The last day

I’m waiting but I don’t mind waiting in the microcosmic sense of the word. Those short stints of waiting: in front of the school a few afternoons a week; in check out lines at the grocery store. I have a file of articles pulled from magazines to read in the car for the after school wait and I amuse myself reading tabloid covers at the store. If I’m waiting at home there is always some sort of ’net entertainment. I don’t like waiting in the macrocosmic sense. You know, waiting for the big stuff: like the end of the Bush era, or for vacations to start.

Why am I content to wait? I think it’s twofold: My job is terribly time dependent. Medicines must be given at scheduled times. Tasks and duties must be preformed within a prescribed time. They simply must.. Rather than being a clock controlled freak at home, I work at not over scheduling my life and if I have more than three things I MUST DO OR THE WORLD WILL STOP SPINNING on my days off, I‘m pissy and angry about it. Today for instance, is the last day of the year and the boys are with me. Wally stayed out until about God only knows when last night and is still asleep; Beav gorged himself on The Sims until about that time so they have both just now rousted themselves to a waking state at the bright and early hour of 1pm (hey, it‘s 0600 in New Zealand!). I was waiting on them to get up so we could do something together. Maybe see this movie . Maybe go to the mall so they could spend some of their Christmas cash

What did I do while I was waiting? I read a few blogs, chatted with friends; goofed off at facebook. I could have been in the chilly basement making scrap pages or revamping some frames I’m using in a home dec project. I could have even gone to my second favorite crack dealer--the fabric store--but I didn’t. The only thing on my To-Do list for today I’ve come close to tackling is writing a blog entry. The two more important things on the list involve thinking about nursing stuff and aren’t terribly interesting. They’ll get done. Eventually.

So am I procrastinator? I don’t think of myself as one because I have places in my life where things must be done. The boys must be places, I have to show up at work on time and preform my duties on time. When I was in school, I didn’t wait until the last minute to study for tests or write papers. If that had been my approach, I would be flippin’ burgers and living in a trailer park. I’m not smart enough to fake my way through school. My Quaker ancestors would think of me as a lazy but then that was the 17th century and I’m not growing my own food or clearing land or fending off Indians. So I have time on my hands to see what my invisible friends are thinking about today; bantering and/or arguing with them. What a lush life.

This being said, last week I made up my mind to be more productive in the new year because I’m about to morph into one of the a Wall-e character. I’m promising myself every day off I will do something physical. Physical beyond pushing the vacuum cleaner or opening the ‘frig door. This will require getting up earlier than 9ish. Working out, walking and going to yoga has been spotty for me but once I do them, I feel much better; my body and soul feel lighter. After the physical is accomplished, I will tackle the creative. The joy I felt those few days before Christmas when I made my sister’s gifts did more for my soul and my state of mind than hundreds of hours in therapy. She loved them by the way. Loved them! I have plenty of projects to occupy me without spending loads of money. Which circles my third goal to eliminate debt and save enough money to go here next year. My fourth goal, to develop a much needed habit of daily meditation and gratitude journaling will--from a metaphysical standpoint--bring me closer to the end of the debt and closer to Spain.

I know I can reach all of these goals. I’m mapping them out day by day. Besides, if I can quit smoking and wean off the nicotine patch the first six months of 2008 and I can do anything. It will take some adjustment to the daily
to-do list extending beyond two items. Fortunately, they aren't chores so it isn't like I'm resolving to poop scoop everyday!

But in the meantime, it’s still 2008 and I have time to check my email and poke around Craigslist before I get busy, right? The last day of my procrastinating life feels much like the last day I was a smoker who smoked cigarettes. Good. I am reveling in my hanging out. It feels good to wait. But unlike smoking I will be able to endulge myself now and again with hanging out and doing nothing. Unless I'm truly addicted to hanging out and doing the bare minimium and that would be bad.

Today’s passage from Manifest Your Desires starts with these words: “Be easy about all of this. Life is supposed to be fun, you know.”

It is supposed to be fun!

My Glass? It's half full but sits precarously close to the edge of the table

Bringing people Figgy Pudding and decking the halls is always a stretch for this Grinchy McScrooge and because this year has been wrought with challenges; I'm slogging my way towards next Thursday. Like many people, I use this time of year to take stock and plan for the next year so since Thanksgiving, I have rehashed the bad things rather than rehearse all that is good about my life. Last week, I hit bottom when I had an anxiety attack because I had to unexpectedly leave the house. A simple trip to the grocery store turned into an ordeal. Scary, eh? I’ve been down the agoraphobic path and it isn’t one I want to revisit. Teetering on the brink of a depression that would make 1999 look like a case of the blues and 1979 a trip to Disneyland; I pulled out my trusty copy of Power of Intention and Feel Good Workbook as an attempt to recreate what happened in 2008.

1. February: After we Returned from Mexico, Ward kicked Wally out of the house. Wally was devastated, threatening to spin out of control and frightened; I was angrier at Ward and Alexis than I‘have ever been in my life. I felt punished because I took a vacation.

What really happened: Wally and I grew closer. I tapped into strength I didn’t know I had and was able to maturely put aside my anger and negotiate terms with Ward and Alexis.

2. June: We were robbed and with my computer, most of our jewelry was taken. The worst part was sweet Kipper was traumatized. We lost sentimental pieces of no value to anyone but ourselves. My extensive and valuable collection of vintage jewelry, gone. The process of documenting what was lost: going through pictures and sending them to strangers at the insurance company felt more invasive than the break in.

The other side of this: The Girl had hidden her late mother’s wedding band and some jewelry I gave her last Christmas. The robbers managed to miss a one of a kind custom necklace. More importantly, I learned we have wonderful neighbors who stopped by to make sure we were OK and extend their sympathy after word got out we were robbed. Two of my co-workers gave me lovely pieces of jewelry just because they had heard about the robbery. (I still get teary when I think of those gifts.) Most importantly, no one was home when it happened. Finally, we have another tax write-off.

3. June: My assigned unit closed due to low census and my income dropped by 10% until just recently. Not only was my unit closed but there wasn‘t enough work for any of us. With gas at an all time high and food costing an arm and a leg, the economic picture at Chez Cleaver was grim.

Flip side: I only worked two days a week and had at least two days a week to do whatever I pleased. It was like retirement! I had time to write, mess around with art projects, scrapbook and just hang out. I discovered the joy of Pilates and Yoga. What did I do without? I stopped making unnecessary trips in my elderly gas guzzler, I practiced the economy of: “Why am I buying this? Is it necessary or am I fulfilling some other need? “ Seriously, did the Cleaver’s do without? Nope.

4. October: My mother died.

Another version: My mother is no longer suffering chronic physical pain nor is she suffering under the weight of guilt surrounding her 40 plus nicotine addiction and how it altered her quality of life and along with it my father’s quality of life. I was blessed with reconnecting with family and longtime friends. I realized how much people care for us through their acts of kindness and caring. Most importantly, I fell in love with The Girl all over again.

5. November: The economy completely melted down and took 50% of my retirement savings with it.

The big picture: I am still employed and Obama is going to be president and Clinton will be Secretary of the State. Life is looking sweet.

6. November: My son joined the military. He wants to join the medical corp and work with Marines on the battlefield.

What really happened: He has a sense of purpose and figured out all on his own without wasting five figures, school is not his gig. (I previously beat this point to a pulp)

These are just the big things. This year was one tiny cluster fuck after another. Lucky for you rehashing them bores the crap out of me, much less anyone reading this. It was like the Universe was Hell bent on gas lighting me. It could be worse: We are healthy, employed and I love my family more than ever. And best of all? For the first time EVER in his WHOLE life, Beav gets up for school without drama. Before? It was as if I had asked him to cut his arm off with a dull knife or clean the fish tank.

One of my imaginary friends linked this video a few weeks ago and the expressions worn by Hardrock, Cocoa, Joe and Santa match how I’m feeling about Christmas. I swear, Hardrock looks like he is doing community service time.


It isn't any surprise, after losing a couple of weeks to melancholia and then seven days working away from melancholia; I’m a bit behind the eight ball as far as Christmas preparation goes. Even though I lost those precious days off, I wouldn’t back away from commitment to making half of the presents. I hit my crack dealers on Tuesday, and yesterday was an arts and crafts extravaganza at my house.


My gifts rock. But I’m not posting pictures; I don’t want the gifts leaked to my sister and I haven’t a clue if she knows about my blog. The buttons offer a hint. I love my gifts so much, I considered getting her a gift card and keeping these things for myself.

My family arrives next week and I’m preparing for four additional people in my house. I’m not one for a jamboree so this is rattling me a bit. Given the tenuousness of my recent emotional state; the urge to take to my bed a la Alice James has occurred to me on a couple of occasions. I battle The Urge To Nap by kicking into Type A mode; lists are made, tasks divided. Just to make things more interesting, my unit has reopened and I’m scheduled to work the next three days.

Naturally.

Kipper Q. Dogg

OH HAI, MAH NAMEZ IZ KIPPR AN IS JUNECLEAVERS DAWG BUT IM NOT EDGY. I LUV MAH MOMS, THAY GIMMIE TREATS. TONITE I GOT 2 LICK PIE TIN CLEAN. I DID GUD JOB, TEW. BUT MAH MOMS TEASE MEZ AN TELL MEZ IF I WORE PANTS THAY WUD BE BELTD UNDR MAH ARM PITZ CUZ MAH BELLY IZ SEW GUD. SEW I SHOWD TEHM, I WENT 4 WALK YEZTERDAI ALL BY MAHSELF! IS VRY SMART DAWG AN WENT OUTSIDE 2 TEH HOOJ FIELD BEHIND MAH YARD. IT SMEZLLD SEW GUD, TEW. I CUD SMEZLL TEH SNOW IN TEH AIR. I KNEW IT WUZ GOIN 2 SMEZLL BE4E MAH MOMS KNEW IT. TODAI I PLAYD IN TEH SNOW. I HAD EXERCIZE SEW I CUD HAS PIE. MAH MOM DIDNT EXERCIZE AN SHE HAD PIE. IF SHE DOESNT STOP EATIN PIE SHE WILL HAS 2 WEAR HER PANTS UNDR HER ARM PITZ LIEK MEZ.

I know, I know. LOL Cat speak is possibly one of the most ridiculous internet memes. But Kipper isn’t as smart as my friend's dog who speaks as if he were the product of a first tier southern university. He certainly isn’t as smart as this dog. Kipper speaks in LOLCat.

I love Kipper, so Monday almost killed me when I heard the tearful: “The dog is gone!!” when the girl opened the door to let the dog in. He’s escaped before and has been gone for hours; the other day it had only been about fifteen minutes so the search wasn't too hard. I found him in the open space behind our house, nose to the ground, tail up in the air, rapt in a smelly treasure. At first he didn‘t respond to my calls and I know he heard me. But when he finally looked up at me, the joy on his face was infectious. I found myself laughing at him and encouraging him to come to me versus yelling and telling him he was a bad dog for leaving the yard. As Kipper ran towards me, ears flapping back, tongue out of his mouth I could almost hear him say:

“MOM! DIS AR TEH SO KEWL! I LUV DIS PLACE! I GAEV MYSELF WALK! I SMELL OTHR DAWGS! I SMELL BUNNEHS! I SMELL DOSE TRICKY RACOONS!“

Kipper is a sweet dog, he means well but he is incorrigible. I blame myself of course. I’m the one who ignores the begging behaviors and laughs at him when he barks for his supper. Tonight, I give him a pie tin to finish off the bits of crust and pumpkin.

In early 1999, I was running some useless errand with The Beav and bribed him with a trip to the “Fish Store” as a vain attempt to belay the whining and flailing because we were going to Home Depot or some place terribly important like The Rack. At the pet store, Beaver dried his tears and ran back to the fish tanks so I amused myself wandering around, mindlessly looking around at things I hadn’t any use for, when I came upon this massive cage holding one little white pup. He looked like an albino Golden Retriever puppy. All by himself, head neatly placed on his front paws lost in some sort of reverie and when he saw me stop, he looked at me expectantly, light blue eyes softening as we continued to look one another over. I was in love. All the advice of “wait until your youngest child is in first grade…having a puppy is like having a baby, are you ready…?“ flew out the window because I was gobsmacked with love. I think I fell in love with this dog faster than I did my kids; and about as fast as I did The Girl. Before I told Ward about the dog, I took the boys back to the pet store and we played with the puppy. (Hey, I’m not stupid). That evening, after Ward was gobsmacked we took Kipper home and a new era was ushered in for me. I became a Dog Person.

Kipper is just like me and Wally: smart but not a great student. He flunked Puppy Kindergarten twice. He just won‘t stay if there is another dog to play with or a treat or a loved one nearby. Why should he? Being the elicit progeny of a border collie champion and a golden retriever champion, he herds, talks and will eat anything vaguely resembling food. As a puppy, he needed a job. One day, he moved the entire wood pile into the middle of the yard. I couldn‘t convince him to put it back it, either. Kipper loved to chase after the boys when they were small and he still plays tug-of-war but don’t count on him fetching and retrieving anything. Nope, that dog wouldn’t retrieve a ball to save--his favorite--Wally’s life.

Last year, we left our little crack shacks and moved into our new-old house. It’s the perfect setting for us, too. Only one neighbor can hear me yelling at the boys or the dog in the backyard we back to green space. The downside to this are the varmits. We have rabbits, squirrels, raccoons and--my favorite--coyotes. Kipper has this stupid bark when he sees a rabbit or a squirrel. Its the sort of Squeee bark of a dog who has just had his tail stepped on or his balls cut off without anesthesia. And then the poor animal runs sort of knock-kneed. Picture the most uncoordinated nerd in your fifth grade class and you have Kipper. Of course, his goofy yelping precludes him from ever catching a squirrel. Poor Kip, he didn’t get the adorable and useful creeping behavior his mother probably possessed. In fact, he probably would do as poorly as Jas’s tard dog did with sheep. A few weeks after we moved into the house, he did manage to get a baby rabbit. The poor creature barely had it’s eyes open and the inane squeeee barking probably made it’s brain explode. I don’t know who was more surprised, the dog or the boys. I think the boys stood on the porch gaping at him until someone finally called me:

“Mom! Kipper has a bunny! He finally caught a rabbit!“

I’m intrigued and wander to the back door. Yup, dog is in the middle of the yard with a tiny bunny in his mouth.

“SO WUT DO I DOEZ NAO? I JUS SCOOPD DIS UP INTO MAH MOUTH AN I DON’T K NAO WUT 2 DO! DO I EAT IT OR DO I DROP IT. MOM IZ TELLIN ME 2 DROP IT. BUT I DON’T WANTS 2 DROP IT CUZ I CAUGHT IT AN IT’S MINE. BUT IT FEELS FUNNY IN MAH MOUTH. IT FEELS LIEK MAH POUNCE BABY. I DON’T EAT POUNCE BABY, I LUV MAH POUNCE.“

TG very helpfully walked outside with a stick to try to get it out of his mouth. Um…yes…NO. He was not going to open his mouth on the command of “Drop it!“ Predictably he ran away from her. I call Wally outside, he’s a boy he likes disgusting things, maybe he’ll pull it out of the dog’s mouth.

“You want me to do what?…No way, that’s gross! And it‘s dead!“

Yeah, my heroes. Whatever. We were late for an orthodontist appointment and I couldn’t leave the dog to eat the bunny because that would be a disgusting mess when he threw it up or if he left bits on the back patio. I was upset we were late for the appointment and I was mad the dog had caught this poor baby so I stomped into the house, put some vinyl gloves on, stomped into the backyard, commanded the dog come to me. Of course he came to me, still stunned that he had actually caught something with all the stupid spastic barking.
“Y’all are all a bunch of pussy’s!” I scolded as I pried the dog‘s mouth open and popped out the corpse. I marched to the back fence, arm outstretched and threw it over the fence. I turned around and TG, Beav and Wally were now gapping at me. “Oh, please, I touch worse at work!” I still tease Wally about being such a baby about the dead rabbit.

So far, Kipper hasn’t even come close to another rabbit. My guess if he ever gets another one it will because he gives it a heart attack with the infernal barking.

We do have a witching hour at our house and it is only made worse by early darkness in the winter. The Spas-Dog behavior begins at about 4:30.
7:00 BARK AT MOMS CUZ I HAS 2 PEE! NAO! AN WHILE I’M UP, I NEEDZ 2 EAT NAO!!

7:15 FINISHD WIF BREAKFAST NAO IT’S TIEMZ 2 SNEAK INTO MAH BEDROOM. THAY CALL IT TEH GUEST ROOM BUT RLY, DAT’S MAH BED.

11:30 GO DOWNSTAIRS AN C WHA MOM IZ DOIN. USUALLY SHE IZ IN TEH BASEMEZNT PAINTIN SEWMEZTHIN AN YELLS AT MEZ WHEN I NUDGE HER. SEW I BARK AT HER TILL SHE LETS MEZ OUTSIDE. BUT FURST I HAS 2 PULL ALL MAH TOYS OUT OV TEH BASKET AN PUT THEM BY TEH BAKDOOR SO THEY CAN GO OUTSIDE AN ENJOY TEH GUD SMELLS.

12:30 I HAS 2 BARK AN BARK AN BARK 2 COMEZ INTO TEH HOUZ CUZ I’M THIRSTY FRUM CHAZIN DOSE DAMN BIRDZ DAT TEASE MEZ SEW MUTCH. I FINLEE LERND IF I JUS SIT STILL AN WATCH TEHM FLY AROUND, THAY WON’T BOTEHR MAH FUD. BUT IF I CHAZE WAN, TEH OTEHR WILL TAKEZ MAH FUD. BAD BAD BIRDZ!

12:35 SNEAK UP 2 MAH BEDROOM 4 NAP.

4:30 IT’S DARK. MUST BE TIEMZ 2 EAT. TIEMZ 2 EAT!! TIEMZ 2 EAT!! OMG IT’S TIEMZ 4 MAH DINNR. GIT MAH DINNR NAO GIT MAH DINNR NAO!! Y DOEZ SHE MAK MEZ GO OUTSIDE WHEN I’M ASKIN 4 DINNR. DOSE BOIS DON’T HAS 2 GO OUTSIDE WHEN THAY R NOISY.

4:40 BEG 2 COMEZ INSIDE

4:45 BARK SEWMEZ MOAR

4:55 GO BAK OUTSIDE IF I CANT EAT NAO, CAN MAH MANATEE GO OUTSIDE, HE NEEDZ 2 GO POTTY? NO? CAN MAH POUNCE BABY GO OUTSIDE? HE NEEDZ 2 GO POTTY! NO? CAN MAH SNOWMAN GO OUTSIDE, HE IZ SNOWMAN AN HE NEEDZ 2 GO OUTSIDE! NO!? HOW BOUT MAH SOUR. MAH DINOSOUR NEEDZ 2 USE TEH POTTY!!

5:05 COMEZ INSIDE AN ASK: WER IZ MAH DINNR IZ TIEMZ 4 DINNR WER IZ? IS HUNGRY DIS MINIT!

Kipper and I play this game for another ninety minutes until it is time for him to eat; or I’m insane from the barking and playing doorman and just feed him early. I thought the witching hour was bad with a toddler but winter with Kipper makes the hours between four and six with a two-year old Beaver look like a relaxing spa vacation.

I was without my boy for eight long years, and the idea of returning to a Kipper free life is unimaginable. After I left Ward, he wouldn’t let me have the dog. His argument was he would get too lonely if the dog left when the children were with me. Oh what--the fuck--ever. It wasn’t until Ward married Alexis Carrington Colby when I was allowed to have Kipper. Alexis and Kipper didn’t hit it off so he was relegated to the evil ex wife's house. Kip is panic stricken if we even tease him about returning to Alexis' house! More panic stricken than when the suitcases appear.

As I was writing this last night, the dog was sleeping on my feet when he heard the garage door open. He leapt to attention, grabbed his manatee and moved to sit squarely in the doorway so whoever was coming into the house would not miss the dog.

"IZ MAH OTHR MOMMY, OR MAYBE DOSE BOIS! I LUV OTHR MOMMY AN BOIS! MAYBE THEY WILL LET ME TAEK MAH MANATEE OUTSIDE! IF IZ TEH BOIS THEY WILL SAY OH HAI, AN PET ME AN PULAY TUG-OV-WAR WIF ME. BEAVR GIVEZ ME TREAT. WHEN OTHR MOMMY COMEZ IN SHE ALWAYS SEZ OH HAI 2 ME AN GIVEZ ME SNUGGLE!”

It’s the other mommy and yes, she gives him a snuggle even before she shuts the door.

Spinning

"Zippy" November 22, 2008 by Bill Griffith



Spin /SPIN/ VERB to contemplate on a subject in a negative manner which could lead to needless anxiety and worry. Synonym for “beating a dead horse”

In a rare moment of lucidity, my psychotic ex-girlfriend, aptly pointed out my penchant for this sort of spinning. Admittedly, it was my hobby. I’m not as prone to spinning as I once was and now it resembles a slow twirl versus a vortex of self recrimination and regret. It’s more like wandering in a circle. This week I have been wandering around in my head. Aimelessly, I might add and I find myself listlessly staring into space. This would be all well and good if I were say Elizabeth Gilbert in India. But I’m not a wealthy and self-indulgent writer. Nope just a self-indulgent wanna be. Eating in Italy, meditating in India and fucking off in Bali isn’t in my future. Can you tell I don’t think much of this book? I loved it when I read it but I‘ve had almost a year to consider it and now I think it‘s dreck.

Saturday, I was reminded how much I dislike this book. I was helping a patient--easily the angriest woman in the world-- wash her hair. Some of her anger is understandable: she suffers from both chronic pain and is disabled. However, X is more debilitated emotionally than physically but that‘s another story and a HIPPA violation. She is bed bound and it was tricky to set up the room so I could create a sink of sorts behind the bed. Much to her consternation I did manage to move things around and so I could pour the water, catch the water and wash her hair, away from a sink or a shower. It was a relief for me to slow down for a few minutes and despite her grumbling protests, X appreciated the attention.

I‘m such a Piscean creature so water always settles me and even through the gloves, the water trickling over my fingers was calming. As I washed her hair, my free floating ire was falling away and the room took on a Zen like silence. (Whenever this happens with a patient, I’m about to have an epiphany or learn a lesson.) I’m pouring water over her head and meditatively massaging shampoo into her thinning hair, when I saw it: Eat, Pray, Love on her bedside table. The Zen left me. I felt my eyes roll and I sighed.

“Oh, I bet you can really relate to Gilbert’s angst ridden drivel?” I smirked, my voice dripping with sarcasm because I was the second angriest woman in the world.

“God, don’t get me started. She should trade places with me for five minutes. This--all of this--would make her long for her ‘loveless marriage’. And we would never have to hear about how much she hated to meditate ever again.“, She spat back. *

This week, I have mulled over many parts of the time I spent with X and this conversation came back to me again and againa because I think about trading places with other people, a lot. It's a terrible habit and some days envy moves to bitterness. Which is pointless for so many reasons. I believe the dis-ease of bitterness can put the body in harms way and lead to illness. It’s also pointless from a more pedantic point of view. We see other people’s lives only from a single dimension. We can’t see history or fight their internal battles. Usually, the people who spawn the dreaded bitterness are strangers, usually imaginary friends. I do think there is a fine line between wanting a life like someone else’s and wanting to trade with them. Wanting a life that looks like someone else’s can be a creative start. If I'm not mistaken part of Gilbert's appeal is just this.

For years, I wanted my life to be just like my dear friend A’s, who is a remarkable woman; she is extraordinarily talented, drop dead funny, creative, a great mom, intelligent and gorgeous. If I didn’t love her so much, I would hate her. She was also married to The Perfect Man. He too, was funny, smart, good looking and very successful (whatever). Sometimes, I’m not really quick on the uptake and it took about 10 years to see the cracks in that myth I had written about Mr. Asshat Esq. He traded her in on a foreign model. Now she is navigating the unsure waters of being single in her fifties. Damn. No thanks. I mean it was enough to navigate being single--and embracing the fact I‘m a lesbian--in my forties. But to do it again? Um…No. Besides, if my wrinkle in the time space continuum occurred and I had stepped into her life, I wouldn’t have had the privilege of watching her grow the last two years. And what pure grace that has been, too! I know sometimes she is awash in bitterness because her life doesn’t look the way she mapped it. Does anyone’s? I mean really. When I was thirty, if you had told me in seventeen years I would be divorced and in love with a woman; I would have done the Elaine thing: slapped your shoulder and said: “Get out!”

I do find myself scratching my head when I look at my map. In 2002, I discovered the map was upside down. Of course, I spent time rolling around in bitterness. Now I avoid what ifs and regrets. Isn't that why I spent thousands on therapy? My baseline happiness quotient doesn't call for regret, either. A delightful friend pointed out an upside down map turns hills into lush valleys. I threw away my map this week because I'm sick of trying to plot out the details of my life. Especially, when what happens is a million times more delightful than the plans I make.

I’m thankful, I don’t have to leave home to find myself. I’ve been here all along and I don’t really need a map. Besides, I will miss something surprising and wonderful if I continue to look down at the map. Rascal Flatts says it best ". . .thankful for the tears I've cried with every stumbled step that led to you and got me here, right here. . . "


*please say a prayer of peace for this woman. She has so much left to offer this world and my prayer is she discovers this before it is too late.

Derange pas ta tendresse

"Don't break your tenderness"

As a romantic, I would like to think Kerouac murmured these words to Neal Cassadyduring a passionate encounter. It has become one of my favorite quotes and this photo is a favorite from our weekend in Austin. The day promised to be hot without slipping to that cloying oppressive heat central Texas is known for. Thanks to the Artygirlz, this challenge gave me a chance to rummage through my files and enjoy our trip all over again.

Reporting For Duty

Nineteen years ago, I probably looked down at my rounding belly and said: “In eight short months, you will arrive!” Today, I found myself saying: “In eight short months you will be leaving home.” And to be perfectly cliché, I then found myself musing out loud how the time had passed so quickly although their were moments in his infancy and boyhood that felt like years. The paradox of motherhood. One of many.

I’m not sure why it hit me between the eyes today that Wally will be shipping out in eight months. And it isn't like he will be gone for a week or two but for three months, then a year and after that? Who knows. He will belong to the navy. At first I thought he joined impulsively as some sort of revenge because I’m obviously a poor money manager and didn’t save 80 grand for the college of his choice. A school--I hasten to add--that wouldn’t accept him even if he were waving the cash outside their gates. Yea gods we had heated discussion about his lassitude in school. Wally isn’t a stupid kid, he just isn’t that into school. Over the last month he has finally accepted this and carefully considered all the military branches and chose the Navy.


How ironic we considered immigrating to Canada to avoid the United States military machine way back in ‘91. Now I’m proud he will be a part of the very thing we wanted to escape. Wally even knows what he wants to do after boot camp. He wants to work with the Marines and special ops as a corpsman as a medic. Of course, he is going for some testosterone Play Station job he couldn't’t be content with a safe Mom-friendly job, on a base, away from the shooting and bombs. Nope, he wants to “play in the sandbox with the Marines”. (I do know some of the lingo) He leaves in eight months. Leaves home. Goes away. Leaves.


I suppose the grief that is sitting in the back of my throat, threatening to spill out of my eyes and onto my cheeks at any given moment is in part due to my mother’s death. I must say good bye to my boy in eight months. How exquisite it’s almost as long as my pregnancy.

This morning, I was graced with the rare opportunity to spend time with him before school so we went to the very loud and very crowded Starbucks across the street from the school. That he wasn‘t embarrassed to be seen with me on his turf speaks to his new found maturity. I quizzed him why he was joining the military. I was afraid he was going to tell me he couldn't’t wait to get away from me because he was sick of my bitching about his deadbeat father. He spared me that humiliation and explained to me he knew the only school we could afford was the commuter college in town; he also maturely admitted even though he will be 19, he knows he isn't ready for college. And then he said these magic words: “No offense mom but I’m ready to leave home. I need to leave home. It’s time.”


The loudest Starbucks in the whole world was suddenly dead silent except for my son’s sincere intonation of those very important words. After taking a deep and steadying breath, I quietly explained to him how proud I was of him; how this was the moment healthy parents worked towards. “From the day we brought you home from the hospital, I knew and hoped we would have this conversation. Of course you are ready to leave home. As you should be.”



Although I have been whining how horrible he as treated all of us the last six months, I'm still sad. Until last Tuesday, I was counting down the days to his 19th birthday because I could legally inform his father "due to Wally's attitude and behavior, he was no longer welcome in *my* home." But he is a different boy man since he decided to sign his contract. Wally is calmer and seems at peace; no longer picking at Beav or treating me disrespectfully. He is holding his head higher, looking us straight in the eye when we speak to him. Wally has a purpose.

Swinging the lamp while I adjust my cap and hear you rate your pain on a scale of one through 10

I started this blog as a creative lark and when I was considering some of the things I could blather on about, my calling was one of them. I could write about being a nurse! And I love being a nurse! I am proud to be a nurse!. . .Yay! . . .er…um…no. To begin with HIPPA makes nurse blogging tricky and I‘m too lazy for smoke and mirrors. Besides that, there is so much more to me than RN. But this week I have decided to put on my cap because a new set of flaming hoops of fire regulations are in town and they are shaking my confidence a bit. I’ve been a nurse for a long time and it takes a lot to shake my self confidence but every so often it happens. My latest dose of humility is this list: The Twenty-Eight Never Events or things that should never happen to a patient. And if they happen, the government and insurance companies can refuse to pay. Mind you, the majority of events on the list are heinous events and breathtaking in their degree of neglect and--dare I say--malpractice it would take for them to even occur. The list scares me, not because I’m afraid of perpetrating one of these events but rather what if I forget to record the measures taken to prevent the event and it happens anyhow? ( Nosocomial infections and falls are the two that freak me out) I do believe this list of events will only make facilities better and nurses will rise to the occasion and become even more efficient in the delivery of safe care. However, I think it is time for the patient to take some responsibility and I have designed a list of twenty-eight things that should never happen to me again or never happen to me in the first place, while I’m on duty. I haven’t decided what the penalty. A begrudging reluctance to take care of the offending party or parties will serve as the penalty.

Never Events According To Edgy June Cleaver* **

1. Laying in your hospital bed, call light in hand , screaming at me as I walk down the hall: “Nurse! Nurse! Nurse!” The more grievous version of this is “Girl! Girl! Girl!”
2. Referring to me as “my girl” or “my little helper.” (is this how you speak to your attorney, accountant or doctor?) I’m almost 50 years old, I haven’t been a girl in a long time.
3. Calling me ugly names because I won’t give you pain medicine more than 15 minutes before they are due.
4. Threatening to have me fired or sued or bought before the state board because I won’t violate HIPPA laws and explain to you over the phone what‘s wrong with your best friend since the third grade.
5. Visitors asking me for “some of the good stuff you just gave him, you know that Dilaudid stuff”
6. Patients or visitors calling me hot and are then upset I don’t think it’s funny or sweet or an enticing invitation.
7. Asking me to baby sit your children, in your hospital room.
8. Asking me to listen to your loved ones heart, lungs, or examine that big growth on the side of their leg . Please don’t embarrass yourself with an angry and insulted response when I suggest a trip to a healthcare provider.
9. Patients or visitors who hit, punch or slap me. Or even attempt it for that matter. You will get to meet a nice police officer if this happens.
10. Patients or visitors touching me in a sexually inappropriate manner. Again, you get to meet a nice police officer.
11. Proclaiming I am a bad nurse because I do not--off the top of my head--know the results of your procedures or tests. Chances are I do know the results but am not a liberty to give you bad news.
12. Calling me--again--three minutes after calling me for pain meds to remind me it‘s time for your pain meds. I’m in the med room getting them for you because I don’t make it a habit of carrying vials of dilaudid in my pockets.
13. Patients or visitors who become angry and don’t understand the necessity of keeping my back and my coworkers back’s safe when we seek help from others to move or reposition them.
14. Patients or visitors who bring their dogs onto the unit. If I had my way everyone could bring their dog to the hospital for a visit. For that matter Kipper would come to work every day.
15. Calling 911 from your room because your nurse is late with your meds.
16. Husbands/boyfriends who ask the labor nurse when their wife/girlfriend is “gonna be able to fuck again” while the obstetrician is repairing a fourth degree tear.
17. Do not balk at my gloves when I must touch you. It is an unfortunate and necessary evil.
18. Unless you are under the age of 15 you may never call your father “Daddy” in my presence. This squicks me out more than sputum.
19. Insist on toileting your 80 year old mother and you are a 60 year old son. This is next to sputum and just before Daddy in the squick department.
20. Threaten to sue me because I won’t give you q2H meds every hour.
21. Calling me a bitch under any circumstances. I may be one but you don’t own the special privilege of calling me by this pet name.
22. Constantly reminding me you have a husband/wife/cousin/uncle/father/sister/brother/aunt/mother whatever who is an important politician/business leader/attorney/judge in town.
23. Throw things at me: particularly full urinals or full water pitchers.
24. Accusing me of being forgetful or stupid if I check your armband every time I give you medicine or perform a treatment.
25. Bringing your booze from home. I realize our palliative hooch isn’t as good as yours but I can’t let you have it. But it beats the Hell out of DT’s.
26. Bringing your hunting knife of pepper spray with you to the hospital. It unnerves me to find them when I change your bed linens.
27. Asking me to not make rounds at 0200 because your husband is sleeping on the cot and he gets grumpy if he is awakened. (I’ll speak to your baby about this in the nursery.)
28. Shouting at me for any reason unless you are deaf and can’t hear yourself or are bereft and angry after hearing dire news.



*I have been a nurse for 25 years and some of these things have happened to me and some of them were witnessed. Please know this list is half tongue-in-cheek and I am not some sort of uncompassionate battle ax who needs to retire.

**If you are demented, these Never Events do not apply to you.

Cloris Leachman's brilliant Nurse Diesel comes to me by way of images.andale.com Thank you!