~ the importance of being earnest ~

My brother says that I need to blog more about my job. People that don't work in the medical field find it interesting I guess, while those of us who do become so worn out that the last thing we want to talk about when we leave the hospital is, the hospital.

For the last few months my job has seemed very "blah" to me. I like to be moved and inspired by my work. The first year of my career I was...daily. Lately it's been hard for me to care about much other than my "to do" list while I'm taking care of patients.

It's funny how God begins to move just when you think your ordinary life is...well, ordinary. Last night one of my patients passed away very unexpectedly. I cared for three patients in the 36 hours I worked Thursday through Saturday. One of them a 19 year old pregnant girl, one a man with a neuro injury who fell from a building and has now been in the ICU for a month, and a new admission; a motorcycle accident who did not have a scratch on his body, but fractured two of his vertebrae leaving him paralyzed from the waste down. It was a hard three days, made even more difficult from the lack of staff and emotions of families over the holiday.

Even now I feel emotionally and mentally exhausted.

I did see improvements. I was able to take my fall victims restraints off, which brought tears to his fathers eyes. (He had been tied to his bed for 20 days...for his safety). My pregnant girl went from possibly having H1N1 to plans to take her off the ventilator today, but my motorcycle patient shocked us all.

He was my only awake and alert patient. A sweet uneducated black man from South Georgia with a stutter. He had five numbers in his cell phone and could not tell me of any family to contact. He had no complaints but was very anxious to understand why he could not move his legs. The doctors told him that they didn't know if his sensation would return or not, but we all knew there was little hope.

Mr Barry was scheduled to have a spine fusion yesterday, what is known as an uncomplicated quick surgery from our end. The OR was backed up and he was anxious all morning hoping that his surgery would fix his legs. He must have asked me five times when he would get to go.

When he didn't get back from the OR for six and a half hours I started to worry. When the Neurosurgeon busted into our unit demanding to see Mr Barry's family I knew something was seriously wrong.

I located Mr Barry's sister, who lives over an hour from him but had somehow been contacted by the police after his accident. She seemed to have little if any relationship with him, but had waited patiently in the waiting room during the surgery, because there was no one else.

The neurosurgeon explained briefly to all of us that Mr Barry had come through the surgery smoothly but was having trouble in recovery. His blood pressure had dropped, they had to put him on the ventilator and were now having to do compressions on his chest to keep him alive.

I think my mouth was hanging open. He was my patient that was healthy. Yes, he had broken his back, but as far as being sick, he had shown no signs.

As a nurse you automatically try to figure out what could have happened. What did I miss? Were his complaints of belly pain more than radiation from his spine? Did I miss something in the heath history. Could I have impacted his outcome?

I never let my mind wander on those things for long, because I know that ultimately I have no control over life and death. I don't struggle with guilt on a physical level.

After shift change I went down to the Recovery Room. No one seemed to know what was going on with our patient so I wanted to see it for myself. I walked into an empty room except for my patient. He was surrounded by surgeons, anesthesiologists, nurses and respiratory therapists all fighting to save him. They said they had been at it for over an hour. The monitor was flashing "asystole" as they continued to give him drugs. He had a heart attack, one of the residents told me. No one saw it coming.

I often wish that I would say something to my patients that matters. My guilt is on a spiritual level. Why did I simply ask him how his pain was and what I could do for him, rather than asking him if he knew Jesus? I was probably one of the last ten people he spoke to before he passed, and I did not speak earnestly about anything.

Sometimes I choose to believe things just because I have to cope. I know my "super christian" and Calvinist friends would probably find something wrong with that. In fact, I'm sure it's not theologically correct, but I don't care.

Last night through journaling I realized, or chose to believe, that God knew Mr Barry had no one to care for him in his paralyzed state. He lives alone, has no contact with his family, and the five numbers in his phone likely could not help him get on and off the toilet for the rest of his life. God wanted him home.

I hated it at first, but I believe in God's goodness. Even when I watched a patient I really enjoyed losing his fight. I know God is bigger than nurses pushing drugs and surgeons shaking their heads.

Mr Barry is walking in heaven with Jesus now. That's what I'm choosing to believe. And I will pray that in my ordinary life I will more often remember the importance of being earnest.

R.I.P. Blackie

As you can see I have been MONTHS without posting. It's been so long that I did not know where to begin. My last week's endeavors gave me an easy place to pick up.

Last Thursday, in my first true wreck, I totaled my 1997 Nissan Altima. The wreck was scary but the other lady involved and I walked away with nothing but soreness. So I cannot complain. Today my insurance company told me, as I suspected, that I would not be seeing my car again.

This got me thinking. I have had a love/hate relationship with my little black car for about a year now as I have been saving for something newer and trying not to put any more money into the Altima.

But today, as I waved goodbye to my four door automatic, I could not help but feel saddened by the parting.

When I went to college in the Fall of 2003, my parents sent me without a car and cell phone. It's funny now as I look back on the abandonment, and realize that it really was the best thing.

When I began my junior year in 2005 I was given my mom's hand-me-down Altima, and was completely overjoyed. And now, almost five years later, I cannot even believe the things I went through with that car!

On the eve of my first day of nursing school, I awoke to find no car in my driveway. Yep, that's right. My little car was STOLEN from my driveway in Milledgeville, GA. I was so stressed about nursing school that I did not even call to file a police report. I also wasn't completely convinced that one of my prank-er guy friends hadn't done something with it. (You'll understand why in a minute). My roommate filed the report later that day and after about four days of wondering if I'd ever see my car again, I was told that the police had discovered it parked by Central State Mental Hospital, devoid of gasoline.

All of my cds were gone as well as the majority of the dashboard containing my cd player. But the car was driveable and I was happy to have it home.

The next semester the most famous prank in all of Georgia College and State University history occurred. And once again my car decided that it needed to be involved in a scandal. It's a really long story, hilarious now, and all I can say is that the photos below will give you a SMALL picture of the chaos my house-mates and I endured. And this time, more than one pranker guy friend was found guilty.

By my final semester of nursing school my car decided that it was getting bored with the routine of senior year. I was commuting between Macon and Milledgeville two days a week for classes. One evening, my roommate Shelby and I were driving back to Macon on Hwy 49. It was dark and we were talking about some nonsense when we both saw our lives flash before our eyes.

I remember screaming, tensing, closing my eyes, and swerving...everything they tell you not to do, as the ENORMOUS deer crossed our path.

Once again my Altima pulled through, leaving nothing but a doe's hind-quarter imprint in my right fender. The '97 took us safely home, though I think we were both trying to wrap our minds around the fact that deer that size kill people when they run into cars!

On Thursday, my little car decided that it was through with my adventures. Sadly, it didn't even go out in style. Last month it overheated in gridlock traffic on the 75/85 junction in downtown Atlanta, but this week it just gave up. I think it was offended because I actually left my house thinking about what newer car I would be purchasing in January of 2010, and not 5 minutes later, my car slammed into the back of a black Nissan truck.

That was the end. I knew it as soon as I discovered that I was unable to get out of my drivers' side door. I slid through the passenger seat to see my bumper lying on the ground, my left headlight shattered on the pavement, and my hood resembling the first fold of an accordion.

I just shook my head.

My car never had a name that stuck, though a few friends have given their input over the years. She will be remember as Blackie, because that's what all of my black horses, stuffed animals, and pets were called until I was about 9.5 years old and slightly more creative.

She will be missed.




Pranked



Doe's butt print

~ Dear Paige ~

On May 10th I will have been a college alumnus for a year. More impressively I will have been a working healthcare professional, a Registered Nurse, for just as long.

A dear friend of mine, though she may not know it, graduates this weekend. Along with two young ladies that I discipled for two years and countless other friends. It’s all made me think hard about the last year of my life.

I don’t miss college. Not one bit. Most people do, I hear. But ever since I was about fifteen I wanted to be a grownup. And college wasn’t all fun for me. It was hard. Very hard. I worked my butt off, still failing my first semester in nursing school and then suffering through a fifth year that left me worn out and wanting nothing more than to escape the college campus. I wasn’t unhappy, by any means, but I was ready for the next phase of life.

Now that I’ve gotten here I sometimes don’t believe it. I feel like I’m still waiting for something to happen.

Although the last year has been a success in many aspects: I was given great reviews at work, I am completely self supported, and on Friday I will be 100% out of debt; I still feel like I am living a mediocre life. Most of that stems from my distant walk with God and continued struggle to believe that he is really involved in my life day to day. Also, somewhere along the way these last 12 months I have started seeing myself as good, as deserving, as worthy…of something…I’m not even sure of what. But I have seen clearly this week that I think I’m better than other people.

College is full of beautiful, ambitious, lovely people. They are usually easy to get along with and in the vast picture of the world, slimly diverse. What is it I’ve heard? 1% of the world’s population goes to college? ONE?!? I don’t remember ever thinking I was better than anyone else in college. Sure, I was better than a few people in English and I was at one point among the top ten singers at GCSU in competition...haha. I was even a pretty decent RA, up for best of the year, but there was always someone better and I never remember having an attitude of being better than anyone else.

That has changed. For the first time in my life I’ve been disgusted by people. I’m embarrassed to say it. But I’ve got to get it out. I’m judgmental and conceited. My once people loving nature has turned into a “loving people who are like me” one. And yes, I’ve got a great excuse.

Last week I had to care for a guy who decided to drive his four wheeler drunk at 3am. He’s split from his wife, visibly has no relationship with his kids, and his oversized belly boasts years of downing liters of alcohol daily. Was I sympathetic? No. Did he repel me? Yes. Did I enjoy bathing and wiping snot from his nose for three days? Absolutely not. Did I think I was better than him and his toothless mother? Yes.

And what about the guy my roommate cared for a few months back. I’ve mentioned him before. He murdered his wife before turning his gun unsuccessfully on himself. Did I have a problem ethically? Yes. Did I want to have anything to do with him? No. Did my heart ache for his family? Yes. Did I think I was better? Absolutely.

My profession, like most, has thrown me into a world of pain and diseased people. And not just diseases of the body. Two weeks ago I cared for a young guy paralyzed in a car wreck who insisted on attempting to groap me and mutter sexual slurs every chance he got. I wasn’t sympathetic. He made me angry.

Though I don’t desire to go back to college, it definitely was easier. And no, it wasn’t all peaches and cream. But something about this last year has turned me into someone who thinks that her education and tax bracket make her better than other people, more presentable, and worthy. I am still learning that it is I who is diseased. Not just a cripple in a hospital bed, a blue collared man who never learned to write, or a woman who has smoked herself into lung disease. “The problem with the world is me?” Right Justin? Why have I for so long considered that cliché?

How wrong I’ve been.

So if I could say something to graduates as they face the next year of life it wouldn’t be to get out of debt as fast as you can, get a great job, find happiness, or follow your dreams. It would simply be to remember.

Remember who you are. Remember Why you’re worthy. Remember that a degree, a job, money, good looks, health, possessions, and even friendships will in fact, fade away.

His love knows no end. It is what matters. And it is not based on you social status, physical fitness, education, accomplishments or ambition. It simply is.

Because He chose for it to be.

So here’s to my first year, so far from pretty of perfect. But this was it. And there will ever be room for improvement. Room for remembering.

STICU blackout!

Some of my favorite coworkers.

and it's April...

I'm not really a fan of April. My car turns yellow, sneezing sends hundreds of germs into the air, it rains...and floods as of late. But worst of all, bad things happen. My best friend and I have hated April for three years now, and after talking to her last night it doesn't seem to be getting any better.

Yeah, yeah, maybe that sounds superstitious, and no, I've got little belief in superstition after being born on Friday the thirteenth (or so my mother says). I just don't like April. It's usually spent wishing it was May anyway.

It's been so long since I've written it's hard for me to think of anything meaningful to say. The job is good. I still mostly enjoy it, although over the last month I have hated it for the first time.

I had my first patient that was mine, 100%, without a preceptor, code on me and pass away. It was hard. I cried. Mostly because of the stress of the situation and the fact that it happened so fast. I didn't even "get" what was happening until everyone but me left the room after the patient was pronounced. I was left with a little old man's body that had undergone severe trauma, and it just hit me that I was sad. So I cried. Any then I went back to work.

I think I did good. You always wonder what you'll do the first time you see your patient's heart rate plummet into the 30's and your blood pressure unaltered by several medications. You just kinda stand there and think, "huh, I have exhausted all the options and this guy is still gonna die."

That's when health care professionals are reminded that we are indeed, in control of nothing. We forget sometimes. I forget often. It's amazing what we can change about a body with medications, treatments and even body positioning.

But sometimes, there is nothing we can do.
And that's good. I know I sure don't want to be in control.

I had the Head of Trauma Surgery at one of four Level I Trauma Centers in Georgia look at me and say, "Well, what happened? I've got no idea."

And sometimes that's exactly how it goes. Of course no family member wants to hear that you aren't quite sure why or how or what happened that caused their loved one's death. But every now and then it's comforting to me.

It comforting because it's as if my God steps in a says, "Hey, in case you were doubting, giving yourself too much credit, or thinking that you had some sort of control over human physiology, you are wrong. Just wanted to remind you."

My job is a consistent learning experience, and that's probably my favorite part. I never want to be so unchallenged in my work that I'm not learning anything. When I get bored I'll move on.

Until then I'm still trucking, and just hoping to make it through April.