Dropping Eaves at Starbs

One of my favorite things to do in New York is eavesdrop. It is probably rude and I should maybe try to make myself stop doing it, but I really love it. I should qualify this statement; I do not eavesdrop on people that I know; that would be straight-up rude. But the distance provided by not knowing someone makes it more like watching a movie than intruding. I think I do it so much because it is like reading a book, except I get it in real-time, verbal form. So here I am, working on my book, at my favorite Starbs in the city (on 67th and Columbus) and thinking of the already interesting interactions I’ve heard/seen this week at Starbucks, on subways, walking down the street, waiting in line, and just generally everywhere in this amazing city. It’s around two in the afternoon, and I came down here today because it is the last day of spring break, and I am procrastinating. Or maybe just soaking up every bit of free time I have until integration starts next week. I’ll go with that excuse. Yes, I’m just maximizing my time. Anyway, I get on the train, listening to my iPod shuffle, and reading a book. The 1 is typically crowded; it is a Saturday afternoon, which generally lends itself to predictable standing-room-only rides. A couple next to me has come on and I soon realize that they are in the middle of an argument. They are being pretty vocal about it, I think because they think that I am both otherwise occupied with the book, and can’t hear them with the iPod. Well, the snatches that I’m able to catch are intriguing and I want to hear more. I sneakily shut off my music but leave my earbuds in, just to sink to new levels of deviousness. This woman was very put together, very nice looking. I didn’t get a look at the man, who was standing right behind me, but he sounded educated. She was saying to him, “You have to be harder on her. You can’t let her get away with it. She’s doing really terribly in school, and I want her to graduate normally, not get a GED.” He replies, sounding very defensive and upset, “Look, I don’t know what you want me to do. I talk to her about it. She’s my daughter. I’m not going to beat her. I refuse to!” My eyebrows raised at that one, I thought imperceptibly, but the woman quickly switches into Spanglish, perhaps because she noticed my feigned reading. Shoot. I really have to learn Spanish this summer. I think the gist was that they were divorced (?), the daughter was failing out of school, and the Dad was not being hard enough on her, according to the Mom. They got off at the next stop, still with the woman snipping at the man, so I’m not sure what the full deal was.
An adorable, stooped, balding octogenarian comes up to me. “May I sit here, miss?” “Why yes, of course!” I say, thrilled. Nothing makes my day more than an adorable old guy. We chat for a bit, and then I lapse into reading my book, him his paper. A little while later, a tall man wearing a navy coat with red and gold epaulets and tassels comes in and says to my tablemate, “Sir, your car is ready.” I look up at him, and shock must have been on my face, because he chuckles a cute old-man chuckle. I say, like the awestruck Midwesterner that I am, “You have a driver?” He says, “I was delivering rugs today. I sell Turkish rugs and was delivering to a man down the block.” Gosh, he’s still delivering rugs at his age? He can barely stand up straight! Wow, good for him!
As I look out the window, daydreaming, I see across the street from me a tall man in a red baseball cap hugging and kissing a beautiful petite Asian woman, who looks to be about my age. There is a limousine driver respectfully waiting for them to say their goodbyes, his back turned to them, and facing me at the Starbucks. She is smiling and laughing, her hands clutched around his neck as he playfully leans down to nuzzle her on the cheek. They kiss, tenderly, and then she gets in the car, reluctantly. He stays there, planted on the corner, as the driver loads her luggage and walks to the driver-side door. They are mouthing words to each other through the car window as the car eases from the curb, and he walks alongside it, while she is inside, waving at him. He watches the car pull away, with an indiscernible expression on his face. I can’t quite interpret it. It looks kind of like, “Shoot. Well, what do I do now? She’s cute but she’s gone.” He walks slowly, hands in his pockets, back to an apartment building and goes through the front door, presumably back to his now-empty apartment. I wonder what their story is? I sit here, making up scenarios. I will never know.
Down the counter a little from me is a German man with a rattail, talking with very thick accented English to someone on the phone. He was sitting next to me for awhile, but I kept glancing at him, because from the corner of my eye, it looked like he was reading what I was typing on my computer, and it was making me really uncomfortable. I wanted to type, in the middle of a sentence, “I see you reading this, dude. Bug off. This is personal stuff.” The irony of my being spied on while I write about eavesdropping hits me and I laugh to myself. Well played, God. Well played.
Some tweens come in. I’m getting pretty bad at judging ages of youngsters now (did I just say ‘youngsters’? Oh goodness gracious me. Geez Louise Mr. Pumpernickel Redbuttons) since the girls all look like they could be anywhere from 13-23. The girls are all very well makeuped; much overdone in my opinion. Did I look like that at 15? Grown women wearing makeup is unremarkable, but when I see teenage girls doing it, they just seem kind of silly. But, I’m sure I was silly, too. I remember what it was like, wanting to be older, wanting to look like a grown-up and be taken seriously as a grown-up. I remember what a big day it was for me the first time someone working behind the counter called me “Ma’am”, instead of my usual “Miss” or nothing at all. I’m a “Ma’am” now? Really? Wow, I must look old! I think I was 17 at the time. Funny how as we grow up, we start wanting to look younger. I kind of want to take those girls aside, and say, “Hey. Enjoy your youth, and don’t try to grow up too quickly. It’ll come soon enough, believe me. Then you’ll have bills to pay and broken hearts to nurse and apartments to find and sometimes it just makes you wish you could be five again, when the most challenging decision of the day was whether you’d have PB&J for lunch, or turkey.” And they’ll look at me and one another, raise their perfectly plucked eyebrows, and say, “Who’s this old lady giving us advice?” And I’ll say, “Someone who’s been where you are, and is where you’ll be.” And I’d get a bunch of “whatevers” and “as if”s or whatever it is kids these days are saying. Oh man, I just used the expression ‘kids these days.’ What am I, like 105? Sheesh.
The boys they are with look like they just stepped off of “Project Runway”. Slicked back hair with bizarre sideways coiffed bangs, tight jeans and striped shirts with studs, jackets with buckles. Wow. If guys dressed like that when I was a teenager, they’d have been shot. It was all about the Abercrombie and Fitch back then. Preppie to the max. I think there might have been an unofficial contest about who could be the preppiest in school. By choice, the only thing even close to Abercrombie and Fitch that I owned was a shirt I got at the State Fair that said, “Abercowpie and Bitch” or something like that. Just thumbing my nose as the estab in whatever rebellious teenage way I could! Again, the irony hits me that here I am, on a Saturday afternoon with frizzy hair and minimal makeup, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans with sneakers, and I have the gall to critique others on their fashion sense. Teenage boys, no less, who are, I guess like all of us, trying to figure who the heck they are and where the heck they fit in. I’m mean, and I really shouldn’t talk, especially in a current get-up like mine.
I can’t seem to turn around with seeing Israeli guys hitting on blond girls. I take that back. Very tall, shaved headed Israeli guys hitting on blond girls, mostly wearing black jackets. One might say to me, “Stef! You are racist! How do you know those guys are Israeli? They could be anything.” I know for two reasons: 1) I’ve had my fair share of attention from shaved-head tall Israelis and 2) I can hear them speak and they sound like every other Israeli I know. Don’t get me wrong, I only mention the Israeli part because it ties in with this theory I am developing about how I’ve seen certain kinds of men attracted over and over to certain kinds of women. That is pretty general and vague, but I’m afraid that going into examples would really make me out to sound like an arrogant white chick, so I’ll refrain. I know we all have our types; personally, I have a tendency to be inexplicably drawn to tall brown haired guys or redheads. So, I am really no one to talk. But I bring this up because as I was walking to Starbs today, I saw yet again another tall Israeli guy talking and smiling with that specific “I’m interested” head tilt to a petite blond wearing a black jacket. I realize they could have been friends already, they could have just run into each other after a long absence, I don’t know. But just reading body language, he was hitting on her, in his tracksuit, and she was loving it. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t? He was pretty cute! It was funny though, that here I was thinking about it, and then I see it before my eyes.
The table I am sitting at is by the door, and not only do I get the draft every time someone comes in (small price to pay for privilege of getting a table at a Starbucks on a Saturday in NYC), but I am taking an inordinate amount of enjoyment from watching people consistently push on the locked door, thinking they can get in or out through it. I’d say ninety-nine point nine percent of people either coming or going have originally pushed or pulled on said locked door, found it not budging, looked up in confusion and/or anger at the doorjamb, and then went out the other door. Some look embarrassed, some frustrated, some just plain “Oh well” about it. I decided that I am going to surreptitiously count how many times in a half-hour this happens.
From 3:13pm to 3:43pm, out of thirty people who entered and exited the coffee shop through this set of doors, 22 initially tried the wrong door and made faces, and 8 got it right the first time. That means that 73% of people who enter/exit Starbucks and use that door get it wrong the first time. 27% get it right the first time. I’d have to take a larger sample size to really get a good grasp on the stats surrounding the misuse of this door, but it continues to be pretty funny sitting here, watching everyone do it the wrong way. I can laugh without feeling too bad because I have done it myself many times. And a lady just walked out the door with toilet paper stuck to her shoe and I didn’t have time to tell her about it. And I think Kaptain Kangaroo just walked in. Ordered a doppio, said hello to his friend, Mr. something, and left.
I went up to the bar to get some food, I was ravenous. A guy up there said, “Are you getting all of your work done?” I laughed and said I was, and then ordered my bacon and gouda sandwich and a water. The sandwich is bery bery good-a. Ha. He asked me, “Do you want a refill on your iced tea?” How did he know I have an iced tea? But yeah, sure! “But how much is it?” I ask. “Is it free?” “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give it to you for fifty cents.” Seriously? A $3.47 drink for fifty cents?? You got it, man. “Gosh, thanks!” I say, and then proceed to tell him about the fun I am having watching people trying unsuccessfully to get out of the locked door. I am even nerdy enough to tell him the percentages I figure out. I am sooo cool. He laughs, and hands me his business card. Apparently, besides being a barista,he is a life coach. Interesting.
So I’m still sitting at the table, it’s 5:30pm and this little baby in a stroller comes in, pushed by his dad. The dad gets a drink, and then pulls the baby stroller over to the wall by me. I look up and smile at the kiddo, and he smiles back, a big, toothy grin. The dad looks to see who he is looking at, and sees me smiling at his son. The baby and I smile and wave at each other, and the dad wheels his son over to me. “Hello, sir!” I say to the baby. “What is your name?” The dad, of course, answers that his name is Andrew and it’s his birthday in a week. Andrew claps his hands in glee, and I clap too. “Happy birthday, sweetie!” He smiles and tries to take my computer cord, then lift my purse (even I can barely do that), and finally wants to make off with my drink. The dad moves his son out the reach of these items and then we smile and clap hands some more. They say goodbye and leave, Andrew smiling at me all the while. What a great day. Cute old guys, adorable almost-one-year-old babies, and making progress on my book.
What an entertaining afternoon at Starbucks this has been!

The Measure of A Man

I was on the 1 tonight, minding my own business, reading a book, excited to be able to climb into my big, comfy bed very soon. We come to a stop, the doors open with their familiar "ding-dong" and I am suddenly bowled over by an all-encompassing malodorous nostril assault. A hunched over, barely moving homeless man climbs aboard, and his presence has the effect of clearing out the train. People start covering their noses, walking away from him, going through the doors to the next train car, seemingly doing anything to get away from the smell. He was wearing probably every article of clothing that he owned; his jeans were caked with dirt, his shoes were full of holes and ratty. He had on four coats, a few button down shirts, and a hat. He stood for awhile, and then sat. The people next to him said, "Damn!" and practically ran away. Not that I blamed them. It was overpowering, that smell. I was sitting right across from him, but I could not move. I was physically unable. My eyes were tearing, but initially, it was from the smell. Then I looked at him sitting there, alone, his presence repelling everyone around him, and my heart couldn't take it. When was the last time he had been hugged? When was the last time anyone had looked in his eyes to say that they loved him, or that he did a good job, or that he was a treasured friend? When was the last time he had enjoyed the comfort of cozy bed, as I was about to? I sat there, just looking at him, almost weeping. I have no idea why he affected me so very strongly; I am ashamed to admit it, but I have felt recently almost inured to the homeless, I have seen so many on a daily basis. But I felt like God pointed this one out to me, and said to my heart, "Look at this man. I know his name, and I love him." And my heart filled with grief for what he must have experienced thus far, whether or not the consequences of his choices or simply what life had done to him. 116th stop came, and the doors opened. The man creakily got to his feet, moving as fast as he could toward the doors. His fast was very slow, and he almost didn't make it off of the train. The doors closed, and he was gone. But his scent lingered. What must it be like to know that wherever you go, people go in the opposite direction? How that must pierce his heart. I wanted to go up to him, wrap my arms around him, and say, "Sir, here is a clean pair of clothes, soap, a shower, an apartment, a job, mental health services, money for food, a transportation pass, and a girlfriend. Go, and be well." But I just sat there.
I wanted to do something, and felt paralyzed with indecision. What could I do? Should I have hugged him? I don't know. Should I have at least gone over and talked to him, to see how he was doing today? Probably. All I know is that there are millions like him in this city, and I so wish that something could be done to help. A lot of people say, "Oh, they've chosen it." I'm sure in some cases, that's true. And a lot of homeless deal with some pretty serious mental health issues, as well. But there has to be something that can be done to better the lives of these people. There just has to.
I was angry at myself for letting him get off without even reaching out to him; I still feel I should have done something. All I can do now is pray, which is probably the best thing anyway. God sees exactly where he is right now, and can speak to his heart words of comfort and strength, and hopefully, someday, this man will get the help he needs to make some steps forward.

Flights of Fancy

I spent the weekend at home, affording me lots of time for introspection. Getting out of Milwaukee was interesting; we were delayed for an hour due to weather issues, but at least we weren’t canceled. Once we got in the air, we went through the clouds that had been delivering the rain/snow mix and broke into a clearing just above. It was breathtaking. To my right was the rainbow-like sunset, ribbons of color painting the sky with their deep crimson-azure-ochre stain. To my left was the moon, shining in all its brilliance, with the stars just beginning to pop out behind it. Below me was a carpet of ripply clouds. It was truly beautiful, and somewhat worth the long delay just so I could be a part of the transition from day to night. As my mind went over the events of this weekend, I thought back to a few summers ago, when I was home for a week, just killing time until I went back to Minneapolis and started a new job. I was suddenly transported to my grassy perch on our lawn, and remembered, in startlingly vivid detail, something I had thought of then…
My favorite flower is the tulip. I have always loved it for its simplicity and quiet gracefulness; it is just there, brilliant in color, blooming silently, not showy like the peony or fresh and perky like the daisy, but quiet, refined, beautiful simply because it is being exactly what it was meant to be: a tulip. I was outside in my mother’s beautiful garden, just letting my soul be fed by the majesty of the flowers blooming around me. The lilac tree was gently sending forth an intoxicating fragrance, a perfect backdrop for a perfect day. As I sat on the sun-warmed grass, breathing deeply of the lilac-lawn potpourri, I gazed at the tulips before me. There were deep red flowers with black and yellow stripes outlining the stamens; there were soft, pink blooms, waving gently in the afternoon breeze. There were regal purple tulips; deep magenta flowers with ruffled edges, hybrids and new shoots and greenery all around. I was enrapt. One of my favorite things to do is to sit and contemplate things that have always been there, but are the simplest, and therefore usually the most overlooked, things. Like clouds. I will lie on my back for hours, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, wondering about how they are formed, how long they will last, where they will go. I think about how wonderful it would be to able to float on the clouds, and ride them wherever they went. Who would I see when I was up there? Could I bounce from cloud to cloud, or would I just stay on one and ride it until I could ride it no more?
Or trees. Often, when I am walking through the woods, I will stop to examine the leaves on a nearby tree. The veins that trace their paths on the backs of each are so perfect in their symmetry. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the liquid flowing down through the veins, gathering sunlight, and transforming the light into energy for itself. It is a beautiful symphony of nature, and if I am quiet and still enough, I can be a part of it, for just a moment. I hear the birds calling to one another; I see the verdant moss growing up the side of the tree, taking its nourishment from its bark, and giving its protection in return. I marvel at the symbiotic relationship that nature has, and praise God for His handiwork.
All of these things are in my mind as I idly dance my fingertips across the grass. It has just been cut, and its heady aroma mixes with the lilac in a pleasing way. My attention focuses on the tulips, and as I think about their genesis, I realize what a perfect allegory they are.
Tulips have to be planted in the fall, when everything is getting cold; the days getting shorter and the nights, longer. One cannot plant tulips too early, when the summer is waning, or too late, when snow is flying, or they will not bloom in the spring. Plant them too deeply, they will not get the proper amount of nutrients; too shallow and the squirrels will eat them. Although tulips are beautiful in their simplicity, they need to be taken care of, initially. Compost should be put around them to add nutrients to the soil; watch them to make sure that outdoor critters haven’t dug them up. And then the waiting, which for me was always the hardest part. I would want to plant tulips with my mom in the fall and then have them bloom right away. But I’d have to wait until spring. Snow would come and cover the ground above the tulip bulbs in inches of soft white insulation. The ground would freeze, and all would seem dead. If one didn’t know better, one might think that the tulips could never survive such harsh Wisconsin winters. Months and months of below-freezing temperatures; months and months of being buried in snow. What can live in such conditions? Finally, painstakingly, February comes. And then March, and with it, warmer temperatures and late snows that no longer last all the day. April brings the proverbial showers, washing away the stale winter and ushering in spring, a time of rebirth. We celebrate Easter in spring, and how appropriate that we do. Just as spring brings the little green shoots that push bravely out of the soil into the world and are born anew, so too did Christ experience rebirth when He rose from the cross. Spring is a time of rejoicing; we made it through the winter, hurrah! And then, softly, when it has been warm enough and wet enough for the right amount of days, you wake up one morning to find a little green growth over where your tulip bulb was. It is tiny, and fragile, and a late frost will kill it. But each day, it grows a little more, and then a little more, and then more still. One day, it is tall and strong, with a closed bud crowing its stalk. The sun comes out and the tulip slowly but deliberately turns its face towards the sun’s warmth, and suddenly, thoughtfully, it begins to open. It revels in its beauty, but not cockily or with pride, but with dignity, as though telling the world, “I am beautiful and I know it, but I was created to bring beauty to the people of the earth, that they may find joy when looking at me and enjoying my presence.” It offers itself as a gift, and expects nothing in return.
So too are human lives like tulips. Many people find themselves planted deeply in situations that seem out of their control; situations that feel like the death of an ideal and the lengthening of nights. They go through times when their hearts seem dead, as though in the chill of winter, buried under many feet of snow. They lie dormant, thinking their life is a waste. Then, as out of nowhere, spring comes. Their problems dissolve, or become more manageable. They begin to see the beauty and blessing of their situations, whatever they may be. They look back over what they’ve been through and see, with sudden recognition, that being planted deep with no escape meant a sharpening of character. The dead of winter was an incubation period where their souls and minds expanded to see the bigger picture. The snow, which once seemed so deep and insurmountable, melted to become streams of living water in their situations. And spring, the time of new life, was a birth of a wiser and more humble person. Just as the tulip overcomes many obstacles to bloom victoriously in spring, reaching, reaching ever higher for the sun, so too can people who come through their personal tragedies be stronger and better for them. How paradoxical that that which brings us so much grief and pain can also bring such strength and hope, but thankfully, it is true. The story of the tulip is the story of anyone who has ever been through something hard and seemingly endless, and has emerged, facing the sun, being warmed by its life-giving rays…
As the plane raced through the sky, I thought of the blessing of family and friends, and the beauty of nature. I had forgotten about these previous ruminations, but for some reason, they came back to me tonight. I am most blessed, and am thankful to God for His gentle reminders of this, every moment.

Burnout

I'm frustrated and tired. Today was hard. We have a test on cardiology, genitourinary/gastrointestinal, and diabetes in two days, and I can’t seem to motivate myself to study. It’s not like I know the material backwards and forwards; there is every reason why I need to study. And yet, nothing really seems compelling enough for me.
At clinical today, I was caring for an adorable little three-yr-old with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She had the biggest brown eyes, fringed with long eyelashes, eyes that told a story. What a spirit she had as well! Giving out fives wherever she went, she loved my stethoscope, and took it off of my neck to clean it and play with it. I had to listen to her lung sounds, and she was most cooperative, turning her back to greet me. Afterward, I told her she could listen to my heart, and she put on my stethoscope, putting the bell to my chest, and looking up at me and smiling. “Do you hear my heart?” I smiled at her. “Yeth”, she whispered/lisped back. “Am I alive?” “Yeth!” This little girl had been through so much, her family through so much, and yet she was still smiling and playing. I wish I could be like that, smiling and playing even when life is difficult.
Our preceptors today asked if we realized that we are going to be nurses in less than two months. That is a serious responsibility, and we need to know our stuff if we are not going to kill someone. One of them talked at us for a long time, telling us that we didn’t want to look like idiots if a doctor asked us for something and we didn’t know what it was. She said that she knows that they are pushing us hard, but we need to be ready. We don’t want to go home some night, unable to live with ourselves because of what happened at the hospital that day.
It was sobering, and a little over the top. We are all already so ready for a break. Fatigue comes in many forms, and we are quickly becoming familiar with all of them. We signed up for this, this is what we want to do, but sometimes the pressure gets to be too much. When I physically cannot make myself study for a test that I know I need to study for, I know something is wrong. I came home from clinical today and crawled right into bed, falling asleep and sleeping for two hours. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about integration starting in two weeks. I am terrified; most likely I will have to work nights, and I already know that my body, mind, and spirit really suck at handling night shift work. It is only for two months, but I am just flat-out scared.
I am sick of feeling like I am in the way at the hospital. I am there to learn, and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially the nurses who are already so busy. We are told to get in there and do stuff, but then told that we can’t or shouldn’t do stuff. It is difficult to convince myself to take vitals on a patient that has already had vitals taken two times that morning, simply because I have to report back that I did them. I feel caught in this netherworld of nursing; on the one hand, I want to get in there, learn all I can, and do the best I can for the patient. On the other, I see the look of frustration on the faces of the nurses when I ask yet another question or someone bumps into me when they are rushing around, desperate to get things done. And I don’t fault them for it; I always hated having a shadow at my old job; it made my day twice as long because I had to stop and explain everything. The nurses just straight up don’t have time for that, so often, I won’t even meet the nurse taking care of my patient until the morning is halfway over. I’m just sick of feeling unknowledgable, like my hands are tied. I go in, introduce myself to a family, and they ask me something about the patient, what were her lab results? Why is she going to the OR yet again? I can’t log myself into the system, and everyone is too busy for me to ask, so I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to read her charts yet. I want to be able to give this grandma an answer, tears are welling in her eyes as she strokes her granddaughter’s hand. “She just bin through so durn much. And thez doctors, they jes using her as a guinea pig. I know it. Thez jes stickin her and stickin her cuz they want to use her.” What this woman must have gone through thus far to make her feel this way. But I have nothing to say, other than that I will get her nurse for her and have her come and fill her in on the plan for the day. All I can offer her is a cup of water, but she turns it down. What good am I to her? Her granddaughter is lying in bed, sedated from pain meds, missing her senior year of high school because of her leukemia, and I offer her water. I can’t give her the information she needs, and I see the helplessness in her eyes. It strikes at my heart, but there is nothing I can do.
Maybe today was just a rough day, maybe I am just burned out, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t lose focus, I need to stay focused. I went to Starbucks when it opened this morning, getting a large cup of coffee and just sitting there, letting the steam warm my face. I have never felt like this before; like a sled dog, getting ready to run the Iditarod, but constantly being held back. I am straining at the harness, anxious to start the race. And yet, paradoxically, I am tired and overwhelmed. I still haven’t found out my integration placement, and I am anxious to get planning for that. So many little things to do and get ready for and I can’t seem to muster the strength to do any of it.