Happy birthday, my sweet daughter

Happy birthday, Emmy!  

You have officially left your teens behind.  You are a twenty-something woman now.  How quickly that happened.

You have embraced your life with a passion and zeal and sense of humor that leaves me breathless.  You have a way of looking at the world, of absorbing learning, of seeking the truth and fairness in every situation that is humbling.  You are truly a citizen of the current world.

You are a sensitive and caring being who nurtures people and animals, who sees the best in everything and who values our mother Earth and her resources.  You seek understanding and common ground with all people.  You are wise in diverse cultures, language and beliefs.

Yet, you are still my little girl.  You are goofy, clumsy, and moody.  You seek out reassurance and cuddles.  You know you have your daddy wrapped around your little finger and you shamelessly exploit that fact.  (True, he is a willing coconspirator.) Just last week, you and I sat on the living room floor sorting doll clothes, giggling and remembering.  You come home from college, make a mess in the kitchen and hurry off.  You are the one member of the family who unapologetically flops down in my favorite chair to study or watch t.v.  It is your due, you are the baby.  And I love it.  It is all a reflection of the security you feel in this family, in our love.

Your brothers, your father and I are enriched by your presence in our lives.  You are a gift to our family that we get to open over and over and over again, every day.  You are a surprise and a delight.  We are glad you are here, we are glad you are ours.

Happy birthday, precious girl.

Love, Momma

Glade and Woolite: Insulting to women

What's with the recent surge of television commercials depicting women as liars, devious, neurotic and disloyal?  Two examples: the Woolite rug cleaner ad in which 'dirty carpet anxiety' causes a woman to leave a rain soaked, shivering friend outside, refusing her entrance into the home, and the Glade series of ads that show a woman who lies about the origin of her candles (they're French!), her cleaning activities of the day to her husband (she played tennis and then sprayed the house), and her plug in freshener (special aroma therapy!).  The Glade woman always gets caught in her lies, and smiles and shrugs, like it's cute and okay.  Yuk!  

These two companies are portraying women in a demeaning, archaic manner, and we ought not to tolerate it.  So, I say we boycott these products and email the company to let them know that we are honest, caring, intelligent consumers who find their portrayal of the American woman insulting and demeaning.  Then, after you do that, go burn a bra (not an expensive one, or one that makes you feel really sexy; burn one of the old saggy ones), and feel liberated!

Tough act to follow

My dad was a logger.  A big, tall, blonde Irish logger.  To the little girl who worshipped him, he was the smartest, strongest,  most handsome man alive.  He had Paul Newman blue eyes and hands the size of a giant's.  He could climb and fell trees, drive a log truck on the steepest, muddiest hairpin logging roads in the Northwest, use a massive Cat dozer to punch roads through the roughest terrain.  Many of his friends died in the woods.  Logging is a dangerous occupation.  Many of the men in my family lost legs, arms or their lives harvesting the timber of the Northwest.  

Once, when I was four, the Safeway store across the street from our home caught on fire and began to burn. From the old leaded glass window in the front door, I could see the flames licking at the clouds overhead and feel the heat on my face.  Suddenly, the flames leapt the street and ignited the tops of the fir trees that lined the sidewalk in front of our house.  One by one, the trees along the street exploded into flames that reached out to the houses.  My  mother and teenaged siblings were scrambling in preparation to abandon the house.  My brother was running next door to bring the old neighbor woman out.  I stood, mesmerized.  I could see my daddy heading toward the flames.

He ran, silhouetted in fire, with a chainsaw slung over his shoulder, climbing spurs and harness gathered into one huge hand.  He strapped the sling around the trunk of the burning tree, and started climbing.  He quickly reached the bottom edge of the burning section of tree, swung the saw into place and began to cut through the diameter of the tree.  Within seconds, the entire burning top of the tree roared to the ground, landing in an earthshaking shower of sparks.  The twenty foot stump was still swaying as my daddy slid down the tree, unharnessed, and ran to the next tree.  He did this over and over, until all the trees on our street within reach of the fire were topped, and the houses were safe.

I pressed my palms against the cold glass, my cries of, 'no, daddy, no' turning to worshipful silence.  I watched his grinning blackened face as he accepted the backslaps and congratulations of the other men.

DO NOT give me any meds, but make me not hurt and not be nauseated, dammit!

I know that my patients hurt. I know that they are 'under the influence' of meds when they come to me following a surgery. But, my experience has been that the nice folks continue to be nice, the assholes are the same as they ever were.   Most of us lie somewhere in between.

Today, I had a 40-something female gastric bypass patient (302 lbs., 50% BMI) , who was overwhelmed by nausea. It was the same situation as had happened to her in previous surgeries. I felt bad for her. But, she berated and insulted me. 'Don't give me anything! I don't want to be sleepy or out of it! Whatever you do, do not give me more medication!'.  Me: "I have not given you anything. You're still feeling the effects of the anesthesia".  Two minutes later: "I hurt! Do something!"  Me: "I can give you Fentanyl, it's less nausea promoting than other meds."   'Whatever--just give me something!'  I give the med.  "What the hell did you give me?  I'm getting tired!  I told you not to give me anything that makes me tired!'" Me: "I gave you the pain med you requested. Do you want me to hold all meds so that you don't get tired?'  "Hell, no. I don't want to hurt, dammit! What's wrong with you?"  Then: "I'm sick!  Help me!"  Me:  "I can give you some anti-nausea medication, but it may make you a little tired"  "No!"  Me: "It's important that you not put stress on your surgical site by straining."  "Whatever"  Two minutes later:  "Hey, dammit, I'm getting tired.  What the hell did you give me?"  Me: Sigh... (having thoughts of  'I'll show you tired...')

 

Next, the family waiting area coordinator called and asked if I would speak to the patient's husband.  Yes, I would.  First, he let me know that he 'works in surgery here' (surgeon? nurse? PA? tech? maintenance? hmm...).  He had many questions, everything from what I was giving her for pain and nausea, in what amounts, if she was retching and how much and what it looked like, if I understood the implications of retching and vomiting in gastric bypass, etc., etc.  (I wonder if he understands the implications of being away from my patients while I answer his questions.)  

I put her (and her husband) on the fast track to the floor...

Note to my patients and their family:  I know how smart you are.  You probably read all of the patient education material and then Googled the procedure/condition/disease and copied things off, maybe in color.  If you work anywhere near a hospital, you even asked any doctor or nurse you could about the surgery.  You talked to that woman on the bus who had the same thing done.  But I know a few things, too, things that Google doesn't cover.  You act this way because you care.  Well, I care, too.  I do this professionally, day after day.  I clean up the blood and the puke, recording the findings, wipe away the mess on your loved one, touch them and comfort them, reassure and protect them.  I so totally care.  Flexing your new knowledge or behaving in an intimidating or challenging manner only serves to somehow satisfy your needs, not your loved ones.  I am the one helping them right now.  Let me do it.

Happy birthday to my son

February 26, 2009

Happy birthday, Garrett!

How quickly it seems you have reached your senior year.  It seems just last week that you went off as a freshman to live in the dorm with that strange character from Nevada.  It seems just last month that I held you for the first time, finally sure that we had both survived the horrible car crash that nearly stole you from me.

And now, you are a man.  A fine, intelligent, principled and educated man.  A world traveler, a sought out counselor, a loving friend.  And a wonderful son.  I am so proud of you.  I still see the little boy you were when I look at you.  I see you sleeping in your crib surrounded by boomahs, giggling in delight at your baby ducks, twirling in your lavender tutu.  You are forever that way in my mind.

I wish that you were here for your birthday, the first we have spent apart.  But, the thought of you in Barcelona, playing futbol with a pro team offsets my missing you.  We will have such catching up to do!

You are approaching life with a passion and relish that puts the rest of us to shame.  You live more in a month than most of us live in a lifetime.  You are fearless, daring, creative, funny and fully alive.  Thank you for holding precious the life that you have been given.  Your very existence is a gift, the way you have used it is a tribute.  To God, to me, to your father, to the man you are.

I look back on your past with pride and satisfaction.  I look forward to the unfolding of your future with excitement.   You are a gift to the world, and our family is richer for your presence.

Happy birthday, my love.

Momma   

Chicken love

We love chickens.  That some folks call them stupid and untrainable indicates to me that either they don't know chickens, or the chickens they know are the inter-bred, all white genetic freaks that end up in the meat section of large grocery stores.  Now, they could be called stupid.  

Jeff Foxworthy has said, "If your first pet was a chicken, you just might be a Redneck".  Well, color my neck red, because, as a farm kid, I not only had pet chickens, I dressed them up, carried them in the milk crate wired to my bicycle handlebars, and decorated elaborate homes for them.  My dog, Peaches, was cranky and uncooperative.  When I tried to put doll clothes on her, she bit me, so I had to use a chicken when we played mom and baby.  My sister and cousins teased me, but I got to change real poopy diapers.  Their dog babies never went in their diapers.

I still have chickens, they are all named, they all have their own personalities and they participate fully in the relationship.  They are free range chickens, meaning they can get into anything they want to unless it is closed or fenced.  They greet us as we go outside, follow me as I work around the yard, demand food and attention, and seek out company to just sit on a lap sometimes.  That's better than the old Chihuahua I have now.  She imitates a decorator pillow in the recliner all day long.  Did I mention that my previous dog Peaches was an old black and tan Chihuahua, like Cali?  Hmm, someday, I'll take a look at that...

My daughter and I are crazy about chickens.  During the summer, they wander into the house upon occasion to say hi and beg for a treat.  They fly up on the bookshelf at late afternoon to roost inside.  They have come in, laid an egg on the carpet and gone back out.  They come when called.  They hang out with me in the garden, slowing the digging by standing on each shovelful of soil to check for treats.  The little rooster, Albert, protects me from who-knows-what.  He comes running if he hears my voice and stays at my side as long as I remain outside.  Then, he wants to come in with me.  Better company than George, sometimes...

The picture of the golden hen, Minerva, at the computer appeared in our local papers.  She also had her picture in the school yearbook, sitting on the overhead projector of a popular teacher.  She won the teenagers' hearts when she pooped on the screen.  A star is born.

I think, as with people, there are all kinds of chickens.  Some you want as friends and family, some you don't.  Some with whom you can have a meaningful relationship, some with whom you can't.  Some you invite into your home, some you wouldn't.  Some who seek out closeness, some who attack unexpectedly.  In my life, I have met more mean people than mean chickens. 

Border patrol

My Chihuahua, Cali (short for Caliente), hates to go out in bad weather to do her business. I can't blame her, since the wet grass rakes her underbelly. The out of doors is much more hostile when you are seven inches tall and your belly is only four inches off the deck. So, she backs her hind end off the edge of the walkway or patio and deposits her waste. While her intention is to technically comply with the rules by getting the stuff off of the people areas, she isn't big on precision. So, after a few days, between clean ups, there is a little border of squiggly Cali poops like brown cheese puffs decorating each side of the walkway.