Just worked five twelves in a row, and the freaks really do come out during the full moon. So do the gardening injuries, the drunk drivers, the broken arms (5 sugar tong splints in two days!! Geez!!), the heart patients, and the stroke victims. Had two brain tumors diagnosed in the ER that night. My favorite nurse looked at me, waggled his eyebrows, and said, "see, firefighter girl? Nurses can put in 18g IVs, too." I told him I woulda shot a 16.
It's somewhat sobering to see these patients in the ICU a couple of days later, though, knocked out from propofol, tubes in every orifice. Particularly when you saw them talking, or trying to talk, 48 hours earlier.
We had one woman who had been in an MVA earlier in the day. Medics got called to her home; they boarded her just to get her out, since she could barely walk. Doc cleared her C-spine, and he and I rolled her up on her side with the standard "give yourself a hug!" Apparently, my eyes widened rather comically when she flailed her arms around and one of her hands landed square on my tuckus and then held on for dear life, because Doc started laughing. However, her hand remained, and Doc took it upon himself to ask her if she had developed a fondness for me. She released her iron grip, patted my butt, and apologized. I have a feeling I'll be hearing about that one for a while.
Was having one of those days. You know. Where everything you pick up, you fumble, or drop; when the saline flush falls out of the lock right before you set the IV; when tape sticks to your gloved fingers, when the velcro on the knee immobilizer attaches to everything but what it's supposed to, when the underwire on your favorite bra snaps right at the curve, and you suddenly feel a sharp pain and an amazing lack of support. Then you get home, try to read before falling into a dead sleep, and your glasses snap right at the bridge. Seems like a sign. You know. Like maybe it's time for a little R and R.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
mixman gets a splinter
This morning, I sat outside on my back patio, enjoying the shade, my coffee, and a great book. It's been a while since I could sit out there- the cherry tree has decided to make cherries this year, and they are small and dark and hurt like hell when they come pelting down and smack you on the head, or foot, or leg. Plus they leave a really attractive reddish purple stain which the children decided looks a lot like blood, and have taken to smearing all over their faces and stomachs, and then chasing mom around the yard making spooky, goulish monster noises.
Anyway, judging by the number of cherries on the ground and smooshed all over the inside of my house, I felt it was safe to sit outside. There honestly could not be any left in that tree. I had just gotten to the best part in the book when I felt something warm and icky spooge on my shoulder and down my arm. Cherry colored bird poop. Yum. So. No more sitting on the back patio for me.
MixMan has developed the oddly disturbing (to his father) and rather funny (to me) habit of passing out at the slightest hint of blood or injury. School friend's loose, wiggly tooth? MixMan, down on the ground. Miss Diva's broken foot blister? Whump, MixMan flat on his back. So when he came to tell me he'd gotten a splinter and needed a bandaid, and I got out the tweezers and he ran from me, screaming, I didn't bother to chase him. I saw how pale his face was. I knew I needed only to wait for the inevitable vagal response before I could dig that sucker out.
Worked an extra shift at Meth Central Med Center this week. I started out covering for the unit secretary at her command post, and briefly entertained fantasies of running and hiding in the supply room, under all the IV supplies. I managed to hold it together until she got back from her class. I'm not sure if all the Unit Secs scowl that way all the time, or if it's just at me. Whatever. I left the nurses' station and made myself happy by sticking several people with 18g IV caths in the hand, just because I could. Oh, yeah, and because they needed 'em. Then I realized it's been over a week since I missed an IV, and I probably just cursed myself by saying that. Whoopsie. But I have floor nurses call and ask for me by name now when they have a tough stick. The last time was the med floor; they had some 300 lb cantankerous old lady cursing like a sailor who needed an IV, and they were all somewhat frightened of her, I think. So I get in there, introduce myself, and she says, and I quote, "I don't give a rat's ass where you come from or who you are; shut up or I'll shove a sock down your throat."
Well.
The nurses all made clucking noises. I looked at the lady, who cocked one eyebrow and dared me to respond. I grabbed her hand, swiped it with alcohol, and said, "you and my mother agree on something, then," slid a 20g in and taped it down. Her jaw dropped so far I coulda shoved a couple socks in, but the thought didn't even cross my mind. Honest. And that whole part about my mama isn't true, either. But it's good this lady didn't have my work socks on hand after a long shift-- I usually tuck those into a biohazard ziplock bag when I get off work, which in my humble opinion is the best place for them.
A couple of medics brought in a Charles Manson lookalike last week, and we put him in the psych room. He was a bit antsy, and hospital security wasn't cutting it, so we called the cops. One of the two officers who showed up is almost always good for a laugh, so I hovered outside the door and listened.
Officer Friendly: What's going on, sir? Why can't you do what these nice people ask you to do? They're just trying to help you.
Charles Manson: I can't, my--
OF: (sighing)you know, I was just sitting down to my coffee and doughnuts. I love doughnuts. I'm very hungry right now, and I was really looking forward to eating my sugar sprinkles.
CM: (squeaking)you want to eat me?
OF: (roaring)do you look like a doughnut? Do you have chocolate frosting and little rainbow sprinkles? No!! But if you did, I might eat you up.
Charles faints. Or maybe the Ativan kicked in.
Anyway, judging by the number of cherries on the ground and smooshed all over the inside of my house, I felt it was safe to sit outside. There honestly could not be any left in that tree. I had just gotten to the best part in the book when I felt something warm and icky spooge on my shoulder and down my arm. Cherry colored bird poop. Yum. So. No more sitting on the back patio for me.
MixMan has developed the oddly disturbing (to his father) and rather funny (to me) habit of passing out at the slightest hint of blood or injury. School friend's loose, wiggly tooth? MixMan, down on the ground. Miss Diva's broken foot blister? Whump, MixMan flat on his back. So when he came to tell me he'd gotten a splinter and needed a bandaid, and I got out the tweezers and he ran from me, screaming, I didn't bother to chase him. I saw how pale his face was. I knew I needed only to wait for the inevitable vagal response before I could dig that sucker out.
Worked an extra shift at Meth Central Med Center this week. I started out covering for the unit secretary at her command post, and briefly entertained fantasies of running and hiding in the supply room, under all the IV supplies. I managed to hold it together until she got back from her class. I'm not sure if all the Unit Secs scowl that way all the time, or if it's just at me. Whatever. I left the nurses' station and made myself happy by sticking several people with 18g IV caths in the hand, just because I could. Oh, yeah, and because they needed 'em. Then I realized it's been over a week since I missed an IV, and I probably just cursed myself by saying that. Whoopsie. But I have floor nurses call and ask for me by name now when they have a tough stick. The last time was the med floor; they had some 300 lb cantankerous old lady cursing like a sailor who needed an IV, and they were all somewhat frightened of her, I think. So I get in there, introduce myself, and she says, and I quote, "I don't give a rat's ass where you come from or who you are; shut up or I'll shove a sock down your throat."
Well.
The nurses all made clucking noises. I looked at the lady, who cocked one eyebrow and dared me to respond. I grabbed her hand, swiped it with alcohol, and said, "you and my mother agree on something, then," slid a 20g in and taped it down. Her jaw dropped so far I coulda shoved a couple socks in, but the thought didn't even cross my mind. Honest. And that whole part about my mama isn't true, either. But it's good this lady didn't have my work socks on hand after a long shift-- I usually tuck those into a biohazard ziplock bag when I get off work, which in my humble opinion is the best place for them.
A couple of medics brought in a Charles Manson lookalike last week, and we put him in the psych room. He was a bit antsy, and hospital security wasn't cutting it, so we called the cops. One of the two officers who showed up is almost always good for a laugh, so I hovered outside the door and listened.
Officer Friendly: What's going on, sir? Why can't you do what these nice people ask you to do? They're just trying to help you.
Charles Manson: I can't, my--
OF: (sighing)
CM: (squeaking)
OF: (roaring)
Charles faints. Or maybe the Ativan kicked in.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
a little excursion
short shift last night; only 8 hours. In that time, two alcohol poisonings, two intentional ODs (tubed one of 'em), three little kids who got into their parents' aspirin and/or tylenol. Three years in EMS and I've never seen activated charcoal used, but the black goop was flying last night, I tell ya.
Had to take a run to imaging to restart an IV for a woman undergoing an MRI. I got in there and unloaded all my metal medic paraphernalia--trauma shears, clamps, name badge and key, retractable lanyard, watch, spiral ER pocket guide. Got next to the MRI and felt my Who hair ponytails vwoom toward it. Shit! Bobby pins! About 5o of them! No way was I taking all of them out. So I made the tech stand between me and the imager while I got a nice little IV in the patient's upper arm. It was a beauty.
Today, my daughter and I took a walk in the neighborhood. I am trying to make up for my inattention during the last three years of school and work, when I spent the days I wasn't commuting two hours to the coast for twenty-four hour shifts recovering from those 24 hour shifts. I am also trying to make up for the shoddiness of our neighborhood, the sheltered indoor life we seem to lead most of the time. We turned out our driveway, went east instead of west because the shooting last month was in the cul de sac to the west, and walked the sidewalks to get to the playground nestled in between several other duplexes. I almost cried when I saw the empty playground; broken glass covered the decrepit tennis court, and all that was left of the swing set was a rusty slide with bolts sticking out of it. The rings and the swings were gone, stolen or broken, and had never been replaced. I looked around at all the backyard fences, saw gang tags on every one. I don't know when this happened.
Nervous about the three men circling us on bicycles, I convinced Miss Diva to walk home with me sooner than we planned, promising we'd make a list of all the things we'll do this week. "Yeah," she said, "like go to Disneyland!" I held her hand tightly, my other hand locked around my phone in the front pocket of my hoodie zip-up. As we walked, I noticed the garbage stacked in front of houses, under bushes, spilling out of cardboard boxes. I noticed the peeling paint on the duplexes, the worthless cars in yards, parked haphazardly across overgrown grass; stray bedraggled cats missing chunks of fur. Here and there I noticed little secret gardens, plants and flowers in pots, and I wondered at the absurdity of it all, wondered why we even bother, when hell and poverty are closing in all around us.
Some days, I don't know how I do this. I don't know how I manage as a single parent with two children and four cats in this shit hole neighborhood, where my attempts at a flower garden seem pointless, where I can hear the sirens and the music booming in cars and babies crying and people screaming at all hours, even through my double paned windows, even with the doors double locked and curtains closed against the sound. Some days, I don't know how I do it. Some days, I don't know why I bother. But I do bother, and I do it, every day, because gardening and mothering are my little attempts at revolution. I wake up and I try to smile at the kids, even before coffee, which is no small feat. I pour their milk and cereal. I drink my coffee. And every day turns out okay in the end.
Had to take a run to imaging to restart an IV for a woman undergoing an MRI. I got in there and unloaded all my metal medic paraphernalia--trauma shears, clamps, name badge and key, retractable lanyard, watch, spiral ER pocket guide. Got next to the MRI and felt my Who hair ponytails vwoom toward it. Shit! Bobby pins! About 5o of them! No way was I taking all of them out. So I made the tech stand between me and the imager while I got a nice little IV in the patient's upper arm. It was a beauty.
Today, my daughter and I took a walk in the neighborhood. I am trying to make up for my inattention during the last three years of school and work, when I spent the days I wasn't commuting two hours to the coast for twenty-four hour shifts recovering from those 24 hour shifts. I am also trying to make up for the shoddiness of our neighborhood, the sheltered indoor life we seem to lead most of the time. We turned out our driveway, went east instead of west because the shooting last month was in the cul de sac to the west, and walked the sidewalks to get to the playground nestled in between several other duplexes. I almost cried when I saw the empty playground; broken glass covered the decrepit tennis court, and all that was left of the swing set was a rusty slide with bolts sticking out of it. The rings and the swings were gone, stolen or broken, and had never been replaced. I looked around at all the backyard fences, saw gang tags on every one. I don't know when this happened.
Nervous about the three men circling us on bicycles, I convinced Miss Diva to walk home with me sooner than we planned, promising we'd make a list of all the things we'll do this week. "Yeah," she said, "like go to Disneyland!" I held her hand tightly, my other hand locked around my phone in the front pocket of my hoodie zip-up. As we walked, I noticed the garbage stacked in front of houses, under bushes, spilling out of cardboard boxes. I noticed the peeling paint on the duplexes, the worthless cars in yards, parked haphazardly across overgrown grass; stray bedraggled cats missing chunks of fur. Here and there I noticed little secret gardens, plants and flowers in pots, and I wondered at the absurdity of it all, wondered why we even bother, when hell and poverty are closing in all around us.
Some days, I don't know how I do this. I don't know how I manage as a single parent with two children and four cats in this shit hole neighborhood, where my attempts at a flower garden seem pointless, where I can hear the sirens and the music booming in cars and babies crying and people screaming at all hours, even through my double paned windows, even with the doors double locked and curtains closed against the sound. Some days, I don't know how I do it. Some days, I don't know why I bother. But I do bother, and I do it, every day, because gardening and mothering are my little attempts at revolution. I wake up and I try to smile at the kids, even before coffee, which is no small feat. I pour their milk and cereal. I drink my coffee. And every day turns out okay in the end.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
firefighter girl 1, snails 100 and counting
It's early Saturday morning. I'm sitting on my back patio in the cold, damp air, drinking gnarly coffee. I make it strong, anyway, but there was just a little bit extra in the bottom of the bag, so I dumped it in. . .maybe a bit too much, even for me. But at least I'm awake. The kids are inside, playing monkeys and monsters. I'm not quite sure what the rules are, but they're giggling wildly, so it must be fun--either that, or the game is just a cover for kitty corralling. Anyway, they're so high energy it makes me tired; fueled by youth and a breakfast of three kinds of cereal, dumped together in the same bowl, that, when mixed with milk, looks a lot like cat vomit. But they seem to find it delicious.
I don't usually have both of them on Saturday, but MixMan's daddy went out last night to celebrate his birthday, and Miss Diva's daddy had a Salsa dancing lesson last night. So yesterday we played hard, ran through the sprinkler, built, painted, and planted a window box, and stayed up late watching Toonsylvania. I checked this morning to see if the snails had eaten any of the new plants. Only two casualties, but this is becoming a serious problem. I don't like killing anything, and apparently news has spread in the neighborhood that my yard is a snail sanctuary, with tasty plants to boot.
This is war. Time for the heavy artillery. Beer. In shallow dishes. Snails love it, or so I hear. And yeah, they die, but at least they die drunk and happy. But I'm not behind this idea one hundred percent; I mean, it seems like a lot of work. I'll have to check itty bitty snail IDs, limit entry to snails at least 21 days old. Still, it's probably easier than my nightly snail chucking, when I toss snails into the grass and hope that at least some of them make their way to the neighbors' yards instead of back into mine. I dunno. I'll keep you posted.
Yesterday, MixMan's school had a first grade performance of music from around the world. I loved watching him sign the words, singing quietly with his sweet voice. Afterwards, one of the parents said to her kid, "Let's get a picture of you with the little deaf boy!"
WTF?!! I am so glad that MixMan didn't hear that. There are benefits, I suppose, to being deaf. On the way home, to channel my anger into something constructive, I turned up the stereo in the car, bass thumping so MixMan could feel it. We sang along to one of my favorite songs, the Black Eyed Peas' "My Style." It starts out with an a capella round "Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy," except I swear they're singing, "Lord have MRSA, Lord have MRSA." And why not? Everybody else does.
I don't usually have both of them on Saturday, but MixMan's daddy went out last night to celebrate his birthday, and Miss Diva's daddy had a Salsa dancing lesson last night. So yesterday we played hard, ran through the sprinkler, built, painted, and planted a window box, and stayed up late watching Toonsylvania. I checked this morning to see if the snails had eaten any of the new plants. Only two casualties, but this is becoming a serious problem. I don't like killing anything, and apparently news has spread in the neighborhood that my yard is a snail sanctuary, with tasty plants to boot.
This is war. Time for the heavy artillery. Beer. In shallow dishes. Snails love it, or so I hear. And yeah, they die, but at least they die drunk and happy. But I'm not behind this idea one hundred percent; I mean, it seems like a lot of work. I'll have to check itty bitty snail IDs, limit entry to snails at least 21 days old. Still, it's probably easier than my nightly snail chucking, when I toss snails into the grass and hope that at least some of them make their way to the neighbors' yards instead of back into mine. I dunno. I'll keep you posted.
Yesterday, MixMan's school had a first grade performance of music from around the world. I loved watching him sign the words, singing quietly with his sweet voice. Afterwards, one of the parents said to her kid, "Let's get a picture of you with the little deaf boy!"
WTF?!! I am so glad that MixMan didn't hear that. There are benefits, I suppose, to being deaf. On the way home, to channel my anger into something constructive, I turned up the stereo in the car, bass thumping so MixMan could feel it. We sang along to one of my favorite songs, the Black Eyed Peas' "My Style." It starts out with an a capella round "Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy," except I swear they're singing, "Lord have MRSA, Lord have MRSA." And why not? Everybody else does.
Friday, May 11, 2007
drama system entries
The poem in the previous posting seems particularly applicable this past week. Two kids, 10 and 16, were shot through their sliding glass door in the next cul-de-sac over from mine last week. This makes me feel angry, and helpless. And it doesn't matter, really, that it was the result of some ongoing family feud that most likely involved drugs. All that matters is that the work I've done on my garden, my home, my sanctuary pales in comparison with the need for safety for my children. I decided, of course, that I needed to move immediately, but then realized that anyplace I could afford would have the same problems, but at least here, I know my neighbors, and we take care of each other. So I dig in the dirt, plant flowers and seeds with a little prayer for peace.
I've had this feeling, lately, that I should be doing something productive for posterity. I mean, I've got the school and career thing under my belt, I think I've got a handle on parenting (although just when I'm congratulating myself on being a fabulous mom, Miss Diva shatters the illusion with a zinger like this: "Mommy, remember when you said I'd have to live outside until I was 8?" but before you get all up in arms and call DHS, I should mention that I would have provided her with food and water and blankets. Really.) Anyway, maybe I should buy a house (yeah, right, that's gonna happen anytime soon) or work on my paintings or publish a book. So I sit down to write the great american novel and what comes out is. . .nothing.
Well, not really nothing. I mean, I type, and words come out on the screen, but what it really is is moose puke. Or yak butter. Yum. So maybe the great american novel isn't my style, and I should stick with poetry that will never, ever see the light of day.
Anyway.
I just finished up the TNCC (Trauma Nursing Core Course) that I'm required to take for my ER job. It was great to be in class again, but I didn't even open the book, because the lecture and the subject material seemed mostly like the second term of paramedic school. I breezed through the practicals (airway, spinal immobilization, trauma patient assessment) and watched with some amusement as the ICU nurses struggled with some of the biggies: Cushings, Becks, IOs, the rehydration formula for burns. I have the greatest respect for ICU nurses- the amount of information they retain is enormous- but it was interesting to see the tables turned, however briefly.
I've been working mostly night shifts, lately- 1545-0415- which makes day care much cheaper and is easier for the dads' work schedule. Plus, some very interesting patients come in at o'dark hundred. The ones who come in retching and wailing with pain, the cries a doppler effect as they're led past the nurses' station, then abruptly stop on entrance to the room, but the loud retching mysteriously starts up again when the patient hears footsteps outside the doorway, kinda like Pavlov's dog salivating to the dinging of the bell. After initial treatment of IV, meds, and a warm blanket, the nurse and I sit and engage in some mild black humor. "aaaaaeeeeeeerrrrrrkkkk," I gag quietly, mimicking our loud and proud un-puker, and the nurse laughs. "Drama alert!! Drama alert!!" she whispers. Doc D glances at us. "Heartless, absolutely heartless! Where is your compassion, people?" But before you take him too seriously, remember the time one of the other doctors saw a carpenter ant and raaaaaaan down the hall in the other direction, and Doc D jumped up on one of the rolling stools, waved his arms, and squealed, "a bug! a bug!" before sedately resuming his dictation. Compassion, my tuckus. Fun as night shift is, I'm discovering that my preference lies with the day shift nurses and doctors. Just the other day, we were so busy, and I was running back and forth starting IVs and cleaning wounds (it was a good day for heart attacks and table saws, apparently) when a guy came in with a bloody towel wrapped around his thumb. This is rarely a good thing. He didn't speak much English, which made things even more difficult. How do you say "bone rongers" in Spanish? Because that's what the doctor called for when he saw the guy's thumb. Or what was left of it. And rongers look like they're for exactly what they're for. Bone crunching.
Watching is bad enough. The sound is worse. Snip, snip, snip. Clank when the bone hits the stainless steel bowl. Blech. The patient pales, but remains stoic. I clean him up after the stitching, gently wash his little thumb nub, then apply a liberal coating of bacitracin, adaptic, and enough tube gauze to give him a Looney Tunes mega-thumb.
After I'm finished, he sits and ponders everything but the thumb. The nurse is trying to arrange for a ride home for the guy, and when she finally gets ahold of the taxi company, she calls for the interpreter, who is nowhere to be found. So she gets the guy's attention, and gives him a big smile and a jaunty thumbs up.
Whoopsie.
I've had this feeling, lately, that I should be doing something productive for posterity. I mean, I've got the school and career thing under my belt, I think I've got a handle on parenting (although just when I'm congratulating myself on being a fabulous mom, Miss Diva shatters the illusion with a zinger like this: "Mommy, remember when you said I'd have to live outside until I was 8?" but before you get all up in arms and call DHS, I should mention that I would have provided her with food and water and blankets. Really.) Anyway, maybe I should buy a house (yeah, right, that's gonna happen anytime soon) or work on my paintings or publish a book. So I sit down to write the great american novel and what comes out is. . .nothing.
Well, not really nothing. I mean, I type, and words come out on the screen, but what it really is is moose puke. Or yak butter. Yum. So maybe the great american novel isn't my style, and I should stick with poetry that will never, ever see the light of day.
Anyway.
I just finished up the TNCC (Trauma Nursing Core Course) that I'm required to take for my ER job. It was great to be in class again, but I didn't even open the book, because the lecture and the subject material seemed mostly like the second term of paramedic school. I breezed through the practicals (airway, spinal immobilization, trauma patient assessment) and watched with some amusement as the ICU nurses struggled with some of the biggies: Cushings, Becks, IOs, the rehydration formula for burns. I have the greatest respect for ICU nurses- the amount of information they retain is enormous- but it was interesting to see the tables turned, however briefly.
I've been working mostly night shifts, lately- 1545-0415- which makes day care much cheaper and is easier for the dads' work schedule. Plus, some very interesting patients come in at o'dark hundred. The ones who come in retching and wailing with pain, the cries a doppler effect as they're led past the nurses' station, then abruptly stop on entrance to the room, but the loud retching mysteriously starts up again when the patient hears footsteps outside the doorway, kinda like Pavlov's dog salivating to the dinging of the bell. After initial treatment of IV, meds, and a warm blanket, the nurse and I sit and engage in some mild black humor. "aaaaaeeeeeeerrrrrrkkkk," I gag quietly, mimicking our loud and proud un-puker, and the nurse laughs. "Drama alert!! Drama alert!!" she whispers. Doc D glances at us. "Heartless, absolutely heartless! Where is your compassion, people?" But before you take him too seriously, remember the time one of the other doctors saw a carpenter ant and raaaaaaan down the hall in the other direction, and Doc D jumped up on one of the rolling stools, waved his arms, and squealed, "a bug! a bug!" before sedately resuming his dictation. Compassion, my tuckus. Fun as night shift is, I'm discovering that my preference lies with the day shift nurses and doctors. Just the other day, we were so busy, and I was running back and forth starting IVs and cleaning wounds (it was a good day for heart attacks and table saws, apparently) when a guy came in with a bloody towel wrapped around his thumb. This is rarely a good thing. He didn't speak much English, which made things even more difficult. How do you say "bone rongers" in Spanish? Because that's what the doctor called for when he saw the guy's thumb. Or what was left of it. And rongers look like they're for exactly what they're for. Bone crunching.
Watching is bad enough. The sound is worse. Snip, snip, snip. Clank when the bone hits the stainless steel bowl. Blech. The patient pales, but remains stoic. I clean him up after the stitching, gently wash his little thumb nub, then apply a liberal coating of bacitracin, adaptic, and enough tube gauze to give him a Looney Tunes mega-thumb.
After I'm finished, he sits and ponders everything but the thumb. The nurse is trying to arrange for a ride home for the guy, and when she finally gets ahold of the taxi company, she calls for the interpreter, who is nowhere to be found. So she gets the guy's attention, and gives him a big smile and a jaunty thumbs up.
Whoopsie.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
any day's a good day for poetry. most days are good for god, too.
Occasionally, I find a book I like to read over and over again. Most of Anne Lamott's books are like that for me- she's got the tattered Christianity over the previously messed up life that seems to fit me quite well, too. And this poem by W. S. Merwin was the epigram in one of her books. No matter how many times I read this, it speaks to something visceral in me, and touches deeper every time.
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
taking our feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
thank you we are saying and waving
dark though it is
W. S. Merwin
printed from "Travelling Mercies" by Anne Lamott, Anchor Books, a Division of Random House.
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
taking our feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
thank you we are saying and waving
dark though it is
W. S. Merwin
printed from "Travelling Mercies" by Anne Lamott, Anchor Books, a Division of Random House.
off-gassing on earth day
I woke up at 0700 yesterday, after only two hours of sleep. I’d gotten off a 12 hour shift at 0415, and getting out of bed was sheer torture—until I remembered why I was doing it. We have a burn to learn scheduled. I drag my sorry tuckus into the shower and out to the car, slam a few shots of coffee, and make my way to station 1, where we pow wow and team up.
We drive up to the burn site in the Rescue just as Leapfrog Towing was dragging—er, towing—the last of the three mobile homes into place. “Mobile home” in the most literal and also most generous sense of the phrase, because these three structures hadn’t been decent living spaces for some time. I vaguely remember going on a chest pain call in one of them a couple of years ago; you know, the typical 300 lb patient naked in the very back bedroom, hallway barely big enough to walk through even before it was stuffed full of tchotchkes and National Geographics.
It’s a small crew today; five teams of two or three folks each, and then Incident Command, who has brought his lawn chair, two engineers, the Safety Officer, and the usual light team, who will also act as team leaders inside, since only a couple of us going in have our FFI certs. I’m partnered with a kid I’ll call DogBoy, since his official nickname is BeastMaster for reasons we won’t go into now. DB’s dad is a career firefighter, DB has been a volunteer for a while, he’s a good kid with a good heart and a great sense of humor. He looks dubiously at the third mobile home, a hulking brown mass of metal held up by wood blocks and tires that have been so flat for so long the rims are half-circles. He clears his throat. “That one makes me a little nervous. Why can’t we burn houses instead of mobile homes?” he complains. I point out that 1) we are in Deliverance country, or at least the Northwest version of Deliverance country, and there aren’t any houses out here, and 2) at least we are getting rid of some of the mobile homes. Three in one day, actually. He concedes, and quits whining. Briefly.
We start setting up, laying lines and filling the porta-tank, locating the cooler and the potty, identifying exposures. DB and I are first on exposures, so we get to hose down a couple of tall, moss-covered trees and a beat up old fence with foam that looks like drippy flocking on a Christmas tree. My feet and hose line get tangled in a Judas limb hanging over the side of the fence, and down I go. One thing I love about being a firefighter, though, aside from the fact that I get to squirt lots of water at big fires, is that everyone is klutzy in turnouts, and while I might fall down a bit more often than most, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. And unless you can see the back of my helmet, nobody knows it’s me. (Although on a different fire, I did hear somebody ask where I was, and Chief said, “Look for the firefighter who fell on her butt. That’s Firefighter Girl.” So maybe turnouts aren’t as anonymous as I’d like to think. . .) Anyway, one of the firefighters on RIT, or Rapid Intervention Team, whose only purpose is to rescue downed firefighters, came at me and the tree branch with his axe raised. Rescuing a firefighter downed by a renegade tree branch may have been stretching his job description a tad, but he rose to the occasion, and the branch was kindling after a few whacks.
DogBoy takes this opportunity to tell me that he had a small bout of diarrhea this morning. I’m not quite sure why he feels the need to share this with me. I ask him if he’s nervous, and he gets that guy thing going—you know, the squared shoulders, the look of disbelief and aloofness on his face. As if. By this time, it’s our turn for attack team, and I’m kind enough to let DogBoy have the nozzle for the first couple of attacks, and he’s new enough to not realize that later lights have better fire. Heh heh heh.
The teams managed a couple rotations each through the first mobile home, and then the second, which I would describe more as a hovel, had four lights before our turn comes up again. Captain Snappy and Chief lit the second of the two rooms, and Dog Boy and I sat and waited to go in. I watched our three-person back up team check each others’ gear, and nudged DB. They looked like nothing more than a bunch of chimps in a line, grooming each other. DB started laughing. I started having doubts about their competency. But then DB started poking around my mask and hood, under my helmet, and I made him promise to eat any bugs he found. He crossed his heart, hoped to die, and stuffed my errant ponytail down into my coat. Then we sat, and watched the light take hold.
A usual training light is nothing special. Maybe a couch or a pile of pallets on fire, lots of smoke, some good, controlled flames. But Captain Snappy knew it had been a while since I’d seen fire. And he also knew I’d let DogBoy have the nozzle the first few lights. I was about to head in, and Snappy held his arm across the doorway. “Oh, no, FFG. Wait.” So we watched as flames climbed the walls, and smoke billowed out the vents and windows. “Now?” I asked. Snappy shook his head. Flames started rolling over on the ceiling. “Now?” I asked. Snappy shook his head again. We backed away from the heat of the doorway, flames poured out the top, and Snappy said, “Take it whenever you want, FFG.” Whoot whoot!! And I got it. I got it all, and then they let the whole thing burn.
Afterwards, sitting in rehab, sipping on a Gatorade and munching on M&Ms that had only slightly melted in my turnout coat pocket, DB finally got it, finally realized that perhaps good things come to those who wait; ie, better fire. I promise him the nozzle for all the lights in the hulking brown thing. They’ve just started lighting it, and it goes faster than the other two—burning mobile homes is like starting a fire in a big metal box. They burn hard and fast once they catch. DB gets one good light, we’re rotating teams like nobody’s business, and we’re on backup just getting ready to go back in when the tones go off for a severe respiratory distress up valley.
IC points out an engineer—120mph—and DogBoy and I to take the call. We drop our helmets, coats, masks, packs, and gloves, race to the Rescue, climb in, and then race back to the packs to turn off the air and bleed them. Then back to the Rescue, me behind the wheel, 120mph in the officer’s seat, DB in the back. We go enroute, and this is much easier than driving an ambulance code 3 on the coast highway, but 120mph is asserting his testosterone and comments on my cornering. I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning the bucking sawhorse he ran over with the engine last year, or the fact that he tipped the engine into a ditch once. I look down at my mud-splotched, ash-streaked arms, the flotsam coating my turnouts. I slow the Rescue to appease 120mph, see DogBoy in the back with the paperwork, getting our gloves ready. And I feel a sudden flush of comraderie, that feeling you get at family reunion campouts after you’ve been bickering with your relatives all day but then you look at them in the light of the campfire and see how big their hearts are.
We pull in to the residence, grab the gear, and tromp in. Our patient is sitting in his LazyBoy watching his big screen TV. His new caregiver hovers nervously. I recognize this guy, seen him in the ER a couple of times, and he turns, looks at me, points his finger like a gun and winks like he’s some kind of dapper Rico Suave instead of an overweight, chronic respiratory train wreck. The caregiver may have exaggerated slightly when she called 911. I laugh, bat my mud speckled eyelashes at the patient, and get his vital signs. We chat until the Meth Central medics get there.
Once we wrap things up, we head back to the burn. DB seems anxious, and I ask him if three lights wasn’t enough for him. But he’s more concerned about missing lunch, and we pull up just in time for fried chicken, potato salad, and cookies with little tiny m&ms in them. It wasn’t just a good day; it was a great day, and even after two hours of clean up back at the station, when I knew exactly where my body would be aching the next day, and I knew I’d need 14 hours of sleep, 6 advil and a whole tube of BenGay to even move the next morning, I wouldn’t have changed a dang thing.
We drive up to the burn site in the Rescue just as Leapfrog Towing was dragging—er, towing—the last of the three mobile homes into place. “Mobile home” in the most literal and also most generous sense of the phrase, because these three structures hadn’t been decent living spaces for some time. I vaguely remember going on a chest pain call in one of them a couple of years ago; you know, the typical 300 lb patient naked in the very back bedroom, hallway barely big enough to walk through even before it was stuffed full of tchotchkes and National Geographics.
It’s a small crew today; five teams of two or three folks each, and then Incident Command, who has brought his lawn chair, two engineers, the Safety Officer, and the usual light team, who will also act as team leaders inside, since only a couple of us going in have our FFI certs. I’m partnered with a kid I’ll call DogBoy, since his official nickname is BeastMaster for reasons we won’t go into now. DB’s dad is a career firefighter, DB has been a volunteer for a while, he’s a good kid with a good heart and a great sense of humor. He looks dubiously at the third mobile home, a hulking brown mass of metal held up by wood blocks and tires that have been so flat for so long the rims are half-circles. He clears his throat. “That one makes me a little nervous. Why can’t we burn houses instead of mobile homes?” he complains. I point out that 1) we are in Deliverance country, or at least the Northwest version of Deliverance country, and there aren’t any houses out here, and 2) at least we are getting rid of some of the mobile homes. Three in one day, actually. He concedes, and quits whining. Briefly.
We start setting up, laying lines and filling the porta-tank, locating the cooler and the potty, identifying exposures. DB and I are first on exposures, so we get to hose down a couple of tall, moss-covered trees and a beat up old fence with foam that looks like drippy flocking on a Christmas tree. My feet and hose line get tangled in a Judas limb hanging over the side of the fence, and down I go. One thing I love about being a firefighter, though, aside from the fact that I get to squirt lots of water at big fires, is that everyone is klutzy in turnouts, and while I might fall down a bit more often than most, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. And unless you can see the back of my helmet, nobody knows it’s me. (Although on a different fire, I did hear somebody ask where I was, and Chief said, “Look for the firefighter who fell on her butt. That’s Firefighter Girl.” So maybe turnouts aren’t as anonymous as I’d like to think. . .) Anyway, one of the firefighters on RIT, or Rapid Intervention Team, whose only purpose is to rescue downed firefighters, came at me and the tree branch with his axe raised. Rescuing a firefighter downed by a renegade tree branch may have been stretching his job description a tad, but he rose to the occasion, and the branch was kindling after a few whacks.
DogBoy takes this opportunity to tell me that he had a small bout of diarrhea this morning. I’m not quite sure why he feels the need to share this with me. I ask him if he’s nervous, and he gets that guy thing going—you know, the squared shoulders, the look of disbelief and aloofness on his face. As if. By this time, it’s our turn for attack team, and I’m kind enough to let DogBoy have the nozzle for the first couple of attacks, and he’s new enough to not realize that later lights have better fire. Heh heh heh.
The teams managed a couple rotations each through the first mobile home, and then the second, which I would describe more as a hovel, had four lights before our turn comes up again. Captain Snappy and Chief lit the second of the two rooms, and Dog Boy and I sat and waited to go in. I watched our three-person back up team check each others’ gear, and nudged DB. They looked like nothing more than a bunch of chimps in a line, grooming each other. DB started laughing. I started having doubts about their competency. But then DB started poking around my mask and hood, under my helmet, and I made him promise to eat any bugs he found. He crossed his heart, hoped to die, and stuffed my errant ponytail down into my coat. Then we sat, and watched the light take hold.
A usual training light is nothing special. Maybe a couch or a pile of pallets on fire, lots of smoke, some good, controlled flames. But Captain Snappy knew it had been a while since I’d seen fire. And he also knew I’d let DogBoy have the nozzle the first few lights. I was about to head in, and Snappy held his arm across the doorway. “Oh, no, FFG. Wait.” So we watched as flames climbed the walls, and smoke billowed out the vents and windows. “Now?” I asked. Snappy shook his head. Flames started rolling over on the ceiling. “Now?” I asked. Snappy shook his head again. We backed away from the heat of the doorway, flames poured out the top, and Snappy said, “Take it whenever you want, FFG.” Whoot whoot!! And I got it. I got it all, and then they let the whole thing burn.
Afterwards, sitting in rehab, sipping on a Gatorade and munching on M&Ms that had only slightly melted in my turnout coat pocket, DB finally got it, finally realized that perhaps good things come to those who wait; ie, better fire. I promise him the nozzle for all the lights in the hulking brown thing. They’ve just started lighting it, and it goes faster than the other two—burning mobile homes is like starting a fire in a big metal box. They burn hard and fast once they catch. DB gets one good light, we’re rotating teams like nobody’s business, and we’re on backup just getting ready to go back in when the tones go off for a severe respiratory distress up valley.
IC points out an engineer—120mph—and DogBoy and I to take the call. We drop our helmets, coats, masks, packs, and gloves, race to the Rescue, climb in, and then race back to the packs to turn off the air and bleed them. Then back to the Rescue, me behind the wheel, 120mph in the officer’s seat, DB in the back. We go enroute, and this is much easier than driving an ambulance code 3 on the coast highway, but 120mph is asserting his testosterone and comments on my cornering. I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning the bucking sawhorse he ran over with the engine last year, or the fact that he tipped the engine into a ditch once. I look down at my mud-splotched, ash-streaked arms, the flotsam coating my turnouts. I slow the Rescue to appease 120mph, see DogBoy in the back with the paperwork, getting our gloves ready. And I feel a sudden flush of comraderie, that feeling you get at family reunion campouts after you’ve been bickering with your relatives all day but then you look at them in the light of the campfire and see how big their hearts are.
We pull in to the residence, grab the gear, and tromp in. Our patient is sitting in his LazyBoy watching his big screen TV. His new caregiver hovers nervously. I recognize this guy, seen him in the ER a couple of times, and he turns, looks at me, points his finger like a gun and winks like he’s some kind of dapper Rico Suave instead of an overweight, chronic respiratory train wreck. The caregiver may have exaggerated slightly when she called 911. I laugh, bat my mud speckled eyelashes at the patient, and get his vital signs. We chat until the Meth Central medics get there.
Once we wrap things up, we head back to the burn. DB seems anxious, and I ask him if three lights wasn’t enough for him. But he’s more concerned about missing lunch, and we pull up just in time for fried chicken, potato salad, and cookies with little tiny m&ms in them. It wasn’t just a good day; it was a great day, and even after two hours of clean up back at the station, when I knew exactly where my body would be aching the next day, and I knew I’d need 14 hours of sleep, 6 advil and a whole tube of BenGay to even move the next morning, I wouldn’t have changed a dang thing.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
not really my idea of a great date. . .
I came off a 16 hour shift at 0415 this morning, driving to pick up my son with my head hanging out the window in the rain so I wouldn't fall asleep. Busy, busy for the first few hours, then steady the rest of the shift. A dozen IVs, and I only missed one, and that was because the patient's PCP was bedside, and I get performance anxiety. But I got it on the second try, although I cheated and went AC with an 18g. But, yeah. A sixteen hour shift.
What was I thinking?
Oh, yeah. I was thinking about paying rent, and insurance, and car; fuel, power, phone, and that one slightly important thing for little ol' hypoglycemic me. Food.
Of note to male hospital patients (I think I'm going to type this up and hand it out when I put op sites on IVs): While starting an IV and drawing blood are, by their very nature, intimate, just because I'm sticking you with a very big needle doesn't mean I'm coming on to you.
Repeat after me: IVS ARE NOT FOREPLAY.
On the other hand, I think one of the reasons I love my job is it allows me so much human contact. I used to be such a touchy feely person, but somewhere along the way, even hugs from friends started making me uncomfortable. In any case, the contact of another human, even through purple nitrile gloves, is nothing to sneeze at. We all need it. And patients appreciate the human aspect of a caregiver who is willing to touch them, hold their hand, offer support more compassionate than empty words. I've watched medics, nurses, and doctors with patients, and the ones who have the greatest rapport with people are the ones who are willing to touch.
Near the end of the 16 hour shift, when an ambulance brought in a patient for nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea after eating at Taco Bell, the charge nurse made a small, snide comment about the slightly expanding waistlines of some of the older medics. One of said medics, in the middle of ordering a tasty breakfast sandwich from the night kitchen, who actually bikes 40 miles a week, and who obviously has lost no hearing whatsoever from almost two decades of sirens, abruptly hung up the phone. He glanced at me. I glanced at the charge nurse. She and I snickered. The medic shook his head, then shook his finger at me, and said, "You be a good girl, now."
There must be some sort of blue light special lately for comments on my behavior. Which is, I might add, always good.
What was I thinking?
Oh, yeah. I was thinking about paying rent, and insurance, and car; fuel, power, phone, and that one slightly important thing for little ol' hypoglycemic me. Food.
Of note to male hospital patients (I think I'm going to type this up and hand it out when I put op sites on IVs): While starting an IV and drawing blood are, by their very nature, intimate, just because I'm sticking you with a very big needle doesn't mean I'm coming on to you.
Repeat after me: IVS ARE NOT FOREPLAY.
On the other hand, I think one of the reasons I love my job is it allows me so much human contact. I used to be such a touchy feely person, but somewhere along the way, even hugs from friends started making me uncomfortable. In any case, the contact of another human, even through purple nitrile gloves, is nothing to sneeze at. We all need it. And patients appreciate the human aspect of a caregiver who is willing to touch them, hold their hand, offer support more compassionate than empty words. I've watched medics, nurses, and doctors with patients, and the ones who have the greatest rapport with people are the ones who are willing to touch.
Near the end of the 16 hour shift, when an ambulance brought in a patient for nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea after eating at Taco Bell, the charge nurse made a small, snide comment about the slightly expanding waistlines of some of the older medics. One of said medics, in the middle of ordering a tasty breakfast sandwich from the night kitchen, who actually bikes 40 miles a week, and who obviously has lost no hearing whatsoever from almost two decades of sirens, abruptly hung up the phone. He glanced at me. I glanced at the charge nurse. She and I snickered. The medic shook his head, then shook his finger at me, and said, "You be a good girl, now."
There must be some sort of blue light special lately for comments on my behavior. Which is, I might add, always good.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
sisyphus in my own back yard
Yesterday, the angst that has been building all week came to a head. When I get angsty, I need to get outside and dig in the dirt, plant flowers, turn compost, whatever. The day showed promise early on; you know, sun breaking through the clouds and all that. I lingered over coffee, finished a book, headed out to the garage for my gardening tools. As soon as I unlocked the garage door, thunder crashed and a wall of rain hit the pavement.
Okay, it wasn't quite that dramatic, but it might as well have been. So I sighed one of those long-suffering sighs and headed back in. I decided to be optimistic about the whole thing, and poured another cup of coffee. The sun came out. I headed outside. See above. Rinse. Repeat.
Back to the whole angst thing. Like I said, it's been building all week. The kids and I have been working in the back yard, building raised beds for an herb garden, digging into the hill to lay a patio. The wheelbarrow perched precariously on the hill no matter which way I tilted it, and so for every successful load of dirt carted to the compost pile, another tiiiiiiiiips back into the hole with a boomcrash. Just like Sisyphus, only my rock is a flippin' wheelbarrow. Anyway, that's what I'm working on, shovel in hand, sweat pouring off me, when I hear the sound of 4 boys, all around 12 years old, giggling and saying, "heeeeeere, kitty kitty." I look up and see them crouched around a car, rocks and very large sticks in hand. I should mention that I don't lose my temper often. But the few things that make me see red involve bullying and cruelty to animals and children. I charged up the hill with shovel in hand, screaming at the top of my lungs, red faced and, quite likely, frightening to look at. MixMan and Miss Diva paused briefly in their playing and stared, gape mouthed. The boys and cat scattered in opposite directions. There was a brief moment of silence, and then Miss Diva said, "Mama. You said the f-word."
Whoopsie.
So when I found the pet rat dead on my front porch yesterday morning, I just assumed the little 12 year old punks had left it there, even after the neighbor who disposed of it declared the predator must have been a hawk. Miss Diva and I headed to the garden center to buy some flowers to cheer us up, and came away successful. The day was brightening, at least until I bent to get into the car and smacked my head on the roof. My immediate reaction was to jerk away, and I bonked the other temple on the door. I showed great restraint in the language I spewed at full volume there in the parking lot, you'll be happy to know. I double checked with Miss Diva, and she confirmed I hadn't cursed once. Good thing I've been practicing with make-up, because I have a positively stellar bruise on the side of my forehead.
Firefighter Girl, thy middle name is Grace.
Miss Diva is adept at conversation. So much so that I forget sometimes she's only 4. She sang in the shower this morning, some made up song with the refrain, "I'm a grumpy old soul, yeah, yeah!!" I shake my head in wonder. She is so demonstrative, too- huge hugs, sloppy lip-gloss kisses. Sometimes, she comes up behind me, pats my tuckus rather hard, and says affectionately, "I love your great big butt!"
Ohh. Thank you.
So we wait for the rain to pass. The kids play Plinko behind the futon with the round wooden coasters; MixMan builds impossible block towers and reads Dr. Seuss out loud, vrooms his cars and trains on the floors and up the walls. Miss Diva flounces around in her princess dresses and crooked crowns. She declares today a blue day, and will wear only clothing items in shades of blue. I write poetry, listen to music, clean muddy footprints and puddles of water from the doorways, sneak bites of chocolate from my hidden stash while the kids aren't looking.
On the Meth Central Med Center front- my IV skills are getting better, and I've managed a couple of tough ones on the maternity and surgical wards. I was congratulating myself on a tough foot stick in the ER- this guy had one, and I mean only one, vein, and it was sitting there on his foot, and I stuck it with no hesitation with a 22g, got a great flash, advanced, it was in, I was ready to tape it down, and he started screaming. Whoa. I wasn't even touching the damn thing at that point. There was a reason he didn't have any other veins, and I'm pretty sure he was hoping for some pain drugs, and I let him know that this was his one chance for IV meds, and he told me to f--- off and get it out. So I calmly removed the catheter, smiled politely, and left him there.
My new car is finally growing on me. Well, not really, because that would be kind of bumpy and make jeans even harder to wear. But I'm learning its moods, when it doesn't like starting, what makes it happy.
Going really, really fast makes my car happy.
Itemized list of things found behind the futon while vacuuming today:
2 slightly battered wooden coasters
1 catnip mouse
feather collection (I thought the pillows were feeling a bit less plump)
1 gameboy game (Yoshi's Egg, I believe, and it found its way behind the couch rather forcibly when MixMan got frustrated with it)
2 markers in colors very similar to the fresh markings on the wall of the stairwell
1 very frightened cat
2 hairballs
Guess what? The sun just came out. I think I'll sneak up on the garage, see if I can get some digging done in the back yard.
Firefighter Girl. Digger of hills, champion of stray cats and snails.
Okay, it wasn't quite that dramatic, but it might as well have been. So I sighed one of those long-suffering sighs and headed back in. I decided to be optimistic about the whole thing, and poured another cup of coffee. The sun came out. I headed outside. See above. Rinse. Repeat.
Back to the whole angst thing. Like I said, it's been building all week. The kids and I have been working in the back yard, building raised beds for an herb garden, digging into the hill to lay a patio. The wheelbarrow perched precariously on the hill no matter which way I tilted it, and so for every successful load of dirt carted to the compost pile, another tiiiiiiiiips back into the hole with a boomcrash. Just like Sisyphus, only my rock is a flippin' wheelbarrow. Anyway, that's what I'm working on, shovel in hand, sweat pouring off me, when I hear the sound of 4 boys, all around 12 years old, giggling and saying, "heeeeeere, kitty kitty." I look up and see them crouched around a car, rocks and very large sticks in hand. I should mention that I don't lose my temper often. But the few things that make me see red involve bullying and cruelty to animals and children. I charged up the hill with shovel in hand, screaming at the top of my lungs, red faced and, quite likely, frightening to look at. MixMan and Miss Diva paused briefly in their playing and stared, gape mouthed. The boys and cat scattered in opposite directions. There was a brief moment of silence, and then Miss Diva said, "Mama. You said the f-word."
Whoopsie.
So when I found the pet rat dead on my front porch yesterday morning, I just assumed the little 12 year old punks had left it there, even after the neighbor who disposed of it declared the predator must have been a hawk. Miss Diva and I headed to the garden center to buy some flowers to cheer us up, and came away successful. The day was brightening, at least until I bent to get into the car and smacked my head on the roof. My immediate reaction was to jerk away, and I bonked the other temple on the door. I showed great restraint in the language I spewed at full volume there in the parking lot, you'll be happy to know. I double checked with Miss Diva, and she confirmed I hadn't cursed once. Good thing I've been practicing with make-up, because I have a positively stellar bruise on the side of my forehead.
Firefighter Girl, thy middle name is Grace.
Miss Diva is adept at conversation. So much so that I forget sometimes she's only 4. She sang in the shower this morning, some made up song with the refrain, "I'm a grumpy old soul, yeah, yeah!!" I shake my head in wonder. She is so demonstrative, too- huge hugs, sloppy lip-gloss kisses. Sometimes, she comes up behind me, pats my tuckus rather hard, and says affectionately, "I love your great big butt!"
Ohh. Thank you.
So we wait for the rain to pass. The kids play Plinko behind the futon with the round wooden coasters; MixMan builds impossible block towers and reads Dr. Seuss out loud, vrooms his cars and trains on the floors and up the walls. Miss Diva flounces around in her princess dresses and crooked crowns. She declares today a blue day, and will wear only clothing items in shades of blue. I write poetry, listen to music, clean muddy footprints and puddles of water from the doorways, sneak bites of chocolate from my hidden stash while the kids aren't looking.
On the Meth Central Med Center front- my IV skills are getting better, and I've managed a couple of tough ones on the maternity and surgical wards. I was congratulating myself on a tough foot stick in the ER- this guy had one, and I mean only one, vein, and it was sitting there on his foot, and I stuck it with no hesitation with a 22g, got a great flash, advanced, it was in, I was ready to tape it down, and he started screaming. Whoa. I wasn't even touching the damn thing at that point. There was a reason he didn't have any other veins, and I'm pretty sure he was hoping for some pain drugs, and I let him know that this was his one chance for IV meds, and he told me to f--- off and get it out. So I calmly removed the catheter, smiled politely, and left him there.
My new car is finally growing on me. Well, not really, because that would be kind of bumpy and make jeans even harder to wear. But I'm learning its moods, when it doesn't like starting, what makes it happy.
Going really, really fast makes my car happy.
Itemized list of things found behind the futon while vacuuming today:
2 slightly battered wooden coasters
1 catnip mouse
feather collection (I thought the pillows were feeling a bit less plump)
1 gameboy game (Yoshi's Egg, I believe, and it found its way behind the couch rather forcibly when MixMan got frustrated with it)
2 markers in colors very similar to the fresh markings on the wall of the stairwell
1 very frightened cat
2 hairballs
Guess what? The sun just came out. I think I'll sneak up on the garage, see if I can get some digging done in the back yard.
Firefighter Girl. Digger of hills, champion of stray cats and snails.
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