Midway

Dear Chris,

I took the kids to our county fair this past weekend. They had a blast. I blew too much money. But there is something about this fair. We sat at a picnic table eating food from buggy vendors. A country band played over by the grandstand, overlapping with the music of the auctioneer's call, as the 4-H rabbits and chickens were being auctioned to local businesses.

The heat of the day subsided into a warm evening with just enough of a breeze. Young people were filtering in with the darkness, strolling around the midway. Chickies on the make with their tiny denim shorts and flip flops. Guys looking for girls, with new t-shirts and smelling of too much cologne. It's the biggest event of the summer for kids who live miles from town. Twenty one years ago I was strolling the same midway wearing a fourth-runner-up-to-junior-fair-queen sash and a denim mini skirt, arm in arm with a brand new beau.

He was a wonderful "bad boy" two years older with an earring, and just kicked out of the Navy. (Though I hadn't learned that yet.) I drove my mother crazy with him for two years. I wondered. would I see him here? I didn't. And I'm glad. I am sure that time and poverty and drugs have taken their toll. And he will not resemble my first love at all.

I strolled now with my children, and watched as they called to their friends. My daughter found an ankle bracelet with dolphins and bells which jingles with each step she takes, and my son found a trick pack of gum which shocks people. (I offer to get shocked once a day so that he will not use it on other people.) I people watched, and tried to get cell phone pictures of the odd characters who show up at the fair. The carnies who run the rides all looked hot and tired and over-tanned as usual. I spent $10 on cotton candy.

Sarah

Today's Most Annoying Patient Award Goes To....

Dear Chris,

Every other weekend I spend 24 hours out of the 48 in the emergency room. I am a nurse. I have been a Registered Nurse for 17 years. I have worked in the emergency room for 12 years. The most annoying patients are not really the drunks, though they can be pretty annoying. Patients who lose control over their bowel or bladder are no big deal. Helping people is what I do. "Crazy" people can even be a joy sometimes. I try to make them laugh. Laughter is the most humanizing response.

The most annoying patients are the ones who believe that they are smart, and I am dumb. These are the patients who question everything I do, or don't do. The family member who asks for a glass of water for the abdominal pain patient before I have even taken a blood pressure, or learned a name. I know that identifying the patient and assessing for hypovolemia may seem like trivial tasks, but please, let me prioritize my activities, based on my knowledge and experience. I know that you are panicking inside, but realize that I do understand (better than you do) that abdominal pain in anyone over 50 needs to be assessed for abdominal aortic aneurysm. And that sending me off for a glass of water when the physician has no idea you are here and there is not even a name band on your loved one is risky.

Please, take off your clothes and put the damn gown on already!
If I can't see your skin, how can I assess it? Did you realize that the fabric of your shirt obscures your lung sounds?

Well-to-do people, anyone making 6 figures or more, especially men are the most likely candidates for most annoying patient. I know that it does seem like the thing to do, to treat your nurse just like you treat the waitress at a restaurant. After all she is a woman and only making half or less of your fine salary. But you are an insurance salesman who just wrecked your rice rocket riding solo out from the city. And No! I will not take off your c-collar until after the doctor evaluates your neck. If you end up paralyzed from the neck down it will be my neck on the chopping block. We are literally sitting in a soybean field and there are no taxis, so suck it up and call your wife. So she can come get you and wrecked toy. (Which she begged you not to buy.)

The most annoying patients are the condescending ones. The ones who walk in with an attitude of dissatisfaction. The ones who treat the staff as if they are all incompetent and negligent. The nurse will smile sweetly and meet all of your requests, but she is still viscerally insulted, and very annoyed. You are trying to intimidate her into giving you good care. All you have succeeded in doing is alienating your advocate. If you could see inside her brain you would be amazed at the depth and width of competence and compassion, knowledge and wisdom, personal trauma and triumph.

Thankfully, most patients are not like that. Most are grateful. Even though I do get paid, and gratitude is not necessary. "I'll take the crazy in 14, if you'll take Mrs. Snooty-Pants."

Sarah

Gen-X Mom

Dear Chris,

Last night I put blue streaks in my daughter's hair. I never thought that I would be the kind of parent to allow blue-streaked hair, let alone apply the dye myself. It was a time-consuming and messy endeavor. I have blue fingers now, a blue bathtub, a blue towel. My daughter has blue stain on her neck. First we had to bleach the streaks, then dye the streaks, shampooing in between and after. She wanted to have "mermaid hair" as suggested in a teen fashion magazine. And since it is summer, and the school can't object. I let her do it.

I guess being a conservative teenager has made me a risk-taking adult. The cashier at the pharmacy said I was a "cool mom". I was almost offended by that title. I never intended to be a cool mom! "Cool Moms" are overly permissive and leave their children to whims of their peers, allowing them to "experiment" with drugs, alcohol, and sex. I do not want to be a "cool mom"! Experimenting with hair color, though, is neither morally nor physically dangerous. So, why not? I am proud to have a daughter who has a blue streak on her neck and not a hickey.

My daughter still likes me (at age 15) not because I am permissive; but because I am open to her. I listen to her needs, wants, and dreams. I try to set limits which help her feel safe and cared for, rather than ones that make my life more convenient. I have definitely not been the best of parents. A terrible marriage to a temperamental alcoholic limited my ability to parent well. I have a lot to make up for. If allowing blue hair makes me a cool mom, I guess I should accept the label graciously. Maybe redefine it.

"Cool Mom" A mom who is supportive and responsive to her children's wants as well as needs. A mom who makes her children and their friends feel comfortable and safe. Allowing them to to have fun and explore all the aspects of their talents and personalities. A mom who helps her children grow into well-socialized, kind adults; with the ability to become "cool parents" themselves.

Excerpts

Dear Chris,

A person very dear to me has finally revealed his intention to write. This thrills me as he is very funny, has a unique perspective. I want to facilitate his career in any way I can. So I will secretly quote and link to him.

http://hubpages.com/profile/ericvonjed

this is an excerpt from Sehnucht by Jed Fisher

Execution Phase

She is a self-propelled loader/launcher named Beronca. Twenty eight tons of composite armor, sophisticated electronics, hydraulics, set screws, lacing wire, four hundred amp fuses,limit switches and brass guide keys. You connect your data stick with her console and swap codes with her fire control system. You run diagnostic checks: all systems nominal. She's ready. Your very own high-maintenance bitch.
It's time for your first shot so you mount up and take Beronca to the firing point. In one volley of rockets she unleashes more explosives than a B-2 bomber. You reload and fire again, three or four times and hour as four hours go by. You carelessly leave your hand on her main power cable a moment too long and you get bit. You hope it leaves a scar, something to remind you. She fires on last missile and her power-takeoff blows its emergency bypass valve and hydraulic fluid spews forth.
"All firing elements, this is your Battle Captain speaking. Check fire, end of mission. The target list is exhausted. I'm happy to report no Americans were harmed by this fire plan." Smoke billows from her engine exhaust and she groans as she rolls off the firing point. She needs tender loving care, so you take her to the maintenance pad and give her a good scrubbing and refill her fluids and tighten her loose fasteners and install new track shoes and she's beautiful again. You put her on a ship and wave goodbye.

Hope you enjoyed it like I did.

Sarah

Took the Long Way Home

Dear Chris,

I came home after the yoga class by an alternate route, up Fishing Gut Road, pronounced "feeshin'gutt" around here, and then by Old State. Sounds awful, but what a beautiful drive! I had not gone that way in a long time. I am convinced that there is something magical about the land here. It sings ancient songs.
The road winds along a wide creek bed, and climbs up through sequestered old farms. "Cow Crossing, Red Rose Cow Feed" a sign says. Everything is so GREEN! Around and up until it travels along the Ridge. I turned off the radio and sang ancient songs to myself the whole way home.
The songs I learned from the Jean Ritchie songbook when I was a teenager. Those songs are deeper in their meanings for me now. Pretty Polley, Barabra Ellen, Single Girl.

Barbara Ellen makes me cry.

All in the merry month of May, the green buds they were swellin'
Young William Green on his death bed lay
For the love of Barbra Ellen

Single Girl makes me smile.

When I was a single girl I dressed so fine
Now that I am married, go ragged all the time
Oh, I wish I was a single girl again, yes Lord
I wish I was a single girl again

When I was a single girl, my shoes did squeak,
Now that I am married, my shoes do leak,
OH, I wish I was a single girl agian, yes Lord
I wish I was a single girl again

When he comes home, it's a curse and a row,
knockin' down the children, and pullin' on my hair,
Oh I wish I was a single girl again, yes Lord
I wish I was a single girl again


Sarah

The Trip

Dear Chris,

I took the kids out of school the day they called me to say he was dying. Mom gave me some cash, and in about 15 or 20 minutes we were on our way to Virginia, a 12 hour drive. We were delayed as we found his eldest son in the way. We arrived at the nursing home in the small hours of the morning, after 3am, before 4. I called for directions to hear the nurse tell me he had "just passed". How many times had I delivered such news myself? I updated the kids as we got out of the car.

I walked hurriedly through the halls. The place smelled awful, like infected bedsores and urinary catheters colonized with bacteria. Like a nursing home at 3 in the morning. I found his nurse, his room.

He was not there. Only a corpse, yellow and empty like a locust's shell remained. I lay my hands on the blankets over the left forearm and cried that I was sorry; that I should have brought him home. (I had planned to bring him back to Ohio. When everything was right.)

My children were there. Were they terrified, traumatized? I was. In all my nursing career I had never seen anyone that pale and yellow, as if his whole face had been colored with a yellow highlighter. Someone had raised the foot of the bed instead of the head. Pooled blood under the skin left mottling around his neck. The odor of death was lingered. I left the room, my children trailing me. I felt like I was going to vomit.

I called his father. We waited in the day room. The tv was on. A movie, a funeral scene, the widow seeks out sex with an old boyfriend for solace. (His ghost is there, and will follow me home. I tell myself this, so that I can make things right.)
His dad comes, and we leave, knowing the yellow hull will be taken away and cremated.

There was a package in my mailbox after we came home. My brother's return address on it. I opened it and it was a book, The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. There was no note, no card, no inscription. Which was a good thing. My daughter and I have decided that we hate sympathy cards.

I finished the book. It was a grief tale. I think it helps to know that others experience the same overwhelming feelings. It was a good gift.

I arranged for a memorial service, though I still don't have ashes, or a death certificate. My daughter wants the service to be "cool but spiritual". It will be.

Sarah

Grief Dreams

Dear Chris,

The three of us slept fitfully on my father-in-law's bed that night after the morning my husband died. Shadowy demons lurked in corners and doorways, peering at us. Good and Evil fought hand to hand in our dreams.
I woke sweating between my children's hot bodies. I looked at my daughter's sleeping face, eyes slightly open. I bent and kissed her forehead. Still asleep, her eyes flew open and she said "boo!" just like he would have were he trying to startle me. I tried not to panic as her hands went out and she sleep talked. "Judaism, Catholicism" then something unintelligible. "Go back to sleep, baby." I said, to comfort myself.
A lawyer from Jewish Family Services had agreed to act as his guardian when I said I could not. His little sister had given me a rosary had been keeping. I am glad that he was talking to God.
She had taken us to a beach on the bay as well. We collected stones and glass polished by the sand, little bits of shell too. I had promised to bring him home to Ohio. "In June, after school's out. The kids and I will come and get you and take you out of there." He didn't last until June. I only brought his spirit home.

Sarah

Living Dead (an ER parking lot story)

Dear Chris,
You asked me if I saved any one's life on Sunday. I always get nervous when you ask me that question. Because, if I claim credit for the resurrections I have to be responsible for the deaths too. And since I am only one, and my coworkers are so clever and knowledgeable. I am hesitant to feel heroic. I told you that no one was deathly ill, but I had forgotten the walking dead.

"We need a wheel chair."
Sounds like a benign statement, and usually it is. Meant for an elderly person with arthritis of the hips; a younger person with a sprained ankle.
"He's out there." the wife says, "He's trying to walk. He's been vomiting."
I take the wheel chair out the doors.

A zombie!

Over six feet tall, more than two hundred and fifty pounds. Arms dangling listlessly from the shoulders. One labored step at a time making his way toward me! A moment of horror movie terror grips me and I swallow hard. Then take a deep breath and wheel the chair toward the pale and expressionless human form.

"You need a wheel chair, sir?"
The zombie sits in the chair.

(Three days of vomiting alone does not explain this presentation.)
"Do you have any chronic problems?"
The wife appears at our side. "Stage four colon cancer"she chirps.
(Oh dear.)
"Doc, this guy looks like death warmed over. Colon cancer, chronic anemia, and vomiting for 3 days."

A little IV fluid, narcotic pain meds, something for nausea, and the zombie became a human again, with pink skin, freckles, and a sense of humor.

It's hard to say that we saved a life. The cancer will likely claim him in the end. Maybe we just saved him for now. But it was good to see the former president of the bus drivers' union smile as he slipped on his bi-focaled glasses, and left me for nurses in the city on a hired ambulance.

Sarah

New Title

Dear Chris,

I think of more things to say when I imagine that I am writing to you. So that's why I start each post with, "Dear Chris" Oh! now I think I have a title.

I started a second blog today. I am going to try to live healthier, and lose 30 pounds in 30 weeks. That doesn't sound too hard does it?

I'll start off strong and as the chaos of my life creeps back in I may lose my determination. But blogging about it will be fun. In the meantime the dog and puppies and cat and kids and parents still need attention. And I've agreed to do a presentation at work. I've titled it "Caring for Victims of Crime in the Emergency Deapartment" and that's about as far as I've gotten.