yep. some little tiny bug in my right lung. And today is the first day I've been able to hold my head up for longer than 2 minutes at a time. I don't really feel sick at all, just incredibly weak. I've been in bed pretty much since I got off work a week ago Tuesday morning, although I have attempted the bedroom to bathroom route once or twice, and I did manage a 24 hour change of scenery by exchanging my walls for someone else's this past weekend.
On Friday, after giving me a 2cc shot in the ass and a bag full of Levaquin, the doctor informed me that I'll be 100% in six fucking weeks.
Okay, he didn't say fucking.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
another lesson or two
If you're looking for levity, you probably shouldn't read this post. I've been trying to write this for a week, now, and make it funny or sarcastic or witty. . .but I start it, and everything that comes out sounds so unlike my usual self that I get disgusted and cancel the whole thing. And even now, I've taken it down, and put it back up, and changed it and messed with it and I start to think that maybe I shouldn't leave it up here for all my friends to read. . .like I have something to be ashamed of. And that's just wrong. I need to be able to tell this. The thing is. . .I can't sleep lately. And yeah, I could blame it on my funky work schedule (even though I've been on a crazy schedule for the past 4 years. . .), or loneliness (umm. . .doubtful. . .I love sleeping alone--or used to. . .) or all my injuries or too much coffee or dry air or noisy neighbors or insert other excuse here. But I know that none of those are the reasons why.
I've worked really, really hard to become the person that I am, and I've lost a lot along the way, but I'm generally happy and content, even if my life isn't so-called normal. I'm a very private person, I like being alone, and it takes a lot to get to know me. I don't let many people get close to me, and the people I've dated in the past would be hard pressed to tell you much about me, and honestly, I'm skittish about relationships. But. . .I like my life, and I love my home and my kids and my art and poetry and writing and plants and books.
A month ago, a traveler nurse I considered a friend developed traveling hands and a traveling tongue a couple of nights before transferring to his next assignment. He's married, and has a bunch of kids, and he trapped me in the stock room and seemed a little shocked when I shoved him away. And two nights later, on the last night he worked, at the end of my shift, when I told him that he creeped me out with the kissing and the groping, he apologized, asked if he could make it up to me, and tried to do the same thing again. Which is when I ran out the back door of the break room and called for the friend who was waiting outside. There is more to this story, of course--how this brought up feelings for me from an incident last summer; how I blew it off when I was telling friends about the nurse because I didn't want them to think I wasn't strong, or that I'd somehow asked for it; how afraid I was the full twelve hour shift I worked with him that last night, and how nothing got stocked in the ER because I didn't want to chance getting cornered again, all the things he said to me the first time in the stock room and then on the last night before I ran away.
You wouldn't think that one person could take away something so integral to who you are. But that's exactly what happened: someone took away a piece of the person that I am. It is amazing that something so simple can strip so much away from somebody-- although of course I've still got my self-respect, and my independence--I've worked too hard to let anyone take those away from me. But I can't sleep. And I haven't written or painted or read a book in the last two weeks. I stay awake and restless until my eyes can't stay open anymore and then I fall into bed.
We are all so very fragile, with so many walls we think are solid and indestructable. I've built a few myself, and maintained them carefully, not letting anyone get too close. I'm not sure what the lesson is in all of this, but I'm finding something cathartic in the telling of it. . .and I guess I'm realizing that right now, I could let this experience and the fear it caused close me off again, just when my heart is starting to open up for the first time in a long while. Or I can use that energy to tear down the remaining walls I have built around me. . .because as much as it hurts, I would rather feel too much than nothing at all.
I've worked really, really hard to become the person that I am, and I've lost a lot along the way, but I'm generally happy and content, even if my life isn't so-called normal. I'm a very private person, I like being alone, and it takes a lot to get to know me. I don't let many people get close to me, and the people I've dated in the past would be hard pressed to tell you much about me, and honestly, I'm skittish about relationships. But. . .I like my life, and I love my home and my kids and my art and poetry and writing and plants and books.
A month ago, a traveler nurse I considered a friend developed traveling hands and a traveling tongue a couple of nights before transferring to his next assignment. He's married, and has a bunch of kids, and he trapped me in the stock room and seemed a little shocked when I shoved him away. And two nights later, on the last night he worked, at the end of my shift, when I told him that he creeped me out with the kissing and the groping, he apologized, asked if he could make it up to me, and tried to do the same thing again. Which is when I ran out the back door of the break room and called for the friend who was waiting outside. There is more to this story, of course--how this brought up feelings for me from an incident last summer; how I blew it off when I was telling friends about the nurse because I didn't want them to think I wasn't strong, or that I'd somehow asked for it; how afraid I was the full twelve hour shift I worked with him that last night, and how nothing got stocked in the ER because I didn't want to chance getting cornered again, all the things he said to me the first time in the stock room and then on the last night before I ran away.
You wouldn't think that one person could take away something so integral to who you are. But that's exactly what happened: someone took away a piece of the person that I am. It is amazing that something so simple can strip so much away from somebody-- although of course I've still got my self-respect, and my independence--I've worked too hard to let anyone take those away from me. But I can't sleep. And I haven't written or painted or read a book in the last two weeks. I stay awake and restless until my eyes can't stay open anymore and then I fall into bed.
We are all so very fragile, with so many walls we think are solid and indestructable. I've built a few myself, and maintained them carefully, not letting anyone get too close. I'm not sure what the lesson is in all of this, but I'm finding something cathartic in the telling of it. . .and I guess I'm realizing that right now, I could let this experience and the fear it caused close me off again, just when my heart is starting to open up for the first time in a long while. Or I can use that energy to tear down the remaining walls I have built around me. . .because as much as it hurts, I would rather feel too much than nothing at all.
Friday, October 19, 2007
some things I learned last week
a couple of nifty EKG rhythm tricks from some other cardiac nerds, firsthand knowledge of caffeine toxicity, a punch in the chest really can start a flatlined heart beating again, and- of utmost importance- shoving vicks vaporub up your nose too many times in one night may indeed keep the dookie odor out and clear the sinuses, but it can also make your nose bleed.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
save a life
The days I forget my armor are the worst. . .when the dregs of humanity
fill the waiting room coated with a slick of dirt and sweat and desperation,
the running joke of “save a life today?” plays out every time I start an IV
for a migraine or a toothache and the junkies line up to have their abscesses drained
without pain medication because even if I could find a vein, anything the doctors could give them isn’t nearly as strong as the heroin they injected with their dirty needles. I don’t
expect to walk into a room after a particularly bad drainage, blood and pus all over
the floor, scrawny junkie whimpering on the bed, and feel anything but the usual
businesslike disgust of caring for yet another slow suicide.
But I surprise myself, and I start crying. Not terribly good patient care, I
suppose, but there you go. And as I finish taping the gauze over the hole
in his flesh, the junkie grabs my wrist with his other hand and says “thank you”
and promises to get clean. I look him straight in the eye, tell him he's lying, dare him
to prove me wrong
Guess it doesn’t matter what he said after that, because a week or a month
or a year from now, it’ll be his body on the gurney the medics bring in,
CPR in progress, his eyes fixed and staring, code called after five minutes of
definitive care in the hospital.
My friend Luke wrote me last night from work: “One of my patients just passed. . .what
a strange job we have. . .time goes so fast you know and there is just no way
to go back. . .sometimes I wonder what the hell I am doing. . .am I leaving
the world better than I found it. . .”
And I remember, again, “did you save a life today?” and the code we had
last week, 76 year old guy in town to celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary with
his family. . . I did compressions for 10 minutes, sweat pouring down my face and back, while the doctor pushed every possible drug and the man’s wife waited in a wheelchair
in the lobby
I looked at his face. . .what was I thinking, I never do that, dangerous when you’re breaking someone’s ribs trying to push their blood to the rest of their body, dangerous
to think of them as a person instead of a collection of cells and blood and systems
that all need to work together to be a life. . .it haunted me, his face did, but I don’t
know now if I could tell you what he looked like.
and I’m wondering, really, if I’m saving anybody’s life but mine
fill the waiting room coated with a slick of dirt and sweat and desperation,
the running joke of “save a life today?” plays out every time I start an IV
for a migraine or a toothache and the junkies line up to have their abscesses drained
without pain medication because even if I could find a vein, anything the doctors could give them isn’t nearly as strong as the heroin they injected with their dirty needles. I don’t
expect to walk into a room after a particularly bad drainage, blood and pus all over
the floor, scrawny junkie whimpering on the bed, and feel anything but the usual
businesslike disgust of caring for yet another slow suicide.
But I surprise myself, and I start crying. Not terribly good patient care, I
suppose, but there you go. And as I finish taping the gauze over the hole
in his flesh, the junkie grabs my wrist with his other hand and says “thank you”
and promises to get clean. I look him straight in the eye, tell him he's lying, dare him
to prove me wrong
Guess it doesn’t matter what he said after that, because a week or a month
or a year from now, it’ll be his body on the gurney the medics bring in,
CPR in progress, his eyes fixed and staring, code called after five minutes of
definitive care in the hospital.
My friend Luke wrote me last night from work: “One of my patients just passed. . .what
a strange job we have. . .time goes so fast you know and there is just no way
to go back. . .sometimes I wonder what the hell I am doing. . .am I leaving
the world better than I found it. . .”
And I remember, again, “did you save a life today?” and the code we had
last week, 76 year old guy in town to celebrate his 50th wedding anniversary with
his family. . . I did compressions for 10 minutes, sweat pouring down my face and back, while the doctor pushed every possible drug and the man’s wife waited in a wheelchair
in the lobby
I looked at his face. . .what was I thinking, I never do that, dangerous when you’re breaking someone’s ribs trying to push their blood to the rest of their body, dangerous
to think of them as a person instead of a collection of cells and blood and systems
that all need to work together to be a life. . .it haunted me, his face did, but I don’t
know now if I could tell you what he looked like.
and I’m wondering, really, if I’m saving anybody’s life but mine
Friday, August 17, 2007
you know it's a good day in the ER when you have to change your pants
huh. That didn't sound quite right.
Just about the only thing that bugs me anymore is smell. I mean, I can handle the sight of blood, guts, gore, dangly adipose tissue, broken bones, poop, pee, puke, appendages dangling by a tendon, abcesses, nasty infected holes in people's legs. . .but smell. . .well.
it's not so bad when you can prepare; rub some vicks under your nose or inside a mask, then head into a room. But when you're walking down the hallway to start an IV, swinging the IV caddy jauntily, minding your own business, singing a little song to yourself, and a head injury patient projectile vomits directly into your path, and it's loud and voluminous and very, very colorful, and it splats on the curtain and the bed and the floor, and you've just gotten back from dinner. . .
that's not so great.
Just about the only thing that bugs me anymore is smell. I mean, I can handle the sight of blood, guts, gore, dangly adipose tissue, broken bones, poop, pee, puke, appendages dangling by a tendon, abcesses, nasty infected holes in people's legs. . .but smell. . .well.
it's not so bad when you can prepare; rub some vicks under your nose or inside a mask, then head into a room. But when you're walking down the hallway to start an IV, swinging the IV caddy jauntily, minding your own business, singing a little song to yourself, and a head injury patient projectile vomits directly into your path, and it's loud and voluminous and very, very colorful, and it splats on the curtain and the bed and the floor, and you've just gotten back from dinner. . .
that's not so great.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
greetings from another planet
I may have mentioned that I come from a large family. A large, Mormon family. I have four siblings, all older than I. They, unlike me, have managed to remain married to their spouses, and produce several children in wedlock. I have 22 nieces and nephews, and 3 grand-nephews, in fact. All good, wholesome folk. Plus my parents. In my brother's mansion. Me, my kids, and a bunch of non-drinkin' non-smokin' non-swearin anti-liberal pro-life over-educated over-populated over-whelming people. 25 of them, in fact. Yep. I fit right in.
Sooooooo. Sunday. Noonish. Get the kids in the car, on the road. We've just hit Brownsville when Miss Diva asks for the first, but not the last, time, "how much longer?" I grit my teeth. I have a goodie bag of new books and coloring stuff in the front seat. I figure if we can hold out until Portland, I can dish out the goodies and we'll be set until we hit my brother's house, where the shindig's happening.
We barely make it to Portland before I start doling out the books, the coloring markers, the notebooks, the clipboards. The kids make it to Vancouver before they finish the books and start telling me they're bored.
Vancouver, Washington. Not BC. Vancouver-across-the-bridge-from-Portland. By Castle Rock, they're bashing each other over the head with the clipboards.
But we made it, albeit six hours later. And we ate some dinner, and then woke up the next morning and ate and played in the go carts and one nephew had his Eagle Scout celebration and then we were weirdos around the campfire, my sister and I dancing around to "Father Abraham" and today we went to the aquarium and Pike Place and the little magic shop is still there and we jumped on the trampoline and yelled and screamed and fought like families do.
Granted, when I wake up I'm slightly bleary, and my whole family laughs loudly as I stumble to my car and drive to Starbucks, and they tease me about my coffee addiction. And I do occasionally have to hide in a closet and whisper all the curse words I can think of just so I don't accidently let one slip in polite company. But I am one smartypants loudmouth among many, here. . .I mean, I had to get it from somewhere, right? It's just my smartass comments are occasionally sprinkled with naughty words. ahem.
My sisters and I all snort with laughter, my brother and I mush hamburger patties together in lumps when his wife isn't looking, and earn ourselves a lecture; I watch my sister and her husband leave black streaks of rubber on my brother's race-track driveway trying to run each other off. And I watch my favorite nephew, who does great accents and has the best one-liners, try very hard to hide the fact that he is gay. Or maybe he doesn't hide it, really, and I'm the only one who notices it.
He'll be a good role model for MixMan, who recently told me he'd rather be a girl. When I asked him why, he looked at me like I was stupid and said, "girls get all the best dresses!" And he rolled his eyes and walked away. Well, duh.
Sooooooo. Sunday. Noonish. Get the kids in the car, on the road. We've just hit Brownsville when Miss Diva asks for the first, but not the last, time, "how much longer?" I grit my teeth. I have a goodie bag of new books and coloring stuff in the front seat. I figure if we can hold out until Portland, I can dish out the goodies and we'll be set until we hit my brother's house, where the shindig's happening.
We barely make it to Portland before I start doling out the books, the coloring markers, the notebooks, the clipboards. The kids make it to Vancouver before they finish the books and start telling me they're bored.
Vancouver, Washington. Not BC. Vancouver-across-the-bridge-from-Portland. By Castle Rock, they're bashing each other over the head with the clipboards.
But we made it, albeit six hours later. And we ate some dinner, and then woke up the next morning and ate and played in the go carts and one nephew had his Eagle Scout celebration and then we were weirdos around the campfire, my sister and I dancing around to "Father Abraham" and today we went to the aquarium and Pike Place and the little magic shop is still there and we jumped on the trampoline and yelled and screamed and fought like families do.
Granted, when I wake up I'm slightly bleary, and my whole family laughs loudly as I stumble to my car and drive to Starbucks, and they tease me about my coffee addiction. And I do occasionally have to hide in a closet and whisper all the curse words I can think of just so I don't accidently let one slip in polite company. But I am one smartypants loudmouth among many, here. . .I mean, I had to get it from somewhere, right? It's just my smartass comments are occasionally sprinkled with naughty words. ahem.
My sisters and I all snort with laughter, my brother and I mush hamburger patties together in lumps when his wife isn't looking, and earn ourselves a lecture; I watch my sister and her husband leave black streaks of rubber on my brother's race-track driveway trying to run each other off. And I watch my favorite nephew, who does great accents and has the best one-liners, try very hard to hide the fact that he is gay. Or maybe he doesn't hide it, really, and I'm the only one who notices it.
He'll be a good role model for MixMan, who recently told me he'd rather be a girl. When I asked him why, he looked at me like I was stupid and said, "girls get all the best dresses!" And he rolled his eyes and walked away. Well, duh.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
here's an excuse for shopping at victoria's secret
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.
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.
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.
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