WHAT'S ALL THIS BRU-HA-HA?

When I was in college, my roommate and I were fans of Firesign Theater. We were especially fond of their album featuring a parody of an old time radio mystery show. This piece was entitled "Nick Danger, Third Eye." We could recite nearly the entire piece, word for word. If I had studied my physics as much as I listened to this album, I would probably have been able to invent time travel. I apologize, Richard Collier, I can't help you get back to Elise McKenna. (It occurs to me that my use of the word "album" dates me, doesn't it?)

Anyway, while watching a particularly graphic movie the other night, I started thinking about the way the movie industry has stripped us of our imaginations. We are bombarded in each and every one with graphic images of sex, blood/ gore, extra-terrestrial life, the spirit world -- and everything in between and beyond.

We don't listen much anymore -- we watch. Not that watching is bad -- it just limits us. I guess that's one reason I like to read. My imagination can conjure up more hideous looking monsters and more beautiful and sexy heroes than the FX people and central casting can come up with.

Especially when coupled with sound effects.

The radio sound effects people would squeeze a box of cornstarch to make the sound of a man crunching his way through the snow, and crinkle cellophane to simulate a crackling fire. There was always music to set an appropriate mood. A good cackle or blood-curdling scream could make your imagination go wild. Sex was easy -- you just make some smacking noises, breathy sighs and then cue the organist.

I wish there were still radio mystery shows to listen to.

Butler: "Why don't you come in out of the cornstarch and dry your mukluks by the fire.
Let me introduce myself: I am Nick Danger."

Danger: "No, let me introduce MYself: I am Nick Danger."

Butler: "If you're so smart, why don't you pick up your cues faster."

Danger: "Oh, are those my cues?"

Butler: "Yes, and they must be dry by now -- why don't you pull them up out of the
cellophane before they scorch."

FOLLOW UP TO "FIND THE MISTAKES IN THIS PICTURE"

FOLLOW UP:

I have been informed by a good friend (who wouldn't lie to me), of an additional mistake she found in the picture:

8. It's an enema bag.

Thanks, Tig. That's the biggest mistake of all.

Just a simple "Thank You"

I got a lovely thank you note in the mail the other day from the daughter of one of my former patients. She said she just wanted to say "thank you" for taking such good care of her Dad while he was in the unit.

Wow.

Just when you think that all you are doing is beating your head against a wall and that nobody really appreciates your work, and you're just wiping butts and pushing drugs, and . . . . . along comes somebody to pat you on the back and remind you that -- in the words of Carl W. Buechner: "They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel."

Makes me want to pass it on.

Find the mistakes in this picture

There are several mistakes in this picture. I found 7 of them. Use your assessment and observational skills to see if you can find them, too.

The mistakes I found, not necessarily in order of importance, are the following:

1. The nurse is not wearing gloves. Every good nurse knows that you should wear gloves when administrating IV medications. Just remember to take them off before you use the computer keyboard.

2. The IV tubing has fallen on the floor -- this opens the door for infection from those nasty little microbes that keep the ID doctors in practice.

3. This is a bag of Normal Saline -- the doctor specifically ordered D5NS, or something with a "D", a slanted squiggle and an "S" or a "5" in it.

4. This is the wrong tubing. It won't fit the new "wonderpump".

5. She's lost her patient. He took off running when he saw the IV needle, even though he has a Harley Davidson tattoo on his left arm and one that says "Bad to the Bone" on the other.

6. The nurse has on green shoes -- completely out of uniform, and besides, they don't match her lovely surgical scrub mu mu.

7. She answered her phone when the supervisor called to ask her to come in and help out on her night off. Now she is tripled up with 2 vents -- both on contact precautions, and a geri-psych who has sundowners and no Haldol on his med profile.

Let me know if you find more mistakes than these.

Thank God for Vacations!

Just got back from Cancun -- actually Playa del Carmen. What a paradise!! Can't upload my pictures here -- not sure why -- but this is a pretty good idea of the view I had for 11 glorious days . . . minus the fellow beach potatoes and all . . .

There were excursions to Cozumel for a couple of dives, Tulum, (went to Chicken Pizza and Coba last year), deep sea fishing, diving with the hotel dive shop (Dressel Diver's -- best guides around), Dos Ojos Cenote for another dive, Akumal, Playa del Carmen proper, including several hundred local shops, Captain Ron and Sharkeys, Senor Frog's, The Oasis and The Blue Parrot, (among other local establishments).

However, I did manage to get enough sun that my SO (who did not go along) said that if I had come back any more tan I would have needed a Green Card to get back into the States. He can be so darn cute sometimes.

Very relaxing trip. Needed that. Can't say enough good things about the hotel: Iberostar Quetzal in Playacar. Son muy simpaticos. It's nice to see the same faces every year. Makes it seem like you're visiting old friends. They even remember you from year to year. Hmmm . . . I wonder if that says more about them or about us.

My group starts planning for the trip in July each year. It's nice to have something to look forward to. I've already started saving for 2008 . . . only 11 1/2 more months to go!!

Guess that's why He's God

I feel so helpless. We have had a lot of young people in the unit lately. People who shouldn't be there. People with young families. People who have a lot of living left to do, but who manage to thwart our best efforts to save them and die anyway.

So helpless . . . . .

Your breathing can be supported. Drugs can support your heart rate and rhythm. More drugs can pretty much normalize your body chemistry. But we are only swatting flies -- treating symptoms. We can't bring back brain function. We can't bring YOU back to your family. Sometimes we can't even figure out why you are sick, or can't stop the progress of your disease.

God knows, and knows how to stop it. But He doesn't always let us in on the secret. We are left with unanswered questions, the humility of our inadequacy, and grieving young families. Sometimes the only thing we learn is that we don't know the answers. How frustrating it is to be so helpless!

I guess that's why He's the Almighty God, and we're not.

History among the clothespins

When my Mother died, she left behind her 83 years worth of -- history -- for her kids to wade through. My brother and I are in hip boots at this time, trying to decide what to keep and what to sell and what (sorry, Mom) to throw away.

Mom was a proud member of the Generation of Savers.

She saved old obituaries. I guess part of it was her genealogy hobby, but I have to believe part of it was the possibility to look through them, not find her own, and continue living. Knowing that she could find all of this information on the Internet was not enough to let her discard them, but that knowledge has allowed us to do so. Except for hers.

Being wary of throwing something important away, Mom kept all of her old financial records. Not just from the past few years -- we have been finding receipts dating back to the 1950's. After checking with her accountant, we have been able to shred most of those. They may qualify as antiques, but she was not famous, and there are a lot of non-famous pack rats in the world.

She also had a thing for clothespins. Her filing methods included clipping together receipts and unopened mail and other things she wanted to keep and putting the collection in a special place to be dealt with at a later date. Those special places became boxes. These in turn were eventually put in a closet. They are sort of miniature time capsules.

Speaking of unopened mail -- we have been able to put together quite a little cache of pennies and nickles from those foundations who send out "guilt change" in order to elicit a donation to their organization. I guess she thought that if she didn't open it, and didn't spend those nickles or pennies, she would not have the obligation to donate. She couldn't find it in herself to throw it away unopened (it contained MONEY after all), but kept them just in case she had a few unspent dollars to give away. She never did, and we don't either, but we have found the unmitigated gall to take the money off and throw the rest away. It is MONEY, after all.

Mom was one of those thoughtful people who placed crosses decorated with flowers on grave sites. Mostly relatives, a lot of friends, and sometimes just a barren grave site that looked forgotten. All of the miscellaneous rolls of ribbon, silk flowers, florist foam, etc, etc, used to make these are in her storage building. There are also, among other items, canning jars of all shapes and sizes, pictures (we'll get to them later) and frames, newspaper clippings, things too good to throw away, but replaced by better ones, as well as two (count 'em - two) freezers full of food (Mom was a widow and lived alone).

At this point, let me say that my Mother was not by any means eccentric. Quite normal, in fact, for someone of her generation. She just never threw anything out that might be "good stuff" or that she or someone else might need someday.

She had cassette tapes of sermons preached at her last 3 or 4 churches, several tapes (intermingled with the above) of grandchildren reciting Bible verses, cassette tapes of gospel singing (my parents belonged to a gospel singing quartet), pre-recorded tapes of gospel and Christian music -- literally hundreds of tapes. We've even found 8-track tapes, and a couple of reel-to-reel. (If you don't know what those are, look under "stone-age" on the Internet.)

And of course, the pictures. Thousands, and thousands, and thousands of pictures. Who are these people -- and are we related to them? Not having the time at this point to go through them all, we have adopted the practice of putting them in a box (actually about 20 boxes) for later perusal. I believe that when my brother and I die, our children will look into the boxes, say to each other "Who are these people -- and are we related to them?", close the boxes and put them away . . . for later perusal.

History repeats itself, you know.

Friendship

I love my friends.

Especially the ones who make me feel so normal.

You know who you are . . . . . . .

Why can't I do that?

No, these are not my cats.

Yes, they certainly do resemble some of my cats.

This kind of amusement at their response to life is one of the many reasons people have a cat, and the interaction of the personalities is one of the reasons normally sane people have an assortment of the beasts.

OK -- the multiplicity part is explained, but one thing about them is still a mystery --

How do these furry little beings -- with the same basic muscle groups I have (a tidbit I learned in nursing school) -- manage to accomplish the defiance of several basic laws of physics, gravity and dexterity without winding up in body casts? And -- Why can't I do that?

Pave Paradise . . . .

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris . . . . I wonder where the birdies is?

Well, it was Spring a couple of weeks ago, anyway. I guess we've just skipped summer and fall and gone straight back into winter again.

I haven't yet taken the plastic off of the screens on my back porch yet -- partly because I don't trust Spring, and partly because of the condo construction going on across the bay behind my house.

As to the first part (I don't trust Spring), I grew up in Colorado -- 'nuf said.

As to the second part (the cursed condos), it is extremely miffable to me because when I bought this house, it was peaceful and quiet. Good neighbors, huge oak trees and gorgeous flowers and landscaping. Now, due to the greed of the previous owners of the beautiful stone house across the bay, their land (a strip of land extending into the bay -- man made, but that's another story) has been sold to developers. Said developers have torn down the beautiful stone home, stripped the lot of all trees -- large and small --and gorgeous landscaping, flattened the land, surrounded it by "boardwalk" and are now erecting two story behemoths (4 of them!!) designed to attract the up and crusty. "Pave paradise and put up a parking lot."

Having given this matter some consideration over the winter, I have decided to let my backyard lawn become a weed patch this year. Being a resident of the county outside the city limits, I do not have to hold to the higher standards of yard upkeep imposed on the city folk. I can think of several advantages to this action (or series of non-actions), besides the obvious one of hopefully deterring sales of the cursed condos. Think of the gas I will save! The spare time I will have! The wildlife I can attract! Yes, this can only be a good thing. I may even turn my lawnmower into a birdhouse.

He is risen!

This is one of my favorite pictures. I love to study it, thinking about the events that might have gone on before, and marveling at the great love that the Shepherd has for His sheep. Thank you, Jesus. I love you, too.

He is risen indeed.

Happy Easter.

Of practical jokes and Cadbury eggs

When she was in high school, my daughter and I had a history of playing practical jokes on each other. She was clever. Sometimes fiendishly so.

From shaving cream in the shoe (usually an old pair of sneakers, sometimes my favorite house slippers) to the old rubber-band-on-the-spray-nozzle-of-the-sink gag, we both loved trying to better the other on each successive prank.

At Christmas time each year, my family would pass around lists of small things we wanted "Santa" to bring us, and we could then choose from the list presents we could give which were sure to be wanted. On my list one year I jokingly included the item "tiny butt". (That was the year I discovered Cherry Garcia ice cream, I think.)

That year under the tree, I found a small box with my name on it which looked suspiciously like a ring box. Horrified, because most of my gifts were of the modest (translation: inexpensive) variety, I frantically wondered how I would cover my not-so-tiny butt by explaining that "Santa" had not been able to get all of the gifts on his sleigh or some other ridiculous ruse to enable me to go shopping again and buy a more elaborate present for whoever had put me in this predicament.

When my turn came, I warily opened the box. Inside was an item which was unrecognizable upon first inspection. I took it out -- obviously a ring, and examined it. There, glued to an adjustable one-size-fits-all gumball ring, was the skillfully excised hind quarters of a small troll doll. (Did I mention she was "fiendish"?) I did get my tiny butt, after all -- and I didn't have to go shopping again, either. I proudly wore the thing until the cheap metal finally gave up and broke.

When Easter time came around each year, and Cadbury eggs became available on the store shelves, we would both hide the little ones in various places to be found by the other. They were-- like a lot of Easter egg hunts -- never completed, and it was always a pleasure to find a forgotten egg in a pair of winter mittens the following fall or in a coffee mug pushed to the back of the cabinet until a dinner party forced the use of all of them. It always made me smile to remember that she had placed it there, probably grinning, the previous Easter season. Sometimes, being the choc-o-holic that I am, I even ate them. It depended on how flattened it was.

I say all of that to say this: My husband and I divorced about 10 years ago. My daughter is a married college graduate who has graciously gifted me with my grandson, now going on 2 years old. Life has moved on. Not all of my clothes of the prankster era have remained wearable (ok, ok, so I've gained a little weight), but most of my shoes still fit. Snow boots are something rarely needed here in the South, but I have kept them -- for posterity, for the possibility, or probably just because I never throw anything out.

As I write this, beside me is a small, flat, nearly unidentifiable object wrapped in red and blue foil. A modicum of boot fuzz is sticking to it. It seems one Easter time -- I have no idea which one -- a small Cadbury egg was placed in a snowboot by a grinning high school girl. Finding it a few months ago brought back a flood of pleasant, yet bittersweet, memories. Where does time go?

I have started to again hide Cadbury eggs in some of the packages I send to my dear daughter, her wonderful husband and their precious son. She hasn't yet taken up the game -- possibly because as a college graduate, she has a slightly more refined sense of humor that doesn't include Cadbury eggs. I don't want to believe she doesn't remember our game. I haven't mentioned the foundling to her, and if she doesn't remember, she may think I've gone completely senile. That's ok, though -- I remember.

And although I am a confirmed, obvious choc-o-holic, I'm not going to eat this one. I'm even wondering how I could have it made into a necklace.

Proof (x7) that God has a sense of humor

In my profile, I mention the fact that I am a cat hoarder. At least, that's what I would be called if the animal police got hold of me. I wound up with 5 of them through various situations, and then inherited 2 more when my mom died in December. I now have 7 of the beasts. I guess that is one of the reasons I live alone -- no one else would put up with the endless cat-box (4 of them) and vacuuming duties. I am lucky to have a Main Man who is, though allergic, extremely tolerant.

My feline friends are a (mostly) enjoyable source of endless entertainment. The variety of personalities I have living in my house is incredible.

Chronologically, there is Bug, a grey tabby who was left at the vet by a woman giving a false name and address to receive shots while she went shopping. She would be happiest if she could sit in my lap 24/7. Goose is a calico who chose my front door to yowl at -- sopping wet -- on a rainy day. Her favorite spot in the house is next to me. LC showed up on my front tire and refused to be daunted by several attempts at relocation until I took her home with me -- on my birthday. She is the only long hair, and most of my knitting and crocheted items contain her DNA. My two rescue cats are Jack, the sleek black monster who feels it is his mission in life to good-naturedly torture his 6 other species/ house-mates; and Cricket with white feet and white bib, who likes to suck on my earlobes when I am trying to get a few hours sleep between work shifts. Baxter was my Mom's love-bug and is a yellow, blue-eyed adventurer -- the only one of them who is allowed into the great outdoors -- only because Mom allowed this and I cannot dissuade him. Last, and least in size, is Mooch, a sweet and shy tortoise shell (the other of Mom's with a tragic past) who has taken over the spare bedroom.

There is a section in my house appropriately named the "Kitty Korner". It is the spot that has several cat trees and scratching posts (like that does any good) with optimal views of the bird feeders outside. They let me think that I have given them that part of my house -- the truth is, they have infested my entire home! The upside to all of this is that I have virtually no insects or rodents in my house.

I love the time of day when I get out of the shower and see 5 or 6 of them sitting in various places in the bathroom, staring at me as if I were completely insane to willingly subject myself to that type of torment. At that particular time of day, we have our specific personal greetings -- one wants to lick the water out of my hair, one stares sweetly at me until I give her the usual kiss on the head, the black monster likes to rub against my wet legs (I don't know why he actually likes this vicarious contact with water). They are my company -- my family. I thank God for them all -- for the infinite nature of His creativeness and for the daily proof that He has a sense of humor.

getting back into it

Do you ever feel like you are in a shark cage, feeling nervous -- hoping it doesn't show -- when you notice that it's not really a cage at all, merely a funnel of pipes guiding the shark directly for your head?

Sometimes I look around me at all the competent people I work with, all of them knowing what to do, when to do it, and me sitting there in awe wondering why they let me play the game with them.

I think I remember being a confident -- competent -- nurse. I'm just not sure how to feel that way again. My self-confidence is in a shark cage right now. Great Whites are swooping at me each night, and I keep ducking down, praying I can remember what to do, when to do it. So far, so good. I think.

My friends keep saying it will come back. When? When do I start to feel right about myself again? How long will it take before the cage starts taking the shape of a cage instead of a funnel? It just feels like I am pretending to be a nurse. Like I have people fooled -- patients fooled into thinking I actually know what I am doing, when inside there is a scared little girl ducking from the sharks, and praying none of them will notice me.

Well just look what I've gotten myself into now!!

I've never thought of myself as a blogger. I'm not even sure what one is. My friend is one, though, and I like her a lot, so maybe it isn't such a bad thing.

I'm in the process of recovering from the shock of my mother's sudden death, and the added violation of a burglary at my home within the month. I've found out a lot of things in the therapy I've been undergoing, and one of them is that people handle things differently from other people. I guess I knew that -- we are not the same (thank God). But many of the things I have been feeling are shared to a greater or lesser extent by other people. Some internalize their grief, some don't. Some find great comfort in their spirituality, some don't -- or don't have any to fall back upon. And some, like me, wobble back and forth between "handling it" and complete insanity.

The way I was raised, I thought I would be one who would find comfort in my faith. My parents were people of great faith, and they raised their children in a home in which Christ was the Head of the House. They are probably both spinning in their graves at my reactions to current events in my life (being good Baptists, we must "spin", we can't "dance"). I have found, however, that I rail at the Creator for His secret design, and constantly wonder "why?". I sometimes just don't understand how to make the concept of "God is Love" and the concept of "stuff happens" (it's in the Bible -- Ecclesiastes 9:11 -- look it up) coexist. It's not that I doubt the goodness of God, just His method of inflicting it.

That may sound like I am questioning my faith, and I guess the truth is, I am. I just keep holding on to the belief that God is big enough to handle my questioning, and hope like Hell that He won't give up on me until I get my stuff together.

Basically, I am not crazy, just temporarily insane.