Gratitude for So Much Luck

I have just spent the last 90 minutes prepping food for my work day lunches and reorganizing my refrigerator and pantry. I am tired and it's past my bedtime, but I am so grateful that I can do this. To have all this food and this space in which to prepare it -- it's so much more than so many have. I am so grateful.

We have just experienced torrential rains for the last 5 days. Thousands of people within a 50 mile radius have lost their homes to flood waters. They may be sleeping on cots or a damp floor in a shelter with a stale sandwich to eat for breakfast tomorrow. And that's nothing compared with the desperate, interminable poverty experienced by millions around the globe.

Yet here I stand in my comfortable kitchen, typing away on a $400 phone. My biggest problem is that I need to get upstairs to my bed. I need to go to bed so I can get up for my job and then go to school tomorrow evening. I have a job and I have a secondary education at my fingertips.

This is so much luck. 

Heavy

That's how I feel.  So much pain and fear and senselessness in the world.  It's piling up.  So, so heavy.

Death in my family.  Sudden, accidental death of a friend of a friend before that.  A mad gunman murdering movie goers. A child at work diagnosed with a brain tumor.  Another brought to us, seizing, not breathing, whisked away in an ambulance after we do what we can.  A 10-year-old girl abducted, her non-intact body found in an open field 5 days later.  A close friend's son hit by a truck and dragged down the street.

Life is so fleeting. It can be destroyed without reason, without warning, without regard for anything or anyone.

I am terrified to let the kids loose in the neighborhood.  A quick glance the wrong way at the wrong time and they're flattened by a car.  A creep follows them to the playground.  Or follows them home.  They disappear into any one of a million cars never to be seen or heard from again.

I do so much to protect them, to do the best for them.  In a hundred ways, every minute of every day, I think about what would be best for them and how to do it.  How to keep them safe, give them the best that I can.  And it may not be enough.  What if it's not enough?

Even if none of those accidents happen, even if none of those premeditated horrors befall them, even if none of that happens, what if?  What if there's a silent, genetic predisposition lurking some where in their bodies?  What if I take them to the doctor for a headache that isn't just a headache?  What if ...

I try valiantly not to let them see this.  I encourage them to go out and play.  I call them when they get off the bus to hear them get home.  I hug them tightly, so tightly, every morning and every night and every chance I have in between.  I smile at them and laugh with them and tickle them.  I caution them about creeps and about anyone who gives them a funny feeling.  I teach them the rule of the road -- that everything is bigger than you and everything else wins, no matter what the crosswalk or the sidewalk say.

I do all this and I hope against hope that it's enough.  I do all this because the "what ifs?" lurking in the recesses of my mind, or plaguing the forefront of my mind, can't take over.  Life goes on because it must.  Being petrified on account of the heaviness is not an option.

Uncle Max

I have had this post sitting in my editing box for more than 3 months.  I started out wanting to say how sad I was that the end was near, how much I was going to miss him.  But those words would not come out, no matter how hard I tried.  Since then, he has passed and I have thought about this post at least weekly.  I have come back to write it many times.  I save it every time without making any progress.  I don't know what to say.

In the last several years I've only seen him once or twice per year.  But knowing that my Uncle Max was in the world made my world better.  I miss him.

I miss his laugh.  He had this hysterical giggle that overtook him when he was telling a funny story.  His eyes almost disappeared into his face and he couldn't get the words out.  Watching him tell a funny story was almost funnier than the actual story.  Almost.  Almost, because he had a plethora of funny stories -- pranks he pulled on friends, pranks he pulled on family, pranks he pulled on teachers.  In these stories, his getting caught was usually the thing he found to be the funniest.

I miss seeing him with his horses.  He loved his horses so much.  I've not had many experiences with horses at all, but the ones I have had, Uncle Max was always there.  Horses will always be linked with Max in my mind.

I miss his concern.  When I got divorced, his thoughtfulness and sensitivity were so meaningful to me.  He related to so much of what I was going through.  It was really good to know that he was thinking of me and he was on my side.

One summer when I was about 12, Jennifer, Lance and I spent a week or so with Uncle Max and his family.  He worked nights and beds were in short supply with so many people in the house so I slept in his and my aunt's bed with my aunt while he was at work.  One morning he came home from work while I was still asleep and my aunt had gotten up to shower.  Max leaned over the bed, thinking I was my aunt, and tried to snuggle up with me.  When I turned over and he saw that it was me, we were both a little unnerved, to say the least.  But after that, it was one of the funniest things ever.

Uncle Max was always up for a good time.  A few years ago, after Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' house, Jenn and Caleb and I left our children with Mom and Dad.  Then, anyone who was interested walked the few blocks from my parents' home down to the main street to have drinks and shoot pool.  There was quite a crowd -- Jenn and Caleb, Lance and his girlfriend at the time, Jonathan, Max and myself.  I believe Caleb's brother even joined us.  We had a great time.  At some point in the evening, Max tried to refresh my two-stepping skills, of which I have very little.  I have no idea how many times I stepped on his booted toes (Ah, yes, the cowboy boots -- a Max trademark.) but it didn't matter.  We had lots of good laughs at my expense.

My heart aches so much for my cousins, for Max's wife, for my mom, and for my grandparents.  I know that as much as I'm missing him, it cannot compare to what they are feeling in his absence.  There is just so much sadness in this.

A few times in the nearly 3 months since he has been gone, someone in my family has commented on or Liked pictures of Max in my albums on Facebook.  When I get the notification and click through to the photo, it takes my breath away for a few seconds.  It's so good to know that he is not and will not be forgotten, but that reminder that he is no longer with us hurts so much.  It's good to have so many great memories about such a great human being, but knowing that there will not be any new memories hurts so much.

I guess that's what I want to say.

In the Wake of Two Failures

I am sad.

Day 4, A Song That Makes Me Sad

Johnny Cash's cover of this song is, in my opinion, so much better than Nine Inch Nails. He put so much feeling into the music that I can feel it. Unfortunately, Nine Inch Nails sounds like an emo kid inventing imaginary ills to cry about.

New Me vs. Old Me

I was Old Me 5 years ago. Old Me was weak and powerless and pitiful and sad and humiliated. Old Me let other people call all the shots, from the little things to the big things. Old Me rarely had opinions and if she did she never, ever spoke them. Old Me lived to make other people happy, even at her own expense. Old Me would have raised children just like herself. And she didn't have the energy to care. Old Me died when I filed for divorce and I have danced on her grave many times since then.

In her place is New Me. New Me says what she thinks even if it makes her want to puke on the spot. (And it often does.) New Me does things like shave off all her hair and grin at the world afterward. New Me rides on the back of a motorcycle (and wants to get one for herself) and drinks wine until she's dizzy. New Me cooks Indian food and eats sushi. New Me loves music from Johnny Cash to Amos Lee to Steely Dan to Depeche Mode to Muse to Maná and back again. New Me isn't afraid to talk to her children about why she divorced their dad, about sex, about the good and the bad things in the world, about standing up for themselves, about telling the truth and about what's right and wrong. New Me goes back to school (for the third time) and has dreams of becoming a lactation consultant or a nurse practitioner or a coroner or a nursing clinical instructor.

I'm embarrassed by Old Me. I don't like to think about her. But New Me wouldn't be here and wouldn't appreciate life as much without having been Old Me to begin with. In that regard, I'm appreciative.

In one significant way I've remained Old Me for the last 5 years. That's when I have to deal with the ex-husband. Every once in a while something comes up and I revert to the old habits -- being overly meek and not being listened to. Every time that happens I get angry with myself for letting it happen. Letting things happen is passive and powerless and it means that I'm not making things happen. It's a weak, pathetic attitude and I hate it.  There have been times when I've put the kids at risk by letting things happen.  Shame on me.

No More.  This week I learned that the ex-husband crammed all 5 of his children into the backseat of a tiny car last weekend because the bigger car with appropriate seating wasn't working.  He and I have had this argument for the better part of 10 years.  He thinks it's okay to occasionally drive around with improperly restrained children if "It's only around the block," or "It's too much trouble to put in a car seat," or "We're going to be late for church if we make two trips."  This week I decided that I have had enough.  When I found this out I told him that if he does not have appropriately safe transportation for these children they will not see him for spring break in two weeks.  He made excuses.  He played the poor-me-you-think-I'm-a-bad-person card.  He tried to make me feel bad.  But I refuse to take the bait.  That's what not letting means.  It means I keep control of myself and my emotions and I stand my ground.  It means that I have power.  And it's part of New Me.

Ups & Downs at Work

I really love being a nurse.  If I can make a small difference in someone's life, for the better, it makes my life a little better.  It makes me feel good.  A lot of times making a difference as a pediatric nurse means supporting a parent when they deal with a severely ill child, or a child's suicide attempt or a devastating diagnosis.  Sometimes it means reassuring a first-time mom that her baby's ear infection will pass and she will sleep again.

Last week had its share of ups and downs.  We transported a young infant to the ER when her oxygen saturation dropped dangerously low, even after breathing treatments and supplemental oxygen.  This was especially tough because this baby has other problems that will require many painful surgeries. The parents also have a language barrier that makes this situation even more difficult and scarier than it would be for others.  My heart hurt for them.

 I also saw one of my favorite families last week.  This woman has two sons, the elder is at the Asperger end of the autism spectrum and the younger is at the opposite end, a severely autistic child.  I admire this woman for her strength and patience and for the obvious understanding and love she has for her sons.  Her boys are such sweet kids and it really brightens my day to see them.

Last week I had to swab the younger boy's throat to test for a strep infection.  He was miserably sick and understandably terrified, considering what we had to do.  After I set up the test I went back to check on him.  The mom asked me if I could stay with him for a couple of minutes while she ran to the bathroom.  So I stood by the exam table and held the boy's hand.  He laid there, whimpering in pain and clutching my hand.  I tried to calm him and after a minute he quieted.  He was petting a stuffed toy, his security item.  Then he opened my hand, placed his toy on my palm and closed my fingers around it.  And then he patted my hand.  And he made my whole week.

The Business of Half Siblings

This is so much harder than I thought it would be. I never wanted to care this much about anything the ex-husband did, so long as he didn't mistreat our children or expect me to make nice to the mistress. When the mistress went away, half of my worries went away. But then he started dating the new wife and he married her and I had a whole bunch of new worries.

It was weird to find out that they were expecting. It was weirder when she started to show. The most surreal moment was when I saw a picture from her 3D ultrasound and the baby's nose looked exactly like Solomon's. Until then, I could push it to the back of my mind because the baby was still a formless, genderless being hidden away in her belly.

I was texting with my ex-sister-in-law (whom I still like) two nights ago about Solomon's birthday. The next morning I got another text message from her that said the ex-husband and the new wife had gone to the hospital because her water broke. All day I kept waiting for the text message that said the baby had been born and was, therefore 'real' in my mind. 'Real' in the sense that it now had a name and an identity, like my own children. The last I knew when I went to bed was that she was getting an epidural and not progressing past 3 cm.

When I woke up today I had a message that read "It's a boy, born at 12:30 am. He weighs 8 lbs, 2 oz and he's 20.5 inches long." It doesn't get much more real than that. Or so I thought. And then I heard the name. He has the same first name as my boys. And his middle name, which is undoubtedly the name they will call him, follows the same pattern that my children's middle names do.

My 3 children, for whom I live and breathe, are included in a naming pattern with this child. Their child. My 3 children are his siblings. They share DNA with him.

I've been trying to figure out why this bothers me and I think I have it: I don't want to care what the ex-husband does but he's made it so that I have to. He's had a child that will directly impact my children's lives.

The easier bit to figure out is equality. What I mean is that the new wife professed to love my children like they were her own. And I can believe she did. But that changed in the moment that she had her biological child because now she does have her own. Call me a cynic, but I find it impossible to believe that she'll love and treat all 4 of these children equally. I just do.

It's easier to believe that the ex-husband will love his 4 children equally. I can put myself into an imaginary situation in which I have an imaginary child with an imaginary partner and I can imagine that I love that child just as I love the 3 I already have. I can imagine that. The problem on the ex-husband's side is that my 3 children will see things differently. After all, this child has both of his parents together all the time. This child won't be traveling 400 miles to see his father during school breaks.

My children, at this point, are happy about the new baby. They are excited to go spend the summer there and play with him. Because they are happy, I am happy for them. Babies are cute and sweet and exciting. No matter my feelings on the subject, he is their half-brother and I don't expect them to ignore that relationship. But I dread the day they realize this may not be all it's cracked up to be.

Finally, I am grateful that this child missed being born on my brother's birthday, even if it was only by 30 minutes. I am more grateful still that this child wasn't born on my child's birthday, which is tomorrow. But that doesn't keep me from wishing he was born in another month, or even a different season.

I Have No Words

Because it's okay to slap your wife, but only if she spends too much money.

Don't Divorce Us

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

People Who Have the Power to Influence

I learned this morning that a family friend passed away last week. This wasn't a man I was close to; I hadn't seen him in years. He was just a man who was sort of always around. He and his wife were friends of my grandparents before I was born. He was involved in the church where I did most of my growing up. The couple were at church camps and conferences. I saw his name in newsletters and had fond memories of his smile and his soft-spoken manner. He was one of those genuinely nice people that adds a bit of brightness to the world. And now that he is gone, that brightness is fading.

He will be missed by many -- and by many that feel his loss infinitely more acutely than do I. My thoughts are with them now.

Children See. Children Do.

This video actually moved me to tears.

I Wish I Didn't Know This

I checked in a patient recently and her mother had a certain look about her. It's a look that I have learned to associate with meth addicts. It usually accompanies nervous chattering and the inability to stay on subject. Obviously it's disconcerting for a number of reasons, the worst of which is that this woman is responsible for a child.

The thing that saddened me is that I didn't consciously think 'meth addict' while checking them in. But later I saw a notation in the chart by a provider that said the parents have a history of meth use and realized that it didn't suprise me. I have seen it too often now.