Sunday, February 16, 2020
Who knew getting old was so humbling
When you become old and barren, as I am, you have those gentle occasional reminders that you aren't as spry or mentally on task as you once were. Can't complete a cartwheel without affording an injury. Can't leap over the big red cement ball at Target like your children do. Forget your badge when you have to work. Realize the grocery list lays helplessly on the counter in the kitchen when you arrive to Walmart.
Today I chose to work tirelessly outside in 100+ degree weather. Mowing. Weeding. Trimming. Grass clippings and dirt stuck to my moistened skin from hours of sweating. The sheer joy that ran through my body and mind when the tasks were complete and a cool shower awaited me. My clothes dropped like dead weight in the laundry basket, soaked with my inner sodium chloride liquified. The shower. Ahhhh the shower. The loofah springing forth with clean bubbly soap grazed over my skin. What....what is that that lay there on the floor of the shower. I cleanse my eyes of the lathered soap and water. And what appears before my aged vision? The mini pad that once was nestled and stuck to the cotton crotch of my granny panties. To my horror it has come to my attention that this dear generic Walmart pad, worn in hopes of catching that possible unfortunate moment of incontinence when I may sneeze or cough, migrated to my ass cheeks, unbeknownst to the apparent old nerve endings near my asshole, and slopped down to the drain at my feet.
That's life slapping you in the face saying 'fuck you fat ass'
#ishouldpenanautobiography
Monday, November 4, 2019
Oh Sigh...
I just wanted to share my experience with Desmond's family.
I've taken care of him so much, I jokingly called him the child I birthed. I don't want to sound crass, but he really needed to move on to living with Jesus. We all felt that way. It seemed to take way too long. The family annoyed us. Never there. Came about 1 pm, turned the tv on, and left again to get lunch. Always wanted a hand out. Something we see far too much, and it gets irritating.
Des's great grandma, aunt and grandpa came yesterday morning from Pine Ridge, SD. Mom was still sleeping at the Rainbow House at 11:00, which again irritated me. I explained to the family present what was going on with Des. The grandpa had a very very difficult time seeing his grandchild for the first time. Des looked awful. No way to prepare someone for that. He was sobbing, started yelling, and took off out of the unit. Grandma said she was very worried about his temper, and that he had been drinking already that morning. Yay. I get to work with an angry Native American man that has broken out windows in a hospital before.
He came back several hours later. Said he had gotten into a fight with 2 black guys wanting money while he was out walking on his "suicide mission." Oh Lord, Robyn. The things you get yourself into.
He was very clear with mom this was too much for Des. Prolonging his life on machines was inhumane. Mom was getting hit hard yesterday with the realization of what she had heard for weeks on end. Now she had family telling her what she didn't want to hear. He wanted to talk with mom privately, asked me to come along. Great. Closed door session with angry Indian and mom who has irked me as a parent not parenting as I feel would be appropriate. Be professional Robyn.
They sat and talked. I listened and answered questions as I could. He asked me at one point if I had kids. Yes, 3. "Would you let your kids be in this situation?" There actually had been numerous conversations with the staff, as there always is in these cases, of how we could not allow our kids to get put through as much as he has been. So yes, I'd thought of my kids in this situation. My filter was off during my maternal moment and I said, "I would have a very hard time seeing my child like Desmond is."
The day went on, Desmond deteriorated, we ended up having to bag him an hour to get through a "let me go on my own" moment of his. I called mom to have her come ASAP. She said she could be up in 30 minutes. They were at Applebee's. OMG WOMAN!! Your kid is dying and again, you want to eat. Self control and professionalism Robyn.
Fast forward to the decision to "pull the plug" as the family kept referring to it as. We got mom situated with Des, holding him in the chair after the tube was removed. It made me happy to see her holding him close to her. All my crappy thoughts about her were gone in that time. Got a tear in my eye. I told the family I had taken care of him a lot, and considered him "my little Desi." I said he was never Desmond to me, I always called him Desi. I took pictures of him and mom together.
Grandpa had another episode. Got ready to pound the wall and I walked him out to the waiting area outside of the elevators. He held my hand as he told me about growing up Lakota. Very hard life. Was on the reservation in 1973 when they resisted the government where the Battle of Wounded Knee happened years and years ago. He was 8. His dad armed him with a gun. He killed people. He admitted he was a very angry man. He had seen too much in his life. But losing his grandson was the worst. He served numerous tours in Iraq from 1991 to 2006. Has PTSD from that. Again, reminded me what an angry man he was. We talked yet for awhile. I cried, just listening and realizing how privileged my life of never trying to get a free meal was, never losing a child, never shooting anyone, never being an alcoholic, never being an angry person, never taking advantage of a free housing situation for myself and my kids. Lisa called me and said Jayesh was going to pronounce and wanted me in the room.
Grandpa and I walked back into the unit, hand in hand, with security guards present. I no longer needed them.
I watched the mourning. I listened to the Lakota language, sending Desi off to their tribal leaders and family. My stoic heart was human again.
It was nearing 1830 and I told mom I'd be leaving soon and Ashley would be there for the night shift to help bathe him and do all the memory stuff with her. She meekly asked, "Can we do it together before you leave?" Oh my heart.
Some days I miss out on so much due to the nature of my "observe the situation only" beast. Then I get slapped in the face...she's a mom. Like me. She needs comfort. Like me. She needs strength. Like me. She wants me to join her in one of the last events with her son. I'm honored.
The job of being a nurse. Wow. I'm so blessed.
Friday, February 21, 2014
My Little Nubs
I love animals and taking care of them. I wanted a monkey when I was little. I thought I wanted to be a zoo keeper as a little girl. Then I married a sheep farmer almost 3 years ago. Awesome!! I just got 44 new pets!!
Raising livestock is a foreign concept for me. What? They *aren't* pets? and you don't get personally attached to them? and you SELL them and not think twice about it. What is this? A business? Well, yes, Robyn, it is.
The last 3 years I've learned a lot about sheep. I still have a lot to learn. I'd never heard the term "lambing" before. It's just like calving, like cows do, have calves,but we're having lambs. The first year I was completely memorized. My husband and his dad know each of these sheep like they are their children (minus the personal attachment...sigh). They all have descriptive names: Grandma: she's 22 and has probably had at least 65 babies. Tomahawk: has a mohawk; Peg leg: self explanatory; Jack: because he's the smallest lamb ever seen by the 2 guys and there's a little person in the town nearby named Jack; Burnheide Not Burnheide Burnheide: an ongoing conflict that this sheep was not purchased from the Burnheide herd but according to my husband, his dad is wrong, and yes, was bought from that herd. I can't tell any of them apart except for Grandma and Tomahawk.
Year one I watched and soaked it all in. Didn't want to participate yet. I'm used to humans pushing out babies. Animals expelling their offspring is a little different. Year two: I started doing chores during lambing season. This is hard freakin' work. Pulling hay off bales with a pitch fork is grueling work (for me). You have to know the amount to spread out for the non-delivered moms so they get the right poundage of hay daily. I still have to have Grandpa do the first round, then I know how much to throw. Filling water bins: I'm a pro at. Fist bump.
Finally last year I went head first in helping. I wanted to seek approval from Grandpa that I could do this. I still watched deliveries, but started getting more involved. I learned when the lambs come out, they are covered with goo. You have to quickly get the snotty thick mucous off their face, primarily their noses so they can breathe. Pull downward on the snout/nose to pull it out. Then you wipe it off their ears. Make sure they aren't still inside the placenta because they can't breathe in a bag. This is all bare handed by the way. You wear gloves for chores and checking them because generally it's colder than crap out, but once the action starts, the gloves come off. You want the mom to bond with the lamb quickly. Most often they always do. Mom sniffs the lamb, then starts licking all the goo off the rest of the lamb's body. This stimulates the lambs and begins the bond. Sometimes the lambs don't respond right away. Option to get them more responsive: pick them up and drop them back on the ground. areyoukiddingme?? Nope. That's what you do. Gets them a little more awake and with it. WELL DUH. The mom baa's, the baby baa's, and the bond is made. This communication lasts a lifetime. That's how they find each when the whole herd of moms and babies are together. The mom bellars, baby hears the mom, baby bellers back and finds her. It's quite an amazing thing to watch.
We breed sheep that have genetics of delivering multiple lambs. I fail in knowing the breed though. He's told me, I just don't remember that sort of thing. We rarely just have one lamb from a mom (called a singleton), it's usually twins or triplets or quads. I'll never forget the first time I was on for primary duty watching and checking every 2 hours. I was there *by myself* holy crap. Please let nothing go wrong! One had a wet butt with goo coming out of her hooch so I knew it was coming soon. It's an art to know when to just sit and wait it out and let them do it on their own, or intercede and pull them out. Since I was on first post, I was really hoping this mom could pull this thing off by herself. She did awesome. Delivered triplets within an hour's time span. These were MY triplets. I watched. I wiped gooey mucous. I have declared them mine. Seriously proud moment. I could do this (well, when there wasn't complications).
She had 2 nice sized ones and one little one. I called this one Nubs. Cute little thing. Probably only 3 pounds. I knew the lambs needed colostrum right away. It's like a kick start in life. If they get latched on and get a squirt of colostrum, they will generally do really well. It's kind of like human babies though, it doesn't always come naturally. You have to physically bring the lamb to the teat, milk some colostrum out of mom and attempt to get it aimed or sucked in by the baby. This too is an art. Hold the lamb right, don't step on the others, don't let mom step on the others, don't let mom step on you, get the milk in the mouth not on the ground, don't fall over, pin the mom against the wall so she quits trying to knock you over. Physically taxing. Moms do not like humans squeezing their tits either. Shocker.
I got all 3 lambs to eat. One ate independently, the other 2 needed assistance. Proud mom moment again. Got my ass kicked by the mom numerous times, but goal met. Had to do Nubs to teat several times that day, but we were rolling. The other 2 did really well eating from mom on their own.
My husband came out in the morning. Booyah. Listen to what I did last night. After embellishing how my presence the night before brought new life into the world, I proceeded to strut up the hill to the barn to check on my children. Get to my kids' pen... Nubs was laying on his side. Not moving. Stuck my finger in his mouth. Ice cold. Lifted his head up, flopped down. Eyes rolled back and glazed. His whole body was cold, but he was breathing, but barely. NOOOO!!! Ran down the hill into the house and asked my husband, "How bad do they have to be before you don't try to save them?" Gave him the physical status and his response was, "Well if you want to you can try." Grabbed a tube (for my nurse friends, it was a 14 French Red Robbin straight cath), a 60cc syringe and ran back up the hill. Attempted to milk mom as fast as possible to get some colostrum. Put the tube in his mouth, into his stomach and gave the milk. I tucked him in my coat....ran back to the house...down the basement, by the fire. What the heck am I doing? I have no idea. I spent the next 5 hours warming him, moving his arms and legs (yes they have arms, not 4 legs) to get the blood moving. I cried off and on. This was so sad to me. I talked to him. I wondered why I was doing this. I should know better that I'm going to get emotional doing this. Slowly he began to perk up. Went back to mom twice to get more milk, got by butt kicked each time but dangit I'm going to save this lamb today! By the time I got him to the point of standing I was absolutely ecstatic. He started bellering when I'd talk to him. EEEEEEK. I was rockin it when he was walking in the basement. I've saved my first lamb. I. Can. Do. This. I've totally fallen in love. Grandpa will be so proud of me! I can't wait to tell people. It no longer was sad. This was AWESOME!!!
My husband came down to check on us. Showed off my little Nubs. I was gloating. He was impressed. He told me he used to be the same way: tried to save them all but got emotionally spent when ones wouldn't make it despite him trying so hard. He was emotional back then too. He's not the heroic one anymore, "It's too much work." He's right. It's very time consuming and it was hard work. I was exhausted.
I told him he should probably be fed again. He offered to bottle feed him. "Yeah, that's fine," I said, " I've only tube fed him but he's sucking on my finger now so he should do great." Got the "sheep formula" warmed and put in the Coke bottle with the big black nipple on it. He was sitting on the steps, propped Nubs up on his leg to feed. I felt like we should take a family picture. \
He started guzzling. It was way more than I had ever given him. Dang Nubs! You rock! I was just about to say, "I think you better stop and just let him process what you gave him." I didn't even get the words out. He guzzled all that milk into his lungs, drowned and just like that was dead. Limp. On his leg. OMG. I wanted to yell at my husband, "What the hell did you just do?? You killed him!!" But there's no way I could. Who knew that would happen. I could tell he was devastated. I was devastated. I grabbed Nubs and patted his sides. Burp or something like kids do! This can not be happening. I just saved this animal's life and in less than 10 seconds he is dead. I sat there holding him. Crying. I'm crying again now typing this. Sheesh. It's an animal.
I think I sat there in front of the fire with him for probably 20 minutes. This farming thing was supposed to be awesome, not suck like this. Big sigh. I learned a lot more that day.
Raising livestock is a foreign concept for me. What? They *aren't* pets? and you don't get personally attached to them? and you SELL them and not think twice about it. What is this? A business? Well, yes, Robyn, it is.
The last 3 years I've learned a lot about sheep. I still have a lot to learn. I'd never heard the term "lambing" before. It's just like calving, like cows do, have calves,but we're having lambs. The first year I was completely memorized. My husband and his dad know each of these sheep like they are their children (minus the personal attachment...sigh). They all have descriptive names: Grandma: she's 22 and has probably had at least 65 babies. Tomahawk: has a mohawk; Peg leg: self explanatory; Jack: because he's the smallest lamb ever seen by the 2 guys and there's a little person in the town nearby named Jack; Burnheide Not Burnheide Burnheide: an ongoing conflict that this sheep was not purchased from the Burnheide herd but according to my husband, his dad is wrong, and yes, was bought from that herd. I can't tell any of them apart except for Grandma and Tomahawk.
Year one I watched and soaked it all in. Didn't want to participate yet. I'm used to humans pushing out babies. Animals expelling their offspring is a little different. Year two: I started doing chores during lambing season. This is hard freakin' work. Pulling hay off bales with a pitch fork is grueling work (for me). You have to know the amount to spread out for the non-delivered moms so they get the right poundage of hay daily. I still have to have Grandpa do the first round, then I know how much to throw. Filling water bins: I'm a pro at. Fist bump.
Finally last year I went head first in helping. I wanted to seek approval from Grandpa that I could do this. I still watched deliveries, but started getting more involved. I learned when the lambs come out, they are covered with goo. You have to quickly get the snotty thick mucous off their face, primarily their noses so they can breathe. Pull downward on the snout/nose to pull it out. Then you wipe it off their ears. Make sure they aren't still inside the placenta because they can't breathe in a bag. This is all bare handed by the way. You wear gloves for chores and checking them because generally it's colder than crap out, but once the action starts, the gloves come off. You want the mom to bond with the lamb quickly. Most often they always do. Mom sniffs the lamb, then starts licking all the goo off the rest of the lamb's body. This stimulates the lambs and begins the bond. Sometimes the lambs don't respond right away. Option to get them more responsive: pick them up and drop them back on the ground. areyoukiddingme?? Nope. That's what you do. Gets them a little more awake and with it. WELL DUH. The mom baa's, the baby baa's, and the bond is made. This communication lasts a lifetime. That's how they find each when the whole herd of moms and babies are together. The mom bellars, baby hears the mom, baby bellers back and finds her. It's quite an amazing thing to watch.
We breed sheep that have genetics of delivering multiple lambs. I fail in knowing the breed though. He's told me, I just don't remember that sort of thing. We rarely just have one lamb from a mom (called a singleton), it's usually twins or triplets or quads. I'll never forget the first time I was on for primary duty watching and checking every 2 hours. I was there *by myself* holy crap. Please let nothing go wrong! One had a wet butt with goo coming out of her hooch so I knew it was coming soon. It's an art to know when to just sit and wait it out and let them do it on their own, or intercede and pull them out. Since I was on first post, I was really hoping this mom could pull this thing off by herself. She did awesome. Delivered triplets within an hour's time span. These were MY triplets. I watched. I wiped gooey mucous. I have declared them mine. Seriously proud moment. I could do this (well, when there wasn't complications).
She had 2 nice sized ones and one little one. I called this one Nubs. Cute little thing. Probably only 3 pounds. I knew the lambs needed colostrum right away. It's like a kick start in life. If they get latched on and get a squirt of colostrum, they will generally do really well. It's kind of like human babies though, it doesn't always come naturally. You have to physically bring the lamb to the teat, milk some colostrum out of mom and attempt to get it aimed or sucked in by the baby. This too is an art. Hold the lamb right, don't step on the others, don't let mom step on the others, don't let mom step on you, get the milk in the mouth not on the ground, don't fall over, pin the mom against the wall so she quits trying to knock you over. Physically taxing. Moms do not like humans squeezing their tits either. Shocker.
I got all 3 lambs to eat. One ate independently, the other 2 needed assistance. Proud mom moment again. Got my ass kicked by the mom numerous times, but goal met. Had to do Nubs to teat several times that day, but we were rolling. The other 2 did really well eating from mom on their own.
My husband came out in the morning. Booyah. Listen to what I did last night. After embellishing how my presence the night before brought new life into the world, I proceeded to strut up the hill to the barn to check on my children. Get to my kids' pen... Nubs was laying on his side. Not moving. Stuck my finger in his mouth. Ice cold. Lifted his head up, flopped down. Eyes rolled back and glazed. His whole body was cold, but he was breathing, but barely. NOOOO!!! Ran down the hill into the house and asked my husband, "How bad do they have to be before you don't try to save them?" Gave him the physical status and his response was, "Well if you want to you can try." Grabbed a tube (for my nurse friends, it was a 14 French Red Robbin straight cath), a 60cc syringe and ran back up the hill. Attempted to milk mom as fast as possible to get some colostrum. Put the tube in his mouth, into his stomach and gave the milk. I tucked him in my coat....ran back to the house...down the basement, by the fire. What the heck am I doing? I have no idea. I spent the next 5 hours warming him, moving his arms and legs (yes they have arms, not 4 legs) to get the blood moving. I cried off and on. This was so sad to me. I talked to him. I wondered why I was doing this. I should know better that I'm going to get emotional doing this. Slowly he began to perk up. Went back to mom twice to get more milk, got by butt kicked each time but dangit I'm going to save this lamb today! By the time I got him to the point of standing I was absolutely ecstatic. He started bellering when I'd talk to him. EEEEEEK. I was rockin it when he was walking in the basement. I've saved my first lamb. I. Can. Do. This. I've totally fallen in love. Grandpa will be so proud of me! I can't wait to tell people. It no longer was sad. This was AWESOME!!!
My husband came down to check on us. Showed off my little Nubs. I was gloating. He was impressed. He told me he used to be the same way: tried to save them all but got emotionally spent when ones wouldn't make it despite him trying so hard. He was emotional back then too. He's not the heroic one anymore, "It's too much work." He's right. It's very time consuming and it was hard work. I was exhausted.
I told him he should probably be fed again. He offered to bottle feed him. "Yeah, that's fine," I said, " I've only tube fed him but he's sucking on my finger now so he should do great." Got the "sheep formula" warmed and put in the Coke bottle with the big black nipple on it. He was sitting on the steps, propped Nubs up on his leg to feed. I felt like we should take a family picture. \
He started guzzling. It was way more than I had ever given him. Dang Nubs! You rock! I was just about to say, "I think you better stop and just let him process what you gave him." I didn't even get the words out. He guzzled all that milk into his lungs, drowned and just like that was dead. Limp. On his leg. OMG. I wanted to yell at my husband, "What the hell did you just do?? You killed him!!" But there's no way I could. Who knew that would happen. I could tell he was devastated. I was devastated. I grabbed Nubs and patted his sides. Burp or something like kids do! This can not be happening. I just saved this animal's life and in less than 10 seconds he is dead. I sat there holding him. Crying. I'm crying again now typing this. Sheesh. It's an animal.
I think I sat there in front of the fire with him for probably 20 minutes. This farming thing was supposed to be awesome, not suck like this. Big sigh. I learned a lot more that day.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Where is the weirdest place you have ever.......
Where is the weirdest place you have ever heard of someone delivering their baby?
We've all read the many news articles of deliveries in taxis, gas station bathrooms, the side of a road in a blizzard...I could go on and on.
One of my favorite memories of a delivery came in an odd spot. I worked with a wonderful Certified Nurse Midwife whose primary focus for deliveries was working with moms and dads to make their deliveries personal and meeting their needs. So, with her, we delivered over toilets, in the shower, standing, on a ball in a shower: whatever worked safely and effectively for the family. I was used to variety for deliveries.
One particular night I had a Hispanic mom. I've prided myself on knowing enough Spanish to get these women talked to and through delivering their babies. This woman has pooping issues. Good God. Yes, women poop when pushing, during labor, when the head comes out. Really, it's no big deal. We all poop, many poop during birth. But this one...I was wiping her bum every 2 minutes with contractions. And she wasn't pushing. This, honestly, went on for over 2 hours. I had to have gone through 50 wash cloths. My nose was ready to poop out it's own turd from the particles I was inhaling. But, I made no indications this was an issue for me. I was here to take care of her and assist her through her labor.
She was stuck at 9 cm for those 2 hours. We were in every position possible: sitting, laying. on the right side, on the left side, on the ball, on the toilet, in the shower, in the stirrups, playing tug-of-war with a sheet, standing, walking, bending. You get the idea. We were both frustrated with her lack of progress, of course, her much more than I. But, wow, she was a (pooper) trooper.
I found myself standing at the side of the bed with her. Encouraging, rubbing her back, wiping her butt, reminding her she was muy circa...very close. See...I can speak Spanish. She then dropped to her knees on the floor. Uhhhh, what the??? Ummm, come on. Get up. Crap. Don't know that in Spanish. Now she's on her knees with her head on the floor, butt nestled on her feet. She's exhausted. I called the doctor to come for the delivery. I was anticipating needing mechanical assistance for this be it a vacuum or forceps.
Meanwhile, back on the floor, me and the poop. Somehow with her grunting, maneuvering her body with the contractions and efforts, we have now found ourselves UNDER the bed. Ummm, this isn't gonna work. Again, the Spanish isn't working for me to get her up. Here comes the pushing. Ugh. I'm on my knees, under the bed now leaning with my face in her booty trying to see what's going on. Here comes the head. I've delivered quite a few kids without the doctor present, but not under a bed and backwards and unable to communicate. I'm pulling on the neck trying to get this baby out and it's not happening. I'm sweating. I might poop soon too!! Light tap at the door. Here walks in the doc. I hear a giggle. "What are you doing down there Robyn?" She and I are realllllly struggling to get this kid out. I muster out, "You get your ass down here and get this kid out!!" So the Under-the-bed Duo is now the Under-the-bed Trio. He pulls more aggressively and we have a baby.
He gave me so much crap (that word still plagues me) for years to come. And of course, I had to re-enact it more than 10 times for my cohorts. I did the replay so many times one night I got carpet burn on my elbow mimicking the slide under the bed.
Good times.
We've all read the many news articles of deliveries in taxis, gas station bathrooms, the side of a road in a blizzard...I could go on and on.
One of my favorite memories of a delivery came in an odd spot. I worked with a wonderful Certified Nurse Midwife whose primary focus for deliveries was working with moms and dads to make their deliveries personal and meeting their needs. So, with her, we delivered over toilets, in the shower, standing, on a ball in a shower: whatever worked safely and effectively for the family. I was used to variety for deliveries.
One particular night I had a Hispanic mom. I've prided myself on knowing enough Spanish to get these women talked to and through delivering their babies. This woman has pooping issues. Good God. Yes, women poop when pushing, during labor, when the head comes out. Really, it's no big deal. We all poop, many poop during birth. But this one...I was wiping her bum every 2 minutes with contractions. And she wasn't pushing. This, honestly, went on for over 2 hours. I had to have gone through 50 wash cloths. My nose was ready to poop out it's own turd from the particles I was inhaling. But, I made no indications this was an issue for me. I was here to take care of her and assist her through her labor.
She was stuck at 9 cm for those 2 hours. We were in every position possible: sitting, laying. on the right side, on the left side, on the ball, on the toilet, in the shower, in the stirrups, playing tug-of-war with a sheet, standing, walking, bending. You get the idea. We were both frustrated with her lack of progress, of course, her much more than I. But, wow, she was a (pooper) trooper.
I found myself standing at the side of the bed with her. Encouraging, rubbing her back, wiping her butt, reminding her she was muy circa...very close. See...I can speak Spanish. She then dropped to her knees on the floor. Uhhhh, what the??? Ummm, come on. Get up. Crap. Don't know that in Spanish. Now she's on her knees with her head on the floor, butt nestled on her feet. She's exhausted. I called the doctor to come for the delivery. I was anticipating needing mechanical assistance for this be it a vacuum or forceps.
Meanwhile, back on the floor, me and the poop. Somehow with her grunting, maneuvering her body with the contractions and efforts, we have now found ourselves UNDER the bed. Ummm, this isn't gonna work. Again, the Spanish isn't working for me to get her up. Here comes the pushing. Ugh. I'm on my knees, under the bed now leaning with my face in her booty trying to see what's going on. Here comes the head. I've delivered quite a few kids without the doctor present, but not under a bed and backwards and unable to communicate. I'm pulling on the neck trying to get this baby out and it's not happening. I'm sweating. I might poop soon too!! Light tap at the door. Here walks in the doc. I hear a giggle. "What are you doing down there Robyn?" She and I are realllllly struggling to get this kid out. I muster out, "You get your ass down here and get this kid out!!" So the Under-the-bed Duo is now the Under-the-bed Trio. He pulls more aggressively and we have a baby.
He gave me so much crap (that word still plagues me) for years to come. And of course, I had to re-enact it more than 10 times for my cohorts. I did the replay so many times one night I got carpet burn on my elbow mimicking the slide under the bed.
Good times.
Monday, February 10, 2014
September, 10, 2001
No, that's not a typo, I mean 9-10-01. Who knew this day would start 2 days of lasting memories.
At this point in my career I was working on an acute in-patient psychiatric unit. We had 13 beds on a locked unit. Our admissions consisted of people between the ages of 13-100 (actually there was no upper limit, probably the oldest one we had was in their 80's). These people were brought in by the police under Emergency Protective Custody. Nebraska statute states that if someone is showing signs of being a danger to him/herself or others, they could be brought to the hospital by police for a psych evaluation and a decision had to be made within 72 hours to determine what should be done with them. We are staffed with one RN and one psychiatric technician. I look back now and think, "How in the hell, and why in the hell did we only have 2 people on a locked unit with adolescents, sex offenders, manic women, mentally retarded people, incarcerated pigs, psychotic schizophrenics and not get hurt more often?" God was watching over us.
Now, imagine being in jail, for like the 20th time. You know the routine. Part of this routine is also knowing that you can cry wolf saying you are going to kill yourself and you get a free ticket to the hospital aka The Ritz. It works out pretty well for the incarcerated.
September 10th, 2001. I got morning report and found out that Billy, the 6'5 270 pound black dude came in last night for the bazillionth time after beating his wife, for the hundredth time, went to jail, and pulled the Golden Suicidal Card and now was here. I knew him well. I saw his name in the public record often for assault, trespassing, disorderly conduct, etc. I never spent long talking to him. We'd go through the routine questions: Are you suicidal? No. Do you promise me that you aren't going to hurt yourself while you're here? Yes. Small talk for a bit and we're done. Then he'd sit and watch TV all day. Today I told him that the doctor would see him and he'd probably go back to jail sometime this morning or afternoon.
For some reason today I got a weird vibe from him. Something was odd. I talked with my tech about him and told her to keep a closer eye on him. He was on already on 15 minute checks. She had to physically look at him minimally every 15 minutes and document what he was doing.
It was about 9:15 am. I was in the nurse's station. I hear a scream, "Robyn! Get the scissors!"
Dammit I say to myself, grabbing my keys, unlocking the narcotics cabinet and getting the scissors. We kept them locked up because, well, we're with people who want to hurt themselves and no one really wanted to get stabbed with them either. I grabbed the scissors and ran. He was in room 427. I was scared. Really scared. I ran in there and saw him hanging in his locker by his bed sheet. My tech was wide-eyed. Frozen. I started with the scissors, trying to cut the sheet from the bar it was attached to. Ridiculously feeble, hand-shaking-uncontrollably attempt to cut through this mess. I didn't try very long because I couldn't get through it at all. His weight was pulling it taut and it was knotted thick. I gave her the scissors and grabbed around his butt and lifted him up to release the tension. Take note from above: 6'5, 270#. Mind you I was 5 months pregnant with my daughter, didn't think twice about picking him up though. Ripped ligaments in my crotch to shreds. She was able to cut through it and we got him on the ground. Had a pulse and was breathing. Being African American, it was more difficult to assess his color, but he wasn't blue. A call was made to 911. We didn't have the equipment or personal to handle serious medical conditions when they arose, so this wasn't out of the norm to have to call an ambulance to transfer a patient to our other campus where the Emergency Room was. He laid there silent. Her and I out of breath, kneeling on the floor. He was alive. Paramedics and EMT's arrived and he was transferred to the ER. Overwhelmed with what just happened doesn't even begin to describe the emotions I had.
He came back to the unit later in the afternoon. .
The following morning, 9/11/01, around 9:15 in the morning I found myself watching the TV with Billy. Glued to the TV. Yesterday didn't seem to matter now. We only had 4 male patients on the unit that day. I don't know what ever happened to Billy. Two of the three other guys that were there that day have since killed themselves.
Two days, back to back, I'll never forget.
At this point in my career I was working on an acute in-patient psychiatric unit. We had 13 beds on a locked unit. Our admissions consisted of people between the ages of 13-100 (actually there was no upper limit, probably the oldest one we had was in their 80's). These people were brought in by the police under Emergency Protective Custody. Nebraska statute states that if someone is showing signs of being a danger to him/herself or others, they could be brought to the hospital by police for a psych evaluation and a decision had to be made within 72 hours to determine what should be done with them. We are staffed with one RN and one psychiatric technician. I look back now and think, "How in the hell, and why in the hell did we only have 2 people on a locked unit with adolescents, sex offenders, manic women, mentally retarded people, incarcerated pigs, psychotic schizophrenics and not get hurt more often?" God was watching over us.
Now, imagine being in jail, for like the 20th time. You know the routine. Part of this routine is also knowing that you can cry wolf saying you are going to kill yourself and you get a free ticket to the hospital aka The Ritz. It works out pretty well for the incarcerated.
September 10th, 2001. I got morning report and found out that Billy, the 6'5 270 pound black dude came in last night for the bazillionth time after beating his wife, for the hundredth time, went to jail, and pulled the Golden Suicidal Card and now was here. I knew him well. I saw his name in the public record often for assault, trespassing, disorderly conduct, etc. I never spent long talking to him. We'd go through the routine questions: Are you suicidal? No. Do you promise me that you aren't going to hurt yourself while you're here? Yes. Small talk for a bit and we're done. Then he'd sit and watch TV all day. Today I told him that the doctor would see him and he'd probably go back to jail sometime this morning or afternoon.
For some reason today I got a weird vibe from him. Something was odd. I talked with my tech about him and told her to keep a closer eye on him. He was on already on 15 minute checks. She had to physically look at him minimally every 15 minutes and document what he was doing.
It was about 9:15 am. I was in the nurse's station. I hear a scream, "Robyn! Get the scissors!"
Dammit I say to myself, grabbing my keys, unlocking the narcotics cabinet and getting the scissors. We kept them locked up because, well, we're with people who want to hurt themselves and no one really wanted to get stabbed with them either. I grabbed the scissors and ran. He was in room 427. I was scared. Really scared. I ran in there and saw him hanging in his locker by his bed sheet. My tech was wide-eyed. Frozen. I started with the scissors, trying to cut the sheet from the bar it was attached to. Ridiculously feeble, hand-shaking-uncontrollably attempt to cut through this mess. I didn't try very long because I couldn't get through it at all. His weight was pulling it taut and it was knotted thick. I gave her the scissors and grabbed around his butt and lifted him up to release the tension. Take note from above: 6'5, 270#. Mind you I was 5 months pregnant with my daughter, didn't think twice about picking him up though. Ripped ligaments in my crotch to shreds. She was able to cut through it and we got him on the ground. Had a pulse and was breathing. Being African American, it was more difficult to assess his color, but he wasn't blue. A call was made to 911. We didn't have the equipment or personal to handle serious medical conditions when they arose, so this wasn't out of the norm to have to call an ambulance to transfer a patient to our other campus where the Emergency Room was. He laid there silent. Her and I out of breath, kneeling on the floor. He was alive. Paramedics and EMT's arrived and he was transferred to the ER. Overwhelmed with what just happened doesn't even begin to describe the emotions I had.
He came back to the unit later in the afternoon. .
The following morning, 9/11/01, around 9:15 in the morning I found myself watching the TV with Billy. Glued to the TV. Yesterday didn't seem to matter now. We only had 4 male patients on the unit that day. I don't know what ever happened to Billy. Two of the three other guys that were there that day have since killed themselves.
Two days, back to back, I'll never forget.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
Moment of excellence
That was one phrase that stood out at a previous employer: the nurse's goal was to achieve a moment of excellence while giving patient care. As a perfectionist, I wanted this to happen pretty much immediately after the concept was revealed. I'm an over achiever. Well, certainly not in every aspect of my life. Like...uhhhh, exercising :)
It happened when I least expected it. (Which is generally what happens when you aren't trying for something you want). As you know I have a strong history of working with families who experience fetal or neonatal loss. Fetal loss occurs during the pregnancy, neonatal loss occurs when a baby is under the age of 28 days.
I was the go-to person for demises (death of a baby). I didn't really ever have anyone fight me for the assignment. It's not something most want to partake in. For me, thankfully, because of my previously written about exposure to this, it became my niche in nursing and truly a gift from God. I think my psych experience helped tremendously, being a parent, being human, being empathetic, crying with families, etc. drove me to want to care for them. I learned from each family. I am thankful for every opportunity I had. I had a excellent role model of a social worker that taught me many of the "ropes" in dealing with this situation.
So I had a couple come in that learned at a 16 week doctor appt that their baby had died. I'll be honest. They were obviously lower class, including having a lower education level. As nurses you truly want to treat everyone equally. Do we? I believe we certainly try. It can be very difficult at times. They really didn't want to listen to my schpeel about what to expect, what I would do with them, for them etc. They both wanted this just done and over so they could minimally go smoke and ultimately go home as soon as possible.
Mom was adamant she was not going to deliver this child on her own. She wanted no part of that discussion. No ifs, ands or buts about attempting to explain how this all would work. After further discussion of this, they actually wanted me to make arrangements with an abortion clinic in Omaha to speed this process up. This was really frustrating to me.
Depending on the size of the baby, we could perform a D and C. (dilation and curettage) where the cervix is opened and the uterus is just cleaned out. This is generally done early on in pregnancies with miscarriages. However, this child would probably be a little bigger, and by bigger I mean about 6 inches long. Not really something a D and C is designed for. The obstetrician agreed to do a D and E (dilation and extraction) which generally is saved for just abortion clinics. It was something not done at our hospital as it's the closest thing to an abortion, except the child has died. The cervix is opened and the baby is sucked out, no matter how it's able to be removed. They now no longer wanted to go to Omaha, but opted for the D and E. It was local, and the process would of course, be quick like they wanted.
I'm cringing at this thought. Physicians can do a really poor job of explaining procedures while obtaining consent and reviewing risks and benefits of surgeries. It was my time to be the patient advocate and educator and it wasn't going to be easy.
I've always told my patients I'm very up front and honest. I will not sugar coat things. I had to talk myself into this one. I sat down on the bed with her, attempting to redirect her attention from signing the consent and getting this over with. Gulp.I just wanted to spew out the words with my eyes closed not wanting to witness her reaction. Here it comes: I want you to completely understand what is going on here. If you sign the consent for the D and E, your baby is not going to come out whole. It is going to come out in pieces. It's going to get sucked out. If you go to Omaha they will do the same thing. **top 5 hardest things that I've ever said in my life** That's such a horrendous thing to think of, much less say aloud. But I did it. Florence wanted me to.
You could have heard a pin drop. It was, as I thought, something like slapping her across the face. She burst out crying. "Oh my God NO!!! I had no idea. I don't want that at all. I will do whatever it takes to keep my baby whole." We then did a major shift in the plan of care. We were now going to induce and deliver vaginally. Completely the opposite of what the initial plan was.
She ended up delivering vaginally with the baby intact. (They are very friable at this age and if they've been dead for awhile it increasing the friability immensely). They both held their baby. It was only briefly, but they did. And they left soon afterwards.
What if I didn't have the balls to get those words "your baby will not come out whole" out? What if I hadn't educated her? What if I had just gone with the flow of the doctor's rambling and prepped her for surgery? I am so thankful I was able to....again, with the gift and courage from God. It would have been a horrid outcome, unexpected to them if I hadn't.
Who knew I would have my moment of excellence in a situation like this.
It happened when I least expected it. (Which is generally what happens when you aren't trying for something you want). As you know I have a strong history of working with families who experience fetal or neonatal loss. Fetal loss occurs during the pregnancy, neonatal loss occurs when a baby is under the age of 28 days.
I was the go-to person for demises (death of a baby). I didn't really ever have anyone fight me for the assignment. It's not something most want to partake in. For me, thankfully, because of my previously written about exposure to this, it became my niche in nursing and truly a gift from God. I think my psych experience helped tremendously, being a parent, being human, being empathetic, crying with families, etc. drove me to want to care for them. I learned from each family. I am thankful for every opportunity I had. I had a excellent role model of a social worker that taught me many of the "ropes" in dealing with this situation.
So I had a couple come in that learned at a 16 week doctor appt that their baby had died. I'll be honest. They were obviously lower class, including having a lower education level. As nurses you truly want to treat everyone equally. Do we? I believe we certainly try. It can be very difficult at times. They really didn't want to listen to my schpeel about what to expect, what I would do with them, for them etc. They both wanted this just done and over so they could minimally go smoke and ultimately go home as soon as possible.
Mom was adamant she was not going to deliver this child on her own. She wanted no part of that discussion. No ifs, ands or buts about attempting to explain how this all would work. After further discussion of this, they actually wanted me to make arrangements with an abortion clinic in Omaha to speed this process up. This was really frustrating to me.
Depending on the size of the baby, we could perform a D and C. (dilation and curettage) where the cervix is opened and the uterus is just cleaned out. This is generally done early on in pregnancies with miscarriages. However, this child would probably be a little bigger, and by bigger I mean about 6 inches long. Not really something a D and C is designed for. The obstetrician agreed to do a D and E (dilation and extraction) which generally is saved for just abortion clinics. It was something not done at our hospital as it's the closest thing to an abortion, except the child has died. The cervix is opened and the baby is sucked out, no matter how it's able to be removed. They now no longer wanted to go to Omaha, but opted for the D and E. It was local, and the process would of course, be quick like they wanted.
I'm cringing at this thought. Physicians can do a really poor job of explaining procedures while obtaining consent and reviewing risks and benefits of surgeries. It was my time to be the patient advocate and educator and it wasn't going to be easy.
I've always told my patients I'm very up front and honest. I will not sugar coat things. I had to talk myself into this one. I sat down on the bed with her, attempting to redirect her attention from signing the consent and getting this over with. Gulp.I just wanted to spew out the words with my eyes closed not wanting to witness her reaction. Here it comes: I want you to completely understand what is going on here. If you sign the consent for the D and E, your baby is not going to come out whole. It is going to come out in pieces. It's going to get sucked out. If you go to Omaha they will do the same thing. **top 5 hardest things that I've ever said in my life** That's such a horrendous thing to think of, much less say aloud. But I did it. Florence wanted me to.
You could have heard a pin drop. It was, as I thought, something like slapping her across the face. She burst out crying. "Oh my God NO!!! I had no idea. I don't want that at all. I will do whatever it takes to keep my baby whole." We then did a major shift in the plan of care. We were now going to induce and deliver vaginally. Completely the opposite of what the initial plan was.
She ended up delivering vaginally with the baby intact. (They are very friable at this age and if they've been dead for awhile it increasing the friability immensely). They both held their baby. It was only briefly, but they did. And they left soon afterwards.
What if I didn't have the balls to get those words "your baby will not come out whole" out? What if I hadn't educated her? What if I had just gone with the flow of the doctor's rambling and prepped her for surgery? I am so thankful I was able to....again, with the gift and courage from God. It would have been a horrid outcome, unexpected to them if I hadn't.
Who knew I would have my moment of excellence in a situation like this.
Friday, February 7, 2014
A night of hockey!!
After many unsuccessful "dates," I don't even know if you'd call them that......God guys are so weird, a co-worker arranged a blind date. After each and every one of my encounters I swore I was done. So done.....but I'm a glutton for punishment. Although, years later it truly is comical the crap I did and the people I met.
I'm advised he's good looking and my height. I always got a lil bit on edge when told "my height." I'm 5'`10". If a guy is close to my height, bet on him lying. Guys don't like admitting to the short factor. Talked to him once on the phone and agreed to his arrangement of going to a hockey game. Heck...I'd never been to one, at least it'd be a new experience. I'm taking a positive approach on this one.
My man arrives, pullin' up in a black Thunderbird. That was the first indication I shoulda just shut the door in his face. He is not "my height." 5'8" at most with his steel toed boots on. I have real issues with guys shorter than me, so this has headed south just from an observation standpoint already. We had to stop and get gas before leaving town. (Unprepared, unacceptable) He asked me while we were sitting there if I wanted to change into a hockey jersey. 'Scuse me? You brought a hockey jersey along for me to wear? "Uhhh, no, I'm good. Thanks."
Was about an hour and a half drive. OMG he didn't shut up. I'm all about not having lengthy periods of awkward silence, but this was too much. Stupid stuff. Yap. Yap. Yap. I could have told you anything and everything you'd ever want to know about his 12 year old son. Oh, and I was taking his spot at the game tonight. It usually was a father/son thing, but he sacrificed the ticket for me. Spitty excitement grew when talking about getting pitchers of beer at the game. I quietly said, "Meh...I'm not really a fan of beer, but it's totally ok if you drink." Perhaps intoxication would be better. We arrive at the arena parking lot and again, with some coaxing, he questioned if I truly didn't want to adorn myself in the hockey jersey. You know how that went.
Soooooo....I walk in and promptly plant my ass in the line up for beer. 90 minutes of that drive and I now love beer. And lots of it. You could have compared my consumption of the first 2 glasses to that of a thirsty nomad in a dessert who just found water. Eff staying sober for this. They were gone before we sat down.
Made it through whatever they have in hockey: periods, intermissions, whatever, and then there was entertainment. It was time to Chuck the Puck into the arena. At some point during my drinking I missed him purchase not one or two pucks to chuck, but a whole freakin bag. There had to have been 30. I'm now reminded again, I am taking the place of his son. "Go ahead and throw them!!" Someone load the gun and shoot me now. These are not weighted pucks. They are foam pucks that are to be thrown into a 3 foot diameter circle on the ice. Mind you said son's seat that is occupied by me is in a corner. I'm cringing. Truly thinking, who can I call to come get me. I threw 2 and felt ummm, 12. I did not reach the center circle. Shit.
There was a large group of people engaging loudly with each other in front of us. Probably 3 rows by 8 seats. Drunk. Obnoxious. He strikes up a convo with one of the girls in the group. (Seriously God what have I done and what do I need to be forgiven for???) Turns out this was a group from a party bus that was celebrating someone's birthday and they drove 2 hours to come to the game. The girl invited him onto the bus afterwards. "Hey, Robyn, we can go party with them on the bus after the game, ya wanna?" Hold on one moment while I refrain from slappin yo ass and being the adult here with logic. 1) We have a car here. I *highly* doubt the party bus will take a u-turn from their trip and bring 2 people back to a parking lot 2) neither one of us know these people 3) they drove 2 hours to get here. I'm not hiding my perturbedness now. "No, we are not going on the bus."
"Really? Don't you think it'd be fun?"
"No. No I don't."
10 minutes later. "Are you sure you don't want to go hang out with them?" Look of death, followed by "We are not getting on that bus with them."
Game over. Unfortunately just the hockey game was over, I still had to endure this game of torture. We hadn't eaten supper prior to coming (if you know me, you know you don't let me get hungry). Now we will forge ahead and go out to eat. No really, you pick, you're driving. Okay, Applebees it is. I hate Applebees. I refrained from cursing, endlessly. I'm sorta thinking he's now seeing some light that this isn't going well. The trip to get food in my face was quiet. There was pre-planning to get to Applebees I was unaware of. We're going to Applebees cuz that's where the players go after the game AND WE CAN GET AUTOGRAPHS. HIS SON LOVES TO GO THERE. Is the gun loader truly on break?? I'd take a poisonous dart, a bat to the head, rusty nails in my eardrums. Please. This is like a step below minor leagues. High school players from the region. I. don't. want. any. fucking. autographs.
Food. Glorious food. Second on my list of faves for the night. I was facing a TV and ESPN was on. I could probably still tell you the brackets of who was racing that night in Funny Cars. I was focused on that freakin TV. We're served our food.
My friends will tell you I'm a human mirror.If you have shit in your teeth, I'll tell you. Crap on your face. I'll tell you. I only do this because I'm observant and it annoys the hell outta me to focus on something like that, so please remove stated item in wrong place. With that in mind......was did this nimrod order?? BABY BACK RIBS. I'm having flashblacks and want to vomit. Right now.
ESPN could no longer save me. He was pulling bones from his teeth. He laid a napkin out in front of him and made a pile of them. Bones. Being pulled out of the mouth and laid in front of me. Another White Russian please. Hey....here's the players, you wanna go get some autographs. Jesus Take The Wheel. Followed by (I shit you not) I wonder what the people on the bus are doing. Heavy sigh from across the booth.
I cleaned my plate in record time. With that observation, he kindly offered me some of his ribs. FML.
Oddly I remember walking out and him asking me to hold his coat so he could pee. Why does this even seem odd at this point. But I seriously thought through this. Why in God's name do I need to hold a man's coat so he can pee.
I did not say anything at all for the 90 minute ride home. The black T-bird finally returned me to my safe haven. He said, "Keep in touch." The door did not hit me in the ass.
I'm advised he's good looking and my height. I always got a lil bit on edge when told "my height." I'm 5'`10". If a guy is close to my height, bet on him lying. Guys don't like admitting to the short factor. Talked to him once on the phone and agreed to his arrangement of going to a hockey game. Heck...I'd never been to one, at least it'd be a new experience. I'm taking a positive approach on this one.
My man arrives, pullin' up in a black Thunderbird. That was the first indication I shoulda just shut the door in his face. He is not "my height." 5'8" at most with his steel toed boots on. I have real issues with guys shorter than me, so this has headed south just from an observation standpoint already. We had to stop and get gas before leaving town. (Unprepared, unacceptable) He asked me while we were sitting there if I wanted to change into a hockey jersey. 'Scuse me? You brought a hockey jersey along for me to wear? "Uhhh, no, I'm good. Thanks."
Was about an hour and a half drive. OMG he didn't shut up. I'm all about not having lengthy periods of awkward silence, but this was too much. Stupid stuff. Yap. Yap. Yap. I could have told you anything and everything you'd ever want to know about his 12 year old son. Oh, and I was taking his spot at the game tonight. It usually was a father/son thing, but he sacrificed the ticket for me. Spitty excitement grew when talking about getting pitchers of beer at the game. I quietly said, "Meh...I'm not really a fan of beer, but it's totally ok if you drink." Perhaps intoxication would be better. We arrive at the arena parking lot and again, with some coaxing, he questioned if I truly didn't want to adorn myself in the hockey jersey. You know how that went.
Soooooo....I walk in and promptly plant my ass in the line up for beer. 90 minutes of that drive and I now love beer. And lots of it. You could have compared my consumption of the first 2 glasses to that of a thirsty nomad in a dessert who just found water. Eff staying sober for this. They were gone before we sat down.
Made it through whatever they have in hockey: periods, intermissions, whatever, and then there was entertainment. It was time to Chuck the Puck into the arena. At some point during my drinking I missed him purchase not one or two pucks to chuck, but a whole freakin bag. There had to have been 30. I'm now reminded again, I am taking the place of his son. "Go ahead and throw them!!" Someone load the gun and shoot me now. These are not weighted pucks. They are foam pucks that are to be thrown into a 3 foot diameter circle on the ice. Mind you said son's seat that is occupied by me is in a corner. I'm cringing. Truly thinking, who can I call to come get me. I threw 2 and felt ummm, 12. I did not reach the center circle. Shit.
There was a large group of people engaging loudly with each other in front of us. Probably 3 rows by 8 seats. Drunk. Obnoxious. He strikes up a convo with one of the girls in the group. (Seriously God what have I done and what do I need to be forgiven for???) Turns out this was a group from a party bus that was celebrating someone's birthday and they drove 2 hours to come to the game. The girl invited him onto the bus afterwards. "Hey, Robyn, we can go party with them on the bus after the game, ya wanna?" Hold on one moment while I refrain from slappin yo ass and being the adult here with logic. 1) We have a car here. I *highly* doubt the party bus will take a u-turn from their trip and bring 2 people back to a parking lot 2) neither one of us know these people 3) they drove 2 hours to get here. I'm not hiding my perturbedness now. "No, we are not going on the bus."
"Really? Don't you think it'd be fun?"
"No. No I don't."
10 minutes later. "Are you sure you don't want to go hang out with them?" Look of death, followed by "We are not getting on that bus with them."
Game over. Unfortunately just the hockey game was over, I still had to endure this game of torture. We hadn't eaten supper prior to coming (if you know me, you know you don't let me get hungry). Now we will forge ahead and go out to eat. No really, you pick, you're driving. Okay, Applebees it is. I hate Applebees. I refrained from cursing, endlessly. I'm sorta thinking he's now seeing some light that this isn't going well. The trip to get food in my face was quiet. There was pre-planning to get to Applebees I was unaware of. We're going to Applebees cuz that's where the players go after the game AND WE CAN GET AUTOGRAPHS. HIS SON LOVES TO GO THERE. Is the gun loader truly on break?? I'd take a poisonous dart, a bat to the head, rusty nails in my eardrums. Please. This is like a step below minor leagues. High school players from the region. I. don't. want. any. fucking. autographs.
Food. Glorious food. Second on my list of faves for the night. I was facing a TV and ESPN was on. I could probably still tell you the brackets of who was racing that night in Funny Cars. I was focused on that freakin TV. We're served our food.
My friends will tell you I'm a human mirror.If you have shit in your teeth, I'll tell you. Crap on your face. I'll tell you. I only do this because I'm observant and it annoys the hell outta me to focus on something like that, so please remove stated item in wrong place. With that in mind......was did this nimrod order?? BABY BACK RIBS. I'm having flashblacks and want to vomit. Right now.
ESPN could no longer save me. He was pulling bones from his teeth. He laid a napkin out in front of him and made a pile of them. Bones. Being pulled out of the mouth and laid in front of me. Another White Russian please. Hey....here's the players, you wanna go get some autographs. Jesus Take The Wheel. Followed by (I shit you not) I wonder what the people on the bus are doing. Heavy sigh from across the booth.
I cleaned my plate in record time. With that observation, he kindly offered me some of his ribs. FML.
Oddly I remember walking out and him asking me to hold his coat so he could pee. Why does this even seem odd at this point. But I seriously thought through this. Why in God's name do I need to hold a man's coat so he can pee.
I did not say anything at all for the 90 minute ride home. The black T-bird finally returned me to my safe haven. He said, "Keep in touch." The door did not hit me in the ass.
Enough of Debbie Downer
This was supposed to be a funny thing.....I better hop to focusing more on that :)
So.....after I divorced, after a long while, I opted to look into the online dating world. This my friends, is comical. My friends at work longed for me to make a world map to keep track of all my encounters, escapades and ridiculous moments I had along the way.
I think I've attempted to block most of them out cuz they were that bad. However....I do remember more of the doozies.
I started on eHarmony. It was a free weekend.....and they were going to find my perfect match. I did the 27 page personality assessment, how could I not find my perfect match? DUH.
In no particular order........
I met a guy from Lawrence, KS. He was slightly older than me. Not good looking by any sort of the imagination, but he liked me. It was like being back in high school. Flirting. Attention. I got sucked in fast. We talked online, then on the phone, then decided to meet. I don't remember where, but it was in southern Nebraska somewhere. Hastings-ish maybe. We met at a bar at a hotel. Yes, red flag number one. We sat in the same side of the booth. That is so gay. Oy. Why sit next to someone you haven't met before. You can't have a conversation looking at them. Anyway, I coulda been poop and he was a flock of flies. Good lord, pawing all over me, running his fingers up and down my arm. It was so odd. But.....I had a few drinks, he had a ton of drinks, and hey.....this was just supposed to be fun.
I was really embarrassed at first to admit to anyone I was doing the online dating thing. But.....I had to fess up to my parents, cuz uhhhhh, I was leaving town, and although I lied my way through most of my teenage years as to what my escapades were, I figured now I better adult-up and keep my mom informed of where I was going and what I was up to (despite being 30 some years old...I felt I owed it to her if I ended up dead somewhere.....although that thought never crossed my mind.) So I told her about going wherever it was this time. I'd always call her when I'd leave to go somewhere, and call when I got there so she'd know I was ok.
The dude got hammered at the bar. It was so ridiculous. But.........the attention craver in me didn't think it was dumb enough at the time. So....I made plans to visit him again in KS. This time I'd be staying at his brother's house (how do I just trust these people I don't know and hang with them??) So we hung out at his brother's. His brother was a little uppity. A chiropractor. But HE was hot. But had a girlfriend. Strike out on that possibility. The weekend didn't go too bad. Apparently the conversation and activity was fair enough that AC (attention craver) was up for more. Next time he came to my house. (Note.....my kids were not involved with any of this. I didn't want the open door policy of having boyfriends in and out blah blah) So he came to Norfolk to spend the weekend. He wanted to go to a bar SHOCKER. We met up with a couple friends of mine there. He was the hit of the group we were in. Why? Cuz he bought...I'm not kidding....probably $1000 worth of drinks and shots for a ton of people. Again, he got stupid drunk and this time I was pissed. Really? Control yourself. So we leave the bar. He starts bawling on the way to my house. OMG. I don't remember what he was crying about but it was pathetic. And now it finally dawns on me....what have I gotten myself into. I pull up in my driveway and he opens the door before I've stopped. Of course I freak on that shenanigan. Then he proceeds to unzip and pee all over my driveway. Freak out #2 by me. Dude. Enough. I live in a decent 'hood and you aren't gonna be pulling this crap. The crying continued. I told him I was going to bed and I locked my bedroom door.
Here's this drunk bawling freak in my house. WTG Robyn. Freakin idiot. Then he starts pounding on my door. Now it's turned into crying episode=I'm going to kill myself. For the LOVE OF GOD. Somehow I had his brother's number, called him up at 3 am and said.....uhhhhh what am I supposed to do with him. After discussion, I opted to let him in my room, he could sleep on the bed and I'd sleep elsewhere. I checked on him after awhile and what to my sight did I behold?? Him walking in circles around my bed peeing all over the floor. Mind you, I had just bought this house probably 2 months prior. I now go ape-shit crazy on him. I gave him directions to the nearest store that rented Rug Doctor's and told him I was leaving, and his butt had better go get a freakin shampooer, clean my floor and get the hell outta there. I went to a friends house then. Came back home to find the carpet's shampooed and no further sign of him.
Ok. I should have learned my lesson.
So.....after I divorced, after a long while, I opted to look into the online dating world. This my friends, is comical. My friends at work longed for me to make a world map to keep track of all my encounters, escapades and ridiculous moments I had along the way.
I think I've attempted to block most of them out cuz they were that bad. However....I do remember more of the doozies.
I started on eHarmony. It was a free weekend.....and they were going to find my perfect match. I did the 27 page personality assessment, how could I not find my perfect match? DUH.
In no particular order........
I met a guy from Lawrence, KS. He was slightly older than me. Not good looking by any sort of the imagination, but he liked me. It was like being back in high school. Flirting. Attention. I got sucked in fast. We talked online, then on the phone, then decided to meet. I don't remember where, but it was in southern Nebraska somewhere. Hastings-ish maybe. We met at a bar at a hotel. Yes, red flag number one. We sat in the same side of the booth. That is so gay. Oy. Why sit next to someone you haven't met before. You can't have a conversation looking at them. Anyway, I coulda been poop and he was a flock of flies. Good lord, pawing all over me, running his fingers up and down my arm. It was so odd. But.....I had a few drinks, he had a ton of drinks, and hey.....this was just supposed to be fun.
I was really embarrassed at first to admit to anyone I was doing the online dating thing. But.....I had to fess up to my parents, cuz uhhhhh, I was leaving town, and although I lied my way through most of my teenage years as to what my escapades were, I figured now I better adult-up and keep my mom informed of where I was going and what I was up to (despite being 30 some years old...I felt I owed it to her if I ended up dead somewhere.....although that thought never crossed my mind.) So I told her about going wherever it was this time. I'd always call her when I'd leave to go somewhere, and call when I got there so she'd know I was ok.
The dude got hammered at the bar. It was so ridiculous. But.........the attention craver in me didn't think it was dumb enough at the time. So....I made plans to visit him again in KS. This time I'd be staying at his brother's house (how do I just trust these people I don't know and hang with them??) So we hung out at his brother's. His brother was a little uppity. A chiropractor. But HE was hot. But had a girlfriend. Strike out on that possibility. The weekend didn't go too bad. Apparently the conversation and activity was fair enough that AC (attention craver) was up for more. Next time he came to my house. (Note.....my kids were not involved with any of this. I didn't want the open door policy of having boyfriends in and out blah blah) So he came to Norfolk to spend the weekend. He wanted to go to a bar SHOCKER. We met up with a couple friends of mine there. He was the hit of the group we were in. Why? Cuz he bought...I'm not kidding....probably $1000 worth of drinks and shots for a ton of people. Again, he got stupid drunk and this time I was pissed. Really? Control yourself. So we leave the bar. He starts bawling on the way to my house. OMG. I don't remember what he was crying about but it was pathetic. And now it finally dawns on me....what have I gotten myself into. I pull up in my driveway and he opens the door before I've stopped. Of course I freak on that shenanigan. Then he proceeds to unzip and pee all over my driveway. Freak out #2 by me. Dude. Enough. I live in a decent 'hood and you aren't gonna be pulling this crap. The crying continued. I told him I was going to bed and I locked my bedroom door.
Here's this drunk bawling freak in my house. WTG Robyn. Freakin idiot. Then he starts pounding on my door. Now it's turned into crying episode=I'm going to kill myself. For the LOVE OF GOD. Somehow I had his brother's number, called him up at 3 am and said.....uhhhhh what am I supposed to do with him. After discussion, I opted to let him in my room, he could sleep on the bed and I'd sleep elsewhere. I checked on him after awhile and what to my sight did I behold?? Him walking in circles around my bed peeing all over the floor. Mind you, I had just bought this house probably 2 months prior. I now go ape-shit crazy on him. I gave him directions to the nearest store that rented Rug Doctor's and told him I was leaving, and his butt had better go get a freakin shampooer, clean my floor and get the hell outta there. I went to a friends house then. Came back home to find the carpet's shampooed and no further sign of him.
Ok. I should have learned my lesson.
I've got a mental illness, but then again...who doesn't?
The stigma of mental illness. I'd love to say I'm above that....but sometimes I wonder if I do. Those overly dramatic people, craving attention, doing dumb high school stuff for attention, annoys me. But most have a personality disorder of sorts. Generally major mental illnesses of Bipolar or Major Depression don't bother me, it's the personality disorders that always drove me insane. On the unit I called them the fire starters.
Anyway, it was about 10 years ago, I had my youngest son about 2 months prior and we were in the hospital because he had influenza (got him a flu shot that year) never again. It was about 6 in the morning and one of the PEDS nurses came storming in our room. She told me one of the nurse's at the hospital was killed by her husband the night before. I didn't know the nurse well, just worked with her occasionally when I floated to that department, but I knew her because she was my neighbor. Very tall skinny gal. Co-workers always talked highly of her. I would see her out walking the block very frequently. At the time she had 3 children. They'd ride their bikes and she'd walk. We'd exchange greetings and go on about our business.
She had been in a violent relationship. I knew of him too. He played softball and I'd see him on the fields. Their whole family had been home one night, he came home, had a shotgun, she came down the steps and he killed her. In front of their 3 kids. I can't even imagine. Having children of my own, gut wrenching to think of those poor kids witnessing their Rock of a mother heinously shot in front of them. I later learned details of the shooting, and wish I wouldn't have, because I pondered on them. Had way too vivid thoughts of the scene in the home. After he killed her he went and hung himself.
I've always had some hang up (certainly no pun intended) with people that hang themselves. I don't know if I knew of someone when I was young that did this, but it really bothered me. Bad. When I'd read in the paper about someone doing this, the thoughts permeated my mind incessantly. I'd drive by the area and feel so incredibly uncomfortable.
His hanging really bothered me. Thought about it constantly. Again, vivid imagination of how he would have tied the rope, how long he hung before he died.....just grotesque stuff I couldn't get out of my head. Every single day for months. I remember staring at a wood pile at my house and I thought of it. This now became a trigger for me. Every time I saw the woodpile, I'd be sucked into that horrible thought process. The woodpile wasn't hidden. Right in our back yard. So yeah, it was a daily thing.
This then turned into constant preoccupation with fear and panic that I would find someone hanging in a tree. I hated to drive. Anywhere there was trees (which, ummmm, is everywhere) I'd quickly glance looking for a body hanging. OMG this was a horrible way to live. I didn't tell anyone about it but my husband at the time. It was too odd to talk about. People would think FREAK!! And I'm not a freak. My ex-husband was less than empathetic. We'd be driving and there'd be trees on both sides of the road and he'd say....."so are you super freaked out now that there's trees all around you?" Gosh that made me mad. I didn't want to think like this yet I couldn't stop. What a DB.
This now lead to a preoccupation with death. Of my kids. I would lay in bed at night and see visions of me in a car accident with all 3. I specifically remember my oldest taking the brunt of the accident and his head rolling down the road. Yes, by this point (about 5 months after the initial killing of the nurse) I am exacerbated with myself, feeling crazy, yet tormented daily by my own thoughts.
I had 2 friends that were psychiatrists. I made an appt with one and told my story. I have OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). I thought OCD was just people being weird with routines, numbers, tapping, closing locks etc. What you see on TV. That is the compulsive portion of the disease. Mine is the obsessive thinking. Good god I finally had an explanation for this. But having an explanation didn't help for crap. He started me on meds. Tweaked them over the next 6 months, and finally, I was no longer obsessing about death, hanging, fear of trees, etc. I will tell you, when you figure out you are not dealing with reality in your head it is a very scary thing.
I still take meds today. I will never go off them. Ever. Obviously now I don't have a problem telling people about it. I do get the raised eyebrow of WEIRDO, which, yes, it is very weird. I still think about the whole ordeal, but now I can have the thought, tell myself to let it go, and it goes away.
I consider myself an intelligent, competent person who is very high functioning. Mental illness has no boundaries. Anxiety, depression.....I think most of my friends have it, to some degree or another. Don't judge people (and I tell myself that yet everyday too, but I'm human).
Anyway, it was about 10 years ago, I had my youngest son about 2 months prior and we were in the hospital because he had influenza (got him a flu shot that year) never again. It was about 6 in the morning and one of the PEDS nurses came storming in our room. She told me one of the nurse's at the hospital was killed by her husband the night before. I didn't know the nurse well, just worked with her occasionally when I floated to that department, but I knew her because she was my neighbor. Very tall skinny gal. Co-workers always talked highly of her. I would see her out walking the block very frequently. At the time she had 3 children. They'd ride their bikes and she'd walk. We'd exchange greetings and go on about our business.
She had been in a violent relationship. I knew of him too. He played softball and I'd see him on the fields. Their whole family had been home one night, he came home, had a shotgun, she came down the steps and he killed her. In front of their 3 kids. I can't even imagine. Having children of my own, gut wrenching to think of those poor kids witnessing their Rock of a mother heinously shot in front of them. I later learned details of the shooting, and wish I wouldn't have, because I pondered on them. Had way too vivid thoughts of the scene in the home. After he killed her he went and hung himself.
I've always had some hang up (certainly no pun intended) with people that hang themselves. I don't know if I knew of someone when I was young that did this, but it really bothered me. Bad. When I'd read in the paper about someone doing this, the thoughts permeated my mind incessantly. I'd drive by the area and feel so incredibly uncomfortable.
His hanging really bothered me. Thought about it constantly. Again, vivid imagination of how he would have tied the rope, how long he hung before he died.....just grotesque stuff I couldn't get out of my head. Every single day for months. I remember staring at a wood pile at my house and I thought of it. This now became a trigger for me. Every time I saw the woodpile, I'd be sucked into that horrible thought process. The woodpile wasn't hidden. Right in our back yard. So yeah, it was a daily thing.
This then turned into constant preoccupation with fear and panic that I would find someone hanging in a tree. I hated to drive. Anywhere there was trees (which, ummmm, is everywhere) I'd quickly glance looking for a body hanging. OMG this was a horrible way to live. I didn't tell anyone about it but my husband at the time. It was too odd to talk about. People would think FREAK!! And I'm not a freak. My ex-husband was less than empathetic. We'd be driving and there'd be trees on both sides of the road and he'd say....."so are you super freaked out now that there's trees all around you?" Gosh that made me mad. I didn't want to think like this yet I couldn't stop. What a DB.
This now lead to a preoccupation with death. Of my kids. I would lay in bed at night and see visions of me in a car accident with all 3. I specifically remember my oldest taking the brunt of the accident and his head rolling down the road. Yes, by this point (about 5 months after the initial killing of the nurse) I am exacerbated with myself, feeling crazy, yet tormented daily by my own thoughts.
I had 2 friends that were psychiatrists. I made an appt with one and told my story. I have OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder). I thought OCD was just people being weird with routines, numbers, tapping, closing locks etc. What you see on TV. That is the compulsive portion of the disease. Mine is the obsessive thinking. Good god I finally had an explanation for this. But having an explanation didn't help for crap. He started me on meds. Tweaked them over the next 6 months, and finally, I was no longer obsessing about death, hanging, fear of trees, etc. I will tell you, when you figure out you are not dealing with reality in your head it is a very scary thing.
I still take meds today. I will never go off them. Ever. Obviously now I don't have a problem telling people about it. I do get the raised eyebrow of WEIRDO, which, yes, it is very weird. I still think about the whole ordeal, but now I can have the thought, tell myself to let it go, and it goes away.
I consider myself an intelligent, competent person who is very high functioning. Mental illness has no boundaries. Anxiety, depression.....I think most of my friends have it, to some degree or another. Don't judge people (and I tell myself that yet everyday too, but I'm human).
I've got a bloody ass
I don't know how many times I've said......just when I think I've seen/heard it all. I haven't. Another night shift. Sitting with my BFF at the nurse's station. Doing our usual yapping. Nothing exciting. A new dad came up to the desk, leaned over on it, and said to us, "Hey, I've got blood coming out of my asshole. What should I do?"
Brain freeze.
What in the hell did I just hear.
We sat silent. I hesitantly said, "Your butt is bleeding?"
"Yeah, it's bright red blood."
I've seriously never been in a sitch like this before. His question has now sunk in and I want to laugh. I can't laugh. He is about 3 feet from my face. I can feel my mouth, face, cheeks begin contorting trying not to laugh. My dear friend turns her chair so she is no longer facing him. Bitch. I can feel her shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and leaving me to deal with this yayhoo.
Me: "Ummm, you probably should go to the ER."
"Really? I don't want to. It's just bleeding and I don't know what to do. Do you have any tampons I could put in it."
Imagine a conscious seizure going on in my face now. I can't laugh. I have to laugh. "No, we don't have tampons, and I'm not sure that's a really good idea. I think you should go get it checked out. It's bright red?"
****why am I asking him questions to further this convo****
Meanwhile, chair next to me now shaking violently.
"Well, ok, I thought I'd just ask. I guess I'll just have to figure something out."
Pain overtook me. Tears overtook me. Snot and drool overtook me. What in the hell did I just hear?
About an hour later he comes back to the desk. NOOOOOOOOOOO. I can't do this again. I will not do this again. I will not be professional this time. If your ass is bleeding this is NOT an issue of mine.
Repeat, lean on desk, lean into our space, opens his mouth, "I have a weird question for you." (you have got to be kidding me. How much freakin weirder can you possible be?)
His weirdness questions, "Is it daylight savings time tonight?"
Ummm, yes, yes actually it is.
"Oh, and by the way, I just shoved some toilet paper up my butt. It has stopped bleeding."
My brain has an infarct forever from this.
Brain freeze.
What in the hell did I just hear.
We sat silent. I hesitantly said, "Your butt is bleeding?"
"Yeah, it's bright red blood."
I've seriously never been in a sitch like this before. His question has now sunk in and I want to laugh. I can't laugh. He is about 3 feet from my face. I can feel my mouth, face, cheeks begin contorting trying not to laugh. My dear friend turns her chair so she is no longer facing him. Bitch. I can feel her shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and leaving me to deal with this yayhoo.
Me: "Ummm, you probably should go to the ER."
"Really? I don't want to. It's just bleeding and I don't know what to do. Do you have any tampons I could put in it."
Imagine a conscious seizure going on in my face now. I can't laugh. I have to laugh. "No, we don't have tampons, and I'm not sure that's a really good idea. I think you should go get it checked out. It's bright red?"
****why am I asking him questions to further this convo****
Meanwhile, chair next to me now shaking violently.
"Well, ok, I thought I'd just ask. I guess I'll just have to figure something out."
Pain overtook me. Tears overtook me. Snot and drool overtook me. What in the hell did I just hear?
About an hour later he comes back to the desk. NOOOOOOOOOOO. I can't do this again. I will not do this again. I will not be professional this time. If your ass is bleeding this is NOT an issue of mine.
Repeat, lean on desk, lean into our space, opens his mouth, "I have a weird question for you." (you have got to be kidding me. How much freakin weirder can you possible be?)
His weirdness questions, "Is it daylight savings time tonight?"
Ummm, yes, yes actually it is.
"Oh, and by the way, I just shoved some toilet paper up my butt. It has stopped bleeding."
My brain has an infarct forever from this.
My daughter completely mortified me tonight. Seriously MORTIFIED me.
My daughter is 12. She's a character. She should be a bleach blond. White blond. Transparent blond. But, she looks like me :) Dark hair. Usually is the butt of jokes. I can't help it. Truly can't. When she walks directly through the butt of joke door, I don't stop the entrance. Luckily, it won't be long before she will pull something that even my boys will freak out over regarding her complete unintentional ignorance.
Back to the mortification. Watching the Olympics tonight with the hubs and her. She's complaining her toe nails need cut. She starts to pick at one to peel off. OH NO SISTER. I said, "If you do that right now I will throw up all over you. Get me a clippers." (you'll come to learn, if you don't know me already I'm a control freak) and I hate feet. But more than I hate feet, I hate ungroomed nails. So I cut her nails. Good god her feet stink. She just took a shower. Why why why when you are 12 years old do you not care about hygiene. That's a whole 'nother story with The Girl.
So, nails complete. And she farts while laying next to me. Really? We are open farters at our house. Minimal boundaries here. Watch some snow boarding than I hear this odd freak noise, rumbling, but sounds like again more farting. Really????? Stop it. She then goes into this event of farting on her own free will. Repeatedly. I mean like 10. In a row. How in God's name does one do this? Girl.....what.are.you.doing? "I can make myself fart whenever I want." She's determined I'm completely frozen watching this epic grossness I've never thought I'd witness.....so therefore it continues. Over and over. She has won this battle. Wow.
Back to the mortification. Watching the Olympics tonight with the hubs and her. She's complaining her toe nails need cut. She starts to pick at one to peel off. OH NO SISTER. I said, "If you do that right now I will throw up all over you. Get me a clippers." (you'll come to learn, if you don't know me already I'm a control freak) and I hate feet. But more than I hate feet, I hate ungroomed nails. So I cut her nails. Good god her feet stink. She just took a shower. Why why why when you are 12 years old do you not care about hygiene. That's a whole 'nother story with The Girl.
So, nails complete. And she farts while laying next to me. Really? We are open farters at our house. Minimal boundaries here. Watch some snow boarding than I hear this odd freak noise, rumbling, but sounds like again more farting. Really????? Stop it. She then goes into this event of farting on her own free will. Repeatedly. I mean like 10. In a row. How in God's name does one do this? Girl.....what.are.you.doing? "I can make myself fart whenever I want." She's determined I'm completely frozen watching this epic grossness I've never thought I'd witness.....so therefore it continues. Over and over. She has won this battle. Wow.
Nursing, how it shapes your life. Even babies change your life.
It saddens me that as the years go by, I remember less of this story, although it was the situation that changed me the most in my career. The details are fading, but I'll never forget.
I worked 12 years in Labor and Delivery. Wonderful times. Amazing patients. Even better co-workers. My family away from family. I had been working on the unit one year. We got 6 months of orientation to labor and delivery. Seemed like a long time, but wow, it's needed. I had been a nurse on a psych unit for 8 years then moved to this area. I had completed by 6 months of orientation with an amazingly passionate nurse. Loved her. Learned so much. I came in for my night shift. I was in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit). My preceptor happened to have worked the day shift. I got minimal report on the baby, which was fine. It was a baby that had a difficult delivery and wasn't doing well. This wasn't out of the ordinary. I don't think people realize that "natural birth" can go very wrong. More often than what people think. The LifeFlight crew was present to transfer the baby girl to a level III NICU. The crew had assumed care of the child so I only had involvement if they needed supplies, an extra hand, etc. She wasn't "my assignment." I was to write her vital signs in the chart and transfer papers when the crew left and then I'd take another assignment. No big deal. It generally isn't a quick event when transferring a child. The new crew gets all items hooked up to their equipment, make phone calls to doctor's for orders, etc. I stand and watch. And learn. This is still very new to me.
The baby took a turn for the worse, so they again attempted to re-stabilize. This went on for 45 minutes. It seemed like half the night. I was beginning to feel uneasy. This was a "write the VS down and leave" thing. Before I knew it, compressions were being done. Meds were being given. The monitors weren't reading numbers that were reassuring. At all. I think they did compressions maybe 3 separate times. They got to the point of transferring the baby to their isolette (the portable warmer that they use to transport onto the helicopter.) The parents were present to see their first child taken away from them in very critical condition. Mom and dad were both crying. I felt like I was in a "what the hell is going on" zone. Before I knew it, it sank in. This baby wasn't going to make it. No. This is not what I'm used to. I'd never seen a dead baby before. This simple assignment had gone horrendously wrong. Explanations were made to the parents that their beautiful dark haired daughter wasn't going to live. Many tears. From me now. Her heart rate on the monitor was 40's 30's then nothing. Mom was sobbing. Put her hand through the window of the isolette and touched her beautiful miracle. The monitor jumped to 142 or 147. I can't remember. I felt a force. A maternal/daughter bond. She knew that was her mom. I sobbed. Please live. Please please please live. It was so brief of a heart rate. Then she was gone. Oh dear God. What has just happened here. So many emotions I've never had before flooded me. A baby died. A BABY. This isn't right. I'm a nurse. I make people better. This LifeNet crews saves more critical people than I do. And they couldn't. Why. I felt so awkward, but attempted to maintain composure, which I did very poorly.
We took the little lifeless girl from the isolette. I had mom sit in a rocker so she could hold her baby for the first time. A rocker that was meant to rock babies to sleep. Not to hold a child that died. I found out mom was a nurse. Of course she was. Bad things also happen to medical providers. I had no words. None. What can you say? I'm so sorry.
I later learned how one baby that I had seen for approximately 45 minutes, would change my life forever. I spent the evening with the parents. The family. Crying. This was my first exposure to making memories. I had no idea what I was doing. I wanted to go home. Run. Cry. Hug someone. Hug my 2 kids at home. Sadness I had never felt before overwhelmed me. We made hand prints and footprints. Cut locks of her beautiful dark hair. The rest of the night is a blur now. I think it was several months after May 3rd, I found a card I felt was appropriate. I had done some research on caring for families who experience loss. I read about sharing my feelings with the parents. I wrote a novel on that card. What I remembered. What I saw. What I felt. I did not forget them. I never will. I felt it was important to let them know how special their daughter and they were to me.
This pained me for months. I'd cry uncontrollably. I thought "How in the hell can I do this job?" This is the most gut and heart wrenching thing I'd ever experienced. I felt some closure after writing to the parents. I heard back from the mom. She was so grateful for the card, for all I did. I felt like I had done nothing but be an awkward bystander. As months went on, I felt less anxious. Less anxious going to work. Good God if I ever had to do or see that again I couldn't do it. That was too hard to witness.
I still have occasional contact with her parents. I wouldn't consider us friends. But we have an unspoken bond. Unbeknownst to me, this was a turning point in my career and it would shape many more occurrences I would encounter. God bless you A, J and C.
I worked 12 years in Labor and Delivery. Wonderful times. Amazing patients. Even better co-workers. My family away from family. I had been working on the unit one year. We got 6 months of orientation to labor and delivery. Seemed like a long time, but wow, it's needed. I had been a nurse on a psych unit for 8 years then moved to this area. I had completed by 6 months of orientation with an amazingly passionate nurse. Loved her. Learned so much. I came in for my night shift. I was in the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit). My preceptor happened to have worked the day shift. I got minimal report on the baby, which was fine. It was a baby that had a difficult delivery and wasn't doing well. This wasn't out of the ordinary. I don't think people realize that "natural birth" can go very wrong. More often than what people think. The LifeFlight crew was present to transfer the baby girl to a level III NICU. The crew had assumed care of the child so I only had involvement if they needed supplies, an extra hand, etc. She wasn't "my assignment." I was to write her vital signs in the chart and transfer papers when the crew left and then I'd take another assignment. No big deal. It generally isn't a quick event when transferring a child. The new crew gets all items hooked up to their equipment, make phone calls to doctor's for orders, etc. I stand and watch. And learn. This is still very new to me.
The baby took a turn for the worse, so they again attempted to re-stabilize. This went on for 45 minutes. It seemed like half the night. I was beginning to feel uneasy. This was a "write the VS down and leave" thing. Before I knew it, compressions were being done. Meds were being given. The monitors weren't reading numbers that were reassuring. At all. I think they did compressions maybe 3 separate times. They got to the point of transferring the baby to their isolette (the portable warmer that they use to transport onto the helicopter.) The parents were present to see their first child taken away from them in very critical condition. Mom and dad were both crying. I felt like I was in a "what the hell is going on" zone. Before I knew it, it sank in. This baby wasn't going to make it. No. This is not what I'm used to. I'd never seen a dead baby before. This simple assignment had gone horrendously wrong. Explanations were made to the parents that their beautiful dark haired daughter wasn't going to live. Many tears. From me now. Her heart rate on the monitor was 40's 30's then nothing. Mom was sobbing. Put her hand through the window of the isolette and touched her beautiful miracle. The monitor jumped to 142 or 147. I can't remember. I felt a force. A maternal/daughter bond. She knew that was her mom. I sobbed. Please live. Please please please live. It was so brief of a heart rate. Then she was gone. Oh dear God. What has just happened here. So many emotions I've never had before flooded me. A baby died. A BABY. This isn't right. I'm a nurse. I make people better. This LifeNet crews saves more critical people than I do. And they couldn't. Why. I felt so awkward, but attempted to maintain composure, which I did very poorly.
We took the little lifeless girl from the isolette. I had mom sit in a rocker so she could hold her baby for the first time. A rocker that was meant to rock babies to sleep. Not to hold a child that died. I found out mom was a nurse. Of course she was. Bad things also happen to medical providers. I had no words. None. What can you say? I'm so sorry.
I later learned how one baby that I had seen for approximately 45 minutes, would change my life forever. I spent the evening with the parents. The family. Crying. This was my first exposure to making memories. I had no idea what I was doing. I wanted to go home. Run. Cry. Hug someone. Hug my 2 kids at home. Sadness I had never felt before overwhelmed me. We made hand prints and footprints. Cut locks of her beautiful dark hair. The rest of the night is a blur now. I think it was several months after May 3rd, I found a card I felt was appropriate. I had done some research on caring for families who experience loss. I read about sharing my feelings with the parents. I wrote a novel on that card. What I remembered. What I saw. What I felt. I did not forget them. I never will. I felt it was important to let them know how special their daughter and they were to me.
This pained me for months. I'd cry uncontrollably. I thought "How in the hell can I do this job?" This is the most gut and heart wrenching thing I'd ever experienced. I felt some closure after writing to the parents. I heard back from the mom. She was so grateful for the card, for all I did. I felt like I had done nothing but be an awkward bystander. As months went on, I felt less anxious. Less anxious going to work. Good God if I ever had to do or see that again I couldn't do it. That was too hard to witness.
I still have occasional contact with her parents. I wouldn't consider us friends. But we have an unspoken bond. Unbeknownst to me, this was a turning point in my career and it would shape many more occurrences I would encounter. God bless you A, J and C.
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