JP

You were not made to be somebody. You were made to know Somebody. ~John Piper, passion2010

Salon Gossip

Some of you know what I mean. That local salon where you go to get a wash and cut that could take 25 minutes but it takes an hour and fifteen because you love the gal that cuts your hair and you end up talking about everything that's happened in the last two months (after she fusses at you for not getting your hair cut more often than that). It's straight out of Steel Magnolias, I swear.

Well, I never knew what that was like until I moved to Macon. I often feel like I'm on a Southern shot movie set. I first went to this random salon because a friend of mine from college and from Macon used to go there. I've been going ever since. I'm pretty low maintenance about my hair, so as long as I enjoy the person cutting it I'm not that picky.

Anyway, tonight when I walked in the salon I noticed a character in the booth next to my gal's that made me very uncomfortable. Reason being that he had followed me from the hospital to my car one night after I got off, in the dark, asking me for money. Fortunately another girl from my unit had left shortly after me and waited in the parking lot until he left me alone.

Just a few weeks later I'd seen him at my church. We meet downtown and all the local street walkers come to our service, they eat our doughnuts, drink our coffee and then nap in the back row during the sermon. It's fine with me, a warm dry place and the Word does not return void. But when I saw this particular man there I walked in the other direction, annoyed. Annoyed because he had followed me, scared me, lied to me, and was now taking advantage of my church.

Needless today, when I saw him today next to Kiersten's booth I was skeptical. When I knew he was too far away to hear me I asked her who he was. She said he was new, just got a job there cutting hair and that she had a tremendous amount of respect for him. "But he..." I started to say, "Was homeless?" she finished. "Well, yes," I said, putting my head down so that she had to straighten it to keep cutting.

"Yeah, he was a drunk but has turned around." Wow, I thought. She went on to say that he's been attending three different churches and a lady at one of them has allowed him to move into her basement. She comes to our salon and she got him a job. He's totally sober now and committed to changing things. He's an amazing person. He was very quiet at first, but has begun to open up to them one by one.

Wow. At that point I told her I was sorry for being so judgmental. He had scared me months before and I hadn't forgiven him. I honestly hadn't wanted to see him again. I felt like such a jerk.

I've been learning how to engage the poor since I started attending New City Church, and it seems that I am still failing miserably. I've always been a skeptic. Sometimes it's a good thing, but most of the time it causes me judge others, not even giving them the benefit of the doubt.

Kiersten and I have talked about Jesus a few times. Never in much detail. But she was loving like Him today, and taught me a little bit about respecting the second chance.

how did I get stuck in the middle of this?

click here.

~ 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