

Deirdre was all of this. And a real class act.

She taught me so much about what it means to be a nurse. Being a nurse means doing things the right way. Working fast but not taking shortcuts. Taking care of what you can, fixing and organizing what you can; and creating comfort and respectful solutions when things can't be fixed. Washing and rubbing a back, lotioning someone's feet, helping a person eat or go to the bathroom, listening as people talk about their lives- these are not small, insignificant things... They are usually the most important things.

I stopped working in the ICU almost 10 years ago... And Deirdre left before then. We hadn't spoken in a long time, until last year when I learned that she had been diagnosed with Cancer - stage 4.
We emailed a few times, and in November, we had a big party in her honor.



She looked fantastic! The last time she wrote me, she told me that her prognosis had improved... Today, I was caught completely off guard by the news. I hadn't realized that she had recently gotten much worse, that she was hospitalized last week and transferred to hospice.
She died last night, surrounded by her family. She was only 65 years old.

There are too many stories to tell about Dee and all that she taught younger nurses and all that she did for (hundreds and hundreds of) patients, and all of the laughter she encouraged, but these are two of my most vivid and treasured memories.

Grief Stricken Nubbie:
I worked in MICU right out of college. I had recently broken up with my high school sweet heart, my first love of 6 plus years, by BFF all through school. I spent that first year as a nurse, trying to learn how to be a competent professional, trying to recover from the break up, trying to figure out who I was, trying to make sense of it all.

I was happy though, making money, finding satisfaction in my work, developing really amazing friendships. All the people I met that first year, never knew me as John's girlfriend. Never knew me as any one's girlfriend. I didn't have a significant other, wasn't really looking, and maybe some guessed it, but I don't remember telling anyone that I was searching for a way out of the closet. It was complicated inside of me, trying to figure out a way to break the news to lots of people that I wasn't straight.

It must have been really confusing to my colleagues how devastated I was when John died in October of 1997. When people asked what was going on, I first had to explain about John and then had to try to convey the terrible grief I felt. Words were inadequate and so I used few of them. After trying on a couple detailed explanations, I shortened the tale to "He was my best friend" and now he was dead.

Those first few weeks, going to work was awful. You don't realize you work in a place that is all about death until grief settles in you like a magnetic field and the tiny, metal shavings of death (that lay like fine dust in a modern ICU) fly from their resting spots to coat your skin. I was a wreck. And it took several weeks before I realized that people there were watching me. People like Deirdre, looking out for me, moving obstacles before I bumped into them, intervening on my behalf- "You go help with this admission, and I'll do that" I'd be told when it was time for me to prepare and "bag" the corpse of one of my patients that passed away.

One night, I caught the Jay Leno show, and he had a clip from this new comedy called "South Park". Watching it, I laughed and laughed and laughed. It was one of the funniest things I had ever seen. I taped it and watched it over and over and realized, it was the first time I had laughed- really laughed- in almost a month. I brought the tape to work and showed several people (trying to figure out if everyone thought this was funny or if I was cracking up.) Dee was in that first crowd of people and she laughed even harder than I did. Hearing her laugh made me laugh even harder. The laughing felt good. She and I watched that clip a dozen more times that night. We set the TV and VCR in an empty patient room and every so often, we would go in there and watch it a few more times... getting more silly each time. After that night, I would have done anything for that woman- that experience really helped me start to heal.

What would your mother say:
The second story: I had started dating a woman that we worked with. She was a travel nurse and started on our unit a few months before, expecting to stay 3-6 months longer. She was colorful and funny and a good nurse. She was popular, but not quite comfortable in her own skin and had a tendency to be erratic- not at work, but when she wasn't working. Again, I was not really "out", but I wasn't NOT out. Anyone that asked a question, I told the truth to, but this was like 12 years ago, Will and Grace wasn't yet on TV, not a lot of people brought it up.

Still, even though people weren't asking me about it the way they would have if Dana had been a man, we had told several of our friends and there is no doubt it was probably the worst kept secret on the floor (maybe in the hospital). One night, Deirdre pulls me aside...

D: What's going on with this Dana girl?
Me: what do you mean, what's going on? What do you want to know?
D: She's no good for you.
Me: (laughing, slightly embarrassed) what?!?
D: I'm not trying to get into your business, but you are going places and she is not going anywhere you want to be- this isn't about her being a girl... you want to be with a girl, that's fine, this isn't the girl for you...

Thing is, she was right. Not that the girl wasn't good for me, necessarily, but she was right to bring it up. She was right there for me... not letting her possible discomfort or fear of not being politically correct distract her from attempting to care for me. She was there to treat me and this relationship with the respect that comes from someone who tells you to "Pay attention!!!"... who reminds you not to shit where you eat... I wasn't even considering if Dana was "the girl for me" or not, but hearing that said out loud made an impression on me. I wasn't estranged from my family or anything, but there were no "parent-type" members that knew about this relationship (or if they knew, they didn't bring it up to me; and I didn't bring it up to them). Unless you count my MICU family (which I do...).

When you needed a mom or mother figure (whether you knew it or not) Deirdre was there. When you needed a mentor or a friend, same story.

The thing I'm having trouble describing in these memories of her is the love and vitality that Deirdre brought to every interaction. The perfect balance of salt and sweet. She would bust your balls, but it wouldn't be to break you down, it would be to build you up. She was a hard ass, with a heart of gold. She could be serious, but her laugh was seriously infectious.

When I got the news today, I felt sick and I felt sadness wash over me. For a few minutes, I thought I might start shaking with sobs at the loss of someone I haven't spent more than an hour talking to in the last 10 years. It's just this: As is true of most of the people who are our teachers, she is so much a part of special and important things inside of me, that she is kind of with me all the time. And intellectually, that's reassuring because that means (if she is living inside of me) I can never really lose her to death; those parts of her that she planted in me will still always be with me...

But...

That doesn't dampen the ache I feel knowing I will never hear her laugh or see her smile or her wise gaze again.
Sleep well, sweet-tough-nurse, funny-soulful friend.
You are loved more than you know and I miss you already.

**

Armed gunmen

I'm on the plane, coming home from CA.

Last night I told myself I wouldn't write about this on the blog for a lot of reasons that I will expand on below, but today- I realize I have to... Because that is what my heart wants and what my brain needs; and this space is at least a little to give my heart and brain a tiny bit more of what they want.

Yesterday afternoon, I got a text from my sister: “Did you talk to mom today?”

Pretty benign, right? But I knew immediately that something had happened.

Quickly, quickly- as my stomach was dropping- I considered some possibilities: a diagnosis for someone close? My grandmother didn't wake up? An accident?

Web (text): She's okay

Me (text): What happened?

Web (text): She walked in on a bank robbery

Ugggh... texting ends and I call her cell phone.

So, my mom doesn't like to put a lot of things out there. And my blog is probably not how she wants a lot of people to find out about this surreal, scary, personal thing that happened to her. But that's what it is to have kids – they are always taking your stuff and misusing it...

Mom went into the bank and whistles and bells went off in her head when she didn't see any line of customers or any bank tellers at the counter. In the few seconds it took for that neurological signal to translate into a thought, she saw a gun man, heard a shot, smelled some gun powder, heard some shouting, and left.

She left the bank... running... after a shot was fired... from a handgun...

She said, she didn't know what was going on. She said she thinks her brain couldn't process the foreign inputs and stimulus. She just ran out the door...

Holy shit.

I want to laugh. I want to cry. I don't know how to explain what I am even feeling about this, let alone what she must be going through. I mean, it seems like the man (there were two of them, but she only saw one) didn't even know she had walked in to the bank. Her instincts must have told her that they hadn't seen her yet, because she wouldn't have run out if she thought that would have put her in more danger. Right?!? The BALLS on this woman!!! To just know to get the hell out of there...

Once a patient told me: “It's okay to be liberal when you are young, because you're optimistic and have a forgiving heart... but as you grow older, only a fool doesn't grow more conservative.” At the time, I wasn't sure what brought that tid-bit of advice out of him, but I knew what he meant: I'm a person that believes in rehabilitative punishment, believes that a majority of violent crimes are committed by mentally ill or extra-ordinarily desperate individuals; that poverty, racism, class-ism, and decreased educational opportunities contribute to imbalances in wealth and power that make circumstances ripe for us to dehumanize and commit crimes against each other. It's not that I empathize with criminals, or excuse crimes, I tend to want to see individual events and experiences, though, and I tend to NOT want to generalize the intentions of others...

All these years, I never forgot what that patient said and knew he was probably right. I've sort of been watching myself to see when and if it would happen – me growing more conservative in my attitudes. I'm gay and anyone that reads this blog knows where I fall on the political spectrum, but the thing is, I'm definitely shifting when it comes to crime.

I guess I'm just getting kind of sick of assholes flashing and firing guns to scare people. To scare and threaten people I love... or worse...

Who do these people think they are?!? It isn't enough what happened to our friends in their own home 3 years ago??? It isn't enough that we were just starting to relax in our homes after dark???

A moment should be taken to thank God and the Fates and Furies and Winds that this blog post ends up being a meandering, insignificant “blah, blah, blah,” instead of a horrifying recounting of a violent crime. Because I can't bear to even consider what could have happened, I'll focus instead on admiring and praising my mom for rocking out in every crisis scenario I've ever seen her face.

Steady we go. Trying to keep each other safe, pretending that we control our destinies, clinging to those we love, trying not to be afraid of the dark. Or in this case, the broad light of day.

I love you, Mama- I think you are very wonderful and brave!

How nurses lose their muffins

A former student of mine keeps me laughing with his status updates on facebook.

Yesterday, he sent me an email:

I took care of a 69-year old man, a 5-year resident of (long term care facility). Last night he got hungry, reached over the counter of the nurse's station, and stole a muffin. He aspirated on it and arrested, and now he's brain dead.

Death by muffin. Greatest story ever.

I replied:

It would be the "greatest story ever" if he was dead dead, but he is in fact only brain dead, and that makes the story just "sort of great" and alternatively kind of gruesome.

I am more worried about the nurse manager of (long term care facility) and the "safety" protocols that are now going to have to be written and implemented about pastry consumption on the premises by staff and patients. I wouldn't be surprised if they have to implement a q 15 minute "muffin check" on every patient or a "pat down" of all visitors to the ward, or a change of shift "baked goods count" for the next several months.

Do you see what my job has done to me, I admit I'm dazzled by the death by muffin headline, but it just seems like a lot of paperwork to me...

I've told the story twice, and both times was asked to put it on the blog... sick senses of humor these healh care providers have!

at the conference

Posting from the conference attendee lounge at the NP conference...

having a great time, mostly because of the friends that are here. the classes have been so-so so far but the pool and gym have been great!

I miss the boy a TON. I miss Tracy too but I've been apart from her for 5 days in a row before. Him, not so much. Tracy was kind enough to send video and pics by phone this morning which of course made me nearly cry until I shook my head and returned to thinking about the renin-angiotensin system in hypertension.

sigh.

i have an amazing life.

now on to re-learning ECG interpretation.

Mother's day

Our first Mother's day was nice. Though, I don't think I am experiencing the hallmark holiday the way I am supposed to. I didn't experience some kind of squishy, I-might-tear-up reaction to the notion that this was our first mother's day. Even with how long we waited and what we tried to get this little dude here. I'm not sure if it's b/c there are two moms in our house that I'm not more like, "This is my special day." But considering how emotional I've been lately, it surprises me that I wasn't all introspective and dramatic about it. This day felt no different to me than any other day. I don't feel as "changed" as people indicate I am supposed to. I mean, don't misunderstand me... In general, I am changed. I am a little more anxious with these additional responsibilities and human ties. I am a little more tired in a physical and emotional sense. I am a little more full and settled and sure of my path than I was a year ago. I feel as if my skin fits a little better than it used to. And I love this boy. A ton. I'm blessed by bearing witness to his personality and growth process. And watching my beloved and my baby interact (my boo and my baby-boo) is just fantastic and endearing and gratifying.

I know as deep as it can be known that I am his mother. But I'm not sure that the label "feels" right just yet. Does this make sense? An example: last week, I was in a meeting and we were speaking of legislative and budgetary issues and I was playing my role of executive particularly well, and then this wave of "something" came over me and for a brief second, my brain was filled with only one, loud thought: I HAVE A KID IN DAY CARE- RIGHT NOW!

And as the smoke of this lightening strike of a thought gently dissipated, I had to mentally shake off the shock of it, and proceeded on through the rest of the meeting. Thing is, I usually have tons of thoughts flowing through my head all at the same time. It gets noisy in there and I am used to it. But it's like, when you're at a wild bar and then something happens that puts everyone into the same conversation for a second: DRINK'S ON THE HOUSE! HOORAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!
I mean, that is a memorable and unique/ shocking experience.

So, the "Mother" identity... it still fits like a starched lab coat on a first year nursing student.

But could it be that most of the essence of me is unchanged b/c I've always been a mother- I just never had a kid before? (Are people born gay? Are people born 'mothers' and 'fathers'?) It's like, all that love and patience I've tried to carry around and spread out, it has a more organized direction to flow in now. I'm still sometimes absolutely shocked that we have a son, but (I don't know how else to say it) I've always been a mom... something's always stuck in my throat when I saw bad things happen to kids on TV... I've always been willing to wipe up peoples' snot and crap and tears... etc.

I know that if JB had not been born last Sept, and this had been another mother's day just like all the other mother's days that Kt and I have spent for the last several years, we would have felt a little empty. And we would have probably been a little sad, without even meaning to be or maybe even knowing why. Instead, paradoxically, today felt like an average, normal, unremarkable day. But... it was a low-key, sunny, spring Sunday. And the resulting gratitude of such a day prevailed:
I have a seriously great life.

And I mean, good Lord...




How cute is this kid?
-------------------------------------------------

Yesterday, we went rock climbing. For the first time, Katy and Jake joined in the fun.
My fingers were burning and purple by the time we were done.

But our son spent the better half of 4 hours just looking around, being held, and acting content.
We took a few moments for a photo shoot when it looked as if JB needed to spend some time bouldering...

When "Hello" sounds like "F**k you"

This past week was a little harrowing. First, our kid was sick for the first time and played the pathetic card the whole time. (When your sweet little zen boy is suddenly just whimpering it's not good) We each took a day off work so we both had piles of work waiting for us when we returned. Then, of course, I had to catch whatever amazing bug JB has, so I am now handling my 3rd cold in 6 weeks. It really reminds you where exactly your mucous membranes are in your face.

It's also been a little harrowing at work for about 8 months now for obvious reasons. So, I'm pushed to the edge not only in terms of sheer quantity but also knowledge. I have been an NP for almost 6 years now which is GREAT. But my particular patient population requires someone with about 400 years of experience. I am pushed to the brink of my understanding of any number of diagnoses nearly every day. I'm lucky to have two awesome back up docs (one internist and one endocrinologist) who help me figure out not just the safest next step but the best next step. And that's really what we're trying to do in the wake of everything: not just maintain status quo, but continue to provide precision care by utilizing lab and radiology tests only when necessary but not not using them when they might help us find the diagnosis.

So, I get 3 physician calls on Thursday. One called to ask my professional opinion about a mutual patient, we laughed, we came to a decision. One called to say hi and check in on how we're all holding up and make sure he can continue sending his trans patients to us. And one called to say "F**k you." Actually, I think she meant to call and discuss a mutual patient but it sure sounded like "F**k you." She (specialty: GYN) was questioning the use of an MRI of the head in a patient for an endocrine problem (my specialty). In the end it seemed like her problem was the cost of the test (which is ironic since I spend a good deal of time refusing to check lab tests and xrays etc when they are clearly not indicated; it makes for long days). She busted my balls for a good 10 minutes not really ever listening to my rationale, and when I suggested that she was well within her rights to suggest to the patient that she not have the test if she wanted to take on that medical liability she said, "I would never step in like THAT!"

Oy.

It was tiring to say the least. It turned out, in the end, that I was right. The MRI came back showing exactly what I was afraid of. I cc'd the MD on the result.

I need to call her to follow up. I'm hoping my "F**k you" sounds like "Hello, how are you?"

Update on his "under the weather"

So the bean-boy has a diagnosis:
Viral Bronchiolitis with a secondary bacterial right ear infection.
And a course of treatment: 10 days of BID amox.

He is horse when he whimpers now and is on regular ty.lenol... we were giving him ty.lenol here and there over the weekend, but now he's on guilt-free doses... BD (before diagnosis) we weren't' sure if we were being too generous with the OTC meds.

It has to be said, we love our pediatric group. We've seen 2 of the four and they are 2 of the nicest, level-headed, don't-hesitate-to-call, poor-little-guy, you-three-are doing-GREAT, compassionate providers i've ever encountered. Also, the 3rd dude (who is really the first dude b/c he started the practice) is a little sprite man that we met in prenatal classes. He won over katy's heart with his corny but hilarious stand up routine that contained the reassuring mantra, "if you're thinking of calling the pediatrician, call the pediatrician." We met him only 2 weeks after heinous atrocities were visited on our friends this summer and I think it was the only time katy belly-laughed in those 2 weeks. Then, once when I walked by MD#3 at JB's 4 month appt- He behaved as if he had never seen an infant in his life. he's got to have been in practice for at least 20 years and he approached our boy with the excited twinkle of the candy-man (but less creepy). He said, "ISN'T. HE. JUST. MARVELOUS."
"Yes." I replied and then he about did a jig in his own waiting room over the gloriousness of our son.

Anyway, I think it has got to be kind of hard to impress two seasoned, over-educated, health care professionals. But these providers do it every time. They never make us feel overbearing or needy. They've never pushed medical doctrine too hard; when we've asked for an opinion, they've never hedged or weaselled out of it; they've never acted like there is only one definitive answer. They're incredibly respectful in that they aren't afraid to educate us (sometimes when you are in the industry, people don't tell you anything b/c they are afraid to assume you don't know). Also, they somehow convey in perfect balance that they are the experts on children, but we are still the expert on our child... I am blown away by this, but I realize (sadly) it's because I've rarely experienced it with other providers when I'm on the receiving end of the health care system.

Anyway, our poor little guy. He's in good hands, but he's just so sickie.
Out of day care again tomorrow, Nana is on private duty. More for the TLC than for anything.

In other news, Grandma Bella arrived home from her snowbird stint in Fl today (woo hoo).

And my sister spend the better half of an 8 hour work day in traffic this am trying to get to her beantown office. That's a shitty way to spend your birthday, Web... I was wishing you well, but I guess I wasn't wishing hard enough... Also, here's hoping your Jesus year doesn't include the birth of your 3rd child (that would make it the third in 3 consecutive calender years.)

LITTLE HINT: Unless you are pregnant RIGHT NOW, you can prevent this potentially back-breaking straw from falling on the camel by abstaining for the next 4 weeks... Though if you don't want 3 children in 4 years, i suggest you try birth control IN ADDITION to abstinence.

Don't do it for me... I love your kids and welcome any number of additional boo's!

All kidding aside- sorry you had such a hard travel day. Happy b-day! I love you!

Postpartum

Today I had my first, serious postpartum crying jags.
Yes, plural.
One was during the day when I was here by myself, and one when kt came home from work. (I'm not counting the tearing up that occurred when I was on the phone with Lissa, or the NEAR-tearing up when i was on the phone with Web.)

I'm tired and overwhelmed and (honestly)
a little bored all at once.

The kid is fantastic: latching, eating, pooping, peeing, sleeping; even if that sleeping thing only happens for 1-3 hrs at a time (and that 3 hour scenario is rare and unpredictable).

The ICU nurse in me is not dead. I want constant bio-feedback: heart rate, resp rate, temperature, detailed and accurate I and O's. The crunchy, earth-mother in me wants some other feedback entirely: a serene and knowing gaze, a giggle, proof of some kind of deeper understanding... from a 19 day old???

What am i psychotic???

My biggest problem is that I'm having trouble staying in the present. Things are great, but what if they're not... I've lost weight but what if I balloon up in a few weeks. He seems so perfect and healthy, what if something happens... Very fatalistic and un-Zen.

I'm blaming the crying on the hormones. But I think more outdoor walking and perhaps some Yoga is called for. After spending the last 10 months surrendering to my body during pregnancy, I seem to have slipped right back into "my mind." In case you've never seen it up close, the immediate postpartum period is not exactly an intellectual endeavour, so my first order of business is to try and stay IN MY BODY for at least a few more weeks.

Shower Mania

This weekend was our baby shower weekend.

The parties- that's right, I said it- partiES were amazing!
The day started with a few hours of beautification/quality time with my mom and sister. Mom treated to hair and make-up designs. Well, I did my own hair, but got the thumbs up from Hottie McFantasy (my mom's sexy, hip-hop, female stylist) We looked fantastic when it was over.

When my sister suggested to me several weeks ago that she "wanted to pay for me to get my make up done the day of my shower." I have to admit, I didn't know if she was trying to give me some kind of hint. Like that time I got a facial and the woman asked several times during the treatment if i ever washed my face. Then at the end she held nothing back: "Normally at this time, I give a recommendation for products that a client might buy and use. But PLEASE, I IMPLORE you, just wash your face... TWO times a DAY." I still can't believe I endured that lady's final eye roll and left a tip for her when I paid. I HAVE LARGE PORES AND MY FATHER'S FAMILY'S SKIN! THAT'S WHY YOU GET PAID THE BIG BUCKS... TO DEAL WITH IT ALL A FEW TIMES A YEAR, LADY!!!

Anyway... I'm a simple girl, I do lipstick and gloss and sometimes, on big occassions, mascara and foundation; but it always seems like a bad idea on a hot, humid day.

I realized on Saturday that my sister just knew that after her haircut and make up job she would be totally adorable and didn't want me to look pale or less stunning in the photos we took together. (It's good to have a sis that knows about these things!)

From there we met Katy at the restaurant for formal yummies at the "family shower." Katy brought Kate and Marnie who came in from out of town and spent the rest of the day undertaking various Sherpa duties. Food was enjoyed, presents were unwrapped and then loaded up into cars. Katy made me cry with a sweet presentation that started with heartfelt flattery of how gracefully I've been handling this pregnancy and ended with a diper-bag stuffed with a portable DVD player and 3 seasons of The Office as well as funny lady, Kathy Griffin DVDs. I've been asking for some stand up comedy to distract me during labor. (Let's hope it works.)

Then we moved to my mom's house for a costume change and last minute preparations for the evening, less-formal, "friends" shower. Try to remember- though I have not mentioned it nearly often enough- that my sister is enjoying the exact same gestational period as I am. Also, during the fetus forming exercises, she has a job that takes her out of town on business 1 to 3 days a week, and she raises an 18 month old with her capable and loving husband. Many people that know me, know I am an adept party thrower and in general an effective, productive member of society. But truth is, my sister and my mother both make me look like a stumbling drunk in the kitchen. The food was fantastic. It looked even better than it tasted and it tasted great. There was shrimp and kielbasi and meatballs. There was sesame noodles on endive. There were southwest egg rolls stuffed, wrapped, and fried by hand. There were topieries. (Some people just put the fruit and the antipasto on a platter... my sister creates antipasto and fruit topieries.) It was pretty effing awesome. But mostly, there was laughter and love and good, good friends.

At the end of the night, some nurses closed down the party. And as frequently happens, I left feeling literally wounded and exhausted from laughter. I hope the boy inside of me appreciated that this is what his life will be like, all that shaking and jostling was the insanity of a full, busy day of celebration. I know he can't possibly know that this is what he is about to be born into, but this is it... An over-booked, busy life full of friends and family that will fill his house with things we need (and with crap we might not even need) to symbolically say, "We are here to give you these things but also everything else intangible that you seek in terms of well wishes, support, love, and our presence." He has moms that really love each other and are committed to supporting and growing with and near each other. Extended family that rejoice in our happiness and keeping our family in their thoughts and prayers. An aunt who will work all day, put her kid to bed, pat her very pregnant belly, and stay up until insane hours 4 nights in a row to get the food for the party is just right.

And peeps that really care- from north, south, east, west- despite differences of style, composition, upbringing, and opinion. Protective family and friends that are eager and excited to watch and make this journey with him.

Getting ready

I'm reading a book called Broken Open. It's not a book about childbirth (believe it or not.) It's a book that's been in our house since someone gave to katy last year when she was going thru a "Pheonix Process".

[The mythical Phoenix bird sat in the fire of change until the flames had consumed his old self. Then he rose from the ashes a new bird—stronger and wiser.]

The giver of the book was an important person from katy's past, but a stranger to me- someone I regarded with at least a dollop of suspicion. Broken Open sat on our night stand for weeks or months and though the cover was appealing and the title interesting, I never opened it. In truth, I hated it; or at a minimum resented it. Even without being told, i knew the book represented a place or journey I was not necessarily invited to travel with my wife.

At some point, the mostly unread book got moved to the bookshelf in the office and a few months ago I found it during a restless bout of insomnia. i tore through the introduction and the first few sections in a matter of hours and returned to my bed comforted and peaceful. I was conscious of the manner by which the book had fallen into my hands- the painful circumstances that brought it into my house, but after reading a few hours worth, I felt centered in a way i can't describe. It was like hearing about something you never knew existed before and like proof of something you have somehow always known.

This pregnancy has been mostly wonderful. It has also brought up some serious pondering- inside of a woman that probably has spent too much of her life "pondering." The section I turned to tonight is called Birth and Death. "Uh-oh," I thought, here's the part that's going to send me over the edge (and make my blog readers think I am utterly obsessed with death right now...)

Instead, it brought me back to a time and career I haven't considered in a while. And it made me embarrassed that of all the labels on this blog, I've never written a post that should have been labelled NURSING.

I spent the better part of seven years working in in-patient care. And during much of that time, I was literally fending off, beating back, or sitting patiently near, holding a hand, stroking a brow, holding open a door for death. I saw a lot of people die and it is one of the strangest and greatest blessings in my life to have participated in the runoff and aftermath of each. All of them were uniquely tragic and simultaneously insignificant in the scheme of the history of the universe...

Working in an ICU- if you do it right- you get to practice science in complete confidence without ever sacrificing the knowledge, the surest certainty, that there are things beyond the reach and explanation of science. You get to operate within both frameworks- hard empirical, factual, numerical, chemical, formulaic, algorithmic, provable, systemic, time-honored, hard-won knowledge; and instinctive, crunchy-hippy, celestial, emotional, soulful, non-sensical, improbable, time-honored knowing. There are hundreds of stories inside of me, examples of each. And perhaps now is the time to start writing them down. Some of my favorite are the ones where science, protocol, and honest, rational, therapeutic dialogue save the day. But the one that is so clear in my mind right now is of the other variety:

The summer I worked on the island, I took care of an elderly man who was in the ICU for basic cardiac observation until an ambulance took him on a ferry the next morning to get him to the big city for a cardiac cath. He was very stable- even by "island ICU" standards. More than that, he was pleasant, gentle and kind. It looked to be a quiet night for me, I easily completed admission paperwork while chatting with him and he wanted to go to bed early. At some point, he woke and called me over. "Whose that guy out there? What is he saying?" I looked out his window into a dark, locked courtyard. It was possible there was someone out there but unlikely. Now I realized my patient/friend might be experiencing confusion we often refer to as "sundowning"- when it gets dark, the sanity slips away a little, or sometimes a lot.

I drew the curtains and repositioned the gentleman- taking time to use a warm cloth on his back and follow up with a long, relaxing back rub. He thanked me, made sweet conversation that indicated complete sanity and closed his eyes to fall back asleep. Then he woke again.

"Tell him to leave me alone. I don't want to go out there."

I stared at the closed, vinyl drapes. "Who is he? do you know him?" I asked.

"No, he is old. But he wants me to go with him."

The hairs on my neck stood up and I shivered like in a mystery novel.

I check his vitals, checked his nitro drip, and checked his code status- DNR. I asked him how he was feeling, if there was any pain, if there was anything he needed. "Only to get some sleep." He smiled sweetly, "I have a big day tomorrow," he reminded me, again referring to the surgical procedure and reiterating a competent memory and normal level of consciousness.

"Are you afraid?" I asked.

"No," he replied, "I think they'll take good care of me." He missed that I wasn't asking about his impending medical procedure, but about the man that only one of us could see. I hesitated and then pushed it one inch further...

"What does the man look like?"

"He's right there. Don't you see him? He has a beard. He wants me to go with him... but I think I'll stay here with you." He smiled in his kind, calm way. He fell asleep and a few hours later died. I knew this was coming. I don't know how, but I can tell you that I watched this man carefully for any scientific clue that his heart would stop, and there was none. There was no labored breathing, no pain, no change in vital signs until the monitor indicated his heart had stopped. There was no resuscitation- per his documented wishes. There was no medical explanation not only for his death that night but also for me to have known it was coming. It was hogwash, hokey, and freaky, but it was real and somehow predictable based on his and my observations. That was the night I saw death. Or more accurately, the night someone I was with saw death and described death's appearance to me. I've always wondered if I should have had a conversation with my patient that the man he saw might be coming to take him from this life, but at the time, that option seemed impossible and cruel.

I am fully accepting of the plausibility of coincidence. It is frequently documented that there is confusion and hallucination before death. My take on this story might be wrong. If you debate me, I won't argue my point very hard or long. But you weren't there and I was. And I know what I believe. And I don't think my experience of this night proves or disproves anything- so there is barely a reason to debate.

Before we die, we are all transformed countless times by experiences, miracles, and devastations. Where we encounter fear, there is also life and love to enjoy. For every death, there is a birth. And every birth breaks us wide open... Let the stretching and bursting begin!