Monday. Again. Mondays are pretty nearly unbearable. Well, maybe I am exaggerating somewhat, but not much. We have class for 11 hours. Yes. You read me right. 11 hours. That is a long time to have information thrown at you. Well, by the end of the day, we are pretty much done for, and we still have four hours of pharmacology to look forward to. Pharmacology, the class that makes watching paint dry seem thrilling. The class that practically requires you to have a prescription to get an upper just to get through it. It isn’t our teachers’ faults, it’s the subject matter's fault. Really, I don’t know any way one could spice up what is really just a glorified version of reading of the boxes in your local drugstore medicine aisle. Okay, I’m exaggerating again, but honestly. This stuff is dry. Dry as a piece of toast dry. Dry as the dessert in a drought dry. Dry. So, of course, my girls and I do what we can to spice it up. For me, this state of mental fatigue is pretty much akin to how I’d be on one or two glasses of wine (for anyone who knows me well, they know that that makes for a pretty inebriated Stef). So, put that, along with a group of good girlfriends who make one another chuckle, add in a little inability-to-stop-laughing-itis, and you’ve got the ingredients for a pretty crazy time. Crazy in an understated way, mind you. The thing about all this that is really galling is that we need to know this info. These are drugs we will be prescribing for our patients in a few years, so it is imperative that we have this stuff straight. But it is just so HARD to sit through four hours with two ten minute breaks of monotonous drug talks that it makes you want to tear your hair out! Really, I’m surprised I haven’t been entirely reduced to a dazed, lazy-eyed, drooling mess by the end of class. These past two weeks have really been something else, too. Last week was the cardio drugs lecture, a lecture presented in powerpoint slides, three on an 8.5” x11”, double-sided, making a stack of papers that would make War and Peace blush with embarrassment, or whimper for mercy. Last week was mind-numbing enough, but this week…whoa. This week made last week seem like a night at the comedy club. This week was Osteoarthritis, Pain Management, Rheumatoid Arthritis, and GI stuff. Gig and I almost waved white flags for mercy, and we were only a quarter of the way through. But, like I said, the way I cope with and respond to stress is humor. Laughing. Making up songs and funny poems to get me through. That’s just how my mind works. Well, tonight, Gig and I came up with some doozies that had us laughing into our hands, turning red, and hoping the teach didn’t see us.
When we got to talking about arthritis, there was a lot of discussion on how it affected “weight-bearing joints”. Meaning, knees and such. Well, my mind was already so far gone that the only thing in my head was a picture of marijuana, a “joint”, with some barbells on it. A weight-bearing joint. I was picturing this marijuana going to the gym, working out, strutting around, showing the ladies its sleek new physique. I was clearly losing it. Then we talk about headaches. Our teach asks us what some abortive therapies for headaches are? Well, since I was working on a pretty good one right about then, the options of 1)leave class, 2)craniotomy and/or thoracotomy, and 3)sharp stick in the eye, seemed like pretty good ideas. Moving on to gastrointestinal issues, fondly known as GI stuff. I sat there thinking, “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of GI Joe there was a whole series dedicated to the heroics of our gastrointestinal tracts? Like, a picture of an intestine wearing army fatigues, absorbing fluid and nutrients and just generally being a good guy. GI Smooth M (as in smooth muscle)!” Okay. Yes. I am such a nerd. Gig and I started writing songs, set to old tunes:
Based on “Shoop” by SaltnPepa
Here I go here I go here I go again Girls what’s my weakness? Dyspepsia! Okay then.
And more from “Shoop”:
On your mark get set go, let me go, let me shoop, to the next pill in the proton pump suit.
From “What a Man”, I can’t remember who sang this, maybe SaltnPepa again?:
What a duodenum what a duodenum what a mighty mighty duodenum…I wanna take a minute to and give much respect to to the bowel that made a difference in my digestion…
Based on Warren G’s “REGULATORS”:
Proton Pump regulators!!!! Mauna. It was a smooth pink esophagus, an acid-filled belly, Warren G was in the antrum, trying to consume, some acid for his G’s, so I could get some relief, Rollin’ in the juices, just chillin’ all alone…Just hit the PPI on the parietal cells on a mission tryna stop Mr. Acid G, seeing a stomach full of acid ain’t no need to squeak all you docs know what’s up with PPI
Stupid. I know. Our teacher had the tendency to keep saying “caveat” when she was talking about the exceptions to something with the drugs. I began to notice the people around me giggling whenever she said this, and thought that perhaps they were envisioning making a drinking game out of it. She must have said ‘caveat’ fifty times.
Anyway, thank the good Lord that Monday is done. Phew. Now just have to memorize all this business for the test next week…oh yeah. And for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Observations While Studying
My life has funneled down into a vortex of studying, going to class, and sleeping. It will be over soon (the over-abundant studying) but one thing I'll say for it: we've met some really strange/interesting people while doing so. The past few days we've been camped out at Barnes and Nobles; here's a snapshot of some of the strange people who have walked up to us or just started talking to us.
The Un-Encouraging Nurse from Sloane-Kettering
We were sitting at our two tables, quizzing each other aloud with NCLEX questions, and a late-thirties pregnant lady comes and sits at the table next to us. I didn't really take notice of her, except saw that she was super skinny and was reading a book on how to be naturally thin. The thought flashed through my mind, "Maybe she's anorexic" but then noticed the baby bump. Anyway, so we kept quizzing and I saw her keep shooting glances our way, and finally she interrupted and asked us what we were studying for. We told her, and she proceeded to tell us that she was a nurse at Sloane and she had been interviewing a lot of new nurses for positions, but they just weren't hiring. We told her that we were in the NP program at Columbia, and she told us she had graduated from NYU and then talked at us for literally a good twenty minutes straight about how we "must, absolutely must" get bedside nursing jobs before becoming NPs because they wouldn't even look at NPs who didn't have that requisite experience, etc. etc. She told us that no one was hiring and it was very hard right now (duh, we know) and then continued to elaborate upon her doom and gloom theme. G was getting seriously pissed, and we listened politely to her but tried to wrap it up as soon as was politely possible. It was seriously discouraging, and she assumed a lot of things about us and our experience level thus far, telling us that clinical time wasn't enough, we needed hospital time. I am choosing to believe that she extended her unsolicited advice out of the goodness of her heart, but if I was being completely objective, her tone and mannerisms seemed to have an undertone of an attitude I have noticed a lot out here. When we tell nurses that we are going to be NPs and have done the accelerated nursing program, there is usually an "oh" followed by a "well, you need experience otherwise you are going to suck and don't know anything" in not so many words, but implied. It seems that nurses who have been nurses for awhile rather resent us for what we are doing. Understandable, I guess. Unfortunate, but understandable. I have gotten to the point where if I am talking to a nurse, I don't even tell her I am going to be an NP. I don't want to deal with the attitude.
The Retired Plastic Surgeon Who Told Us What We Knew
We were reviewing the endocrine portion of the questions and had gotten to something called Hemoglobin A1C which you take in diabetics to tell how well, long term, they have been controlling their blood sugar. This is a point that had been driven home to us all year, and we were just discussing it, when this short, cute, old man came up to us and said, with no preamble, "A1C is by far the best indicator of blood sugar control..." and then went off about it for a few minutes. They say your true character comes out when you are stressed or tired, and as I was both, I'm not sure I like what my internal reaction to him tells about me. I was irritated. I was like,inside, "Look. WE KNOW. We have been studying forever and are going crazy and we don't need to waste time humoring someone who wants to tell us all about something that we know better than our own names. Please, for the love, just leave us alone!" But I got over it, and realized I was being a huge meany, and prayed for a better attitude. We chatted with a bit and he told us what he did, and then told us that we were entering a noble profession and that we were very needed. He turned out to be very sweet and encouraging, and was a nice change from the Sloane dispenser of Doom the day before.
The Old Lady Who Quizzed Us
Later on that same day, we were still quizzing, and I noticed, behind Allie, a strange-looking old lady who was practically hanging over her shoulder, listening to her asking us questions. It wasn't subtle and it wasn't an isolated event; she practically had her ear next to Allie's mouth, and was looking at me, and then was rocking back and forth and looking at Gig. It was very bizarre. She was listening to us for a long time, but I studiously avoided making eye-contact. It was getting really out of control, and suddenly, she pipes up from behind Allie, just butting into conversation, "You are a nurse at a nursing home. One of your elderly clients comes up to you and says, "My testicles, my testicles, I lost my testicles! I had them this morning, put them down next to the sink, and lost them! Where are my testicles?" What was he really talking about having lost?" We were all much taken aback, needless to say, but answered, "Um, his spectacles?" "Yes!" she says, and we ask her if she is a nurse (like we couldn't tell) and she said she used to be. She had the look of being a long-term psych nurse. I'm sorry to stereotype so shamelessly, but you really can tell the nurses who have worked in a psych unit for their career. On a side note, I don't think my friend Liz will be like that, though. She's a peach! Anyway, she continued to listen to us, almost on Allie's back, until we ran out of steam. Gig murmurs under her breath a sentiment I'm pretty sure we all shared, "I'm SO OVER people right now!" Amen, sister.
The Artist Who Tooted His Own Horn
I was at Starbs yesterday, trying futilely to connect to the internet, and asked the man next to me, who had tried already to strike up a convo with me, if he was connected. He was, and then proceeded to ask me what I did...he guessed writer. I said, no, nursing, and he told me about his recent foot surgery and gall bladder removal and how he wasn't listening to the doctor and resting. We talked shop for a bit, then he told me all about a van he's painting for MTV with his art. He turns around and shows me the back of his sweatshirt "See? This is my stuff!" It looked like graffiti art. Cool, but not really my thing. He then tells me all about how famous he is and how his art is in all the major museums in the world, etc. etc. He seemed quite proud of his accomplishments. I listened, but I thought that there was a fifty/fifty chance he was completely full of crap. We talked, or rather, he told me of his accomplishments, for at least a half-hour and then I started pack up, while still listening to him. I had to get work done, and it sure as heck wasn't going to happen here,apparently. At one point, he told me how there were demons in this world (which I agree with) and how he got in a fight with a possessed guy and beat the crap out of him (this he tells me with a puffed out chest). Cute. Anyway, I too have had my fill of people for awhile. I pray that God would make me internally kinder to those people out there who I just don't understand, but for now, I think I'm content to stay in my cozy apartment and lose myself in an Agatha Christie.
There certainly are many many interesting characters in this world, and I usually greatly enjoy meeting them, but I am too burned out right now to even make the effort.
And as I write this, a lady with unfortunate bright blue eyeshadow, which matches her J Crew shirt, walks in and sits by me. Oh no. Please, Lord, no.
The Un-Encouraging Nurse from Sloane-Kettering
We were sitting at our two tables, quizzing each other aloud with NCLEX questions, and a late-thirties pregnant lady comes and sits at the table next to us. I didn't really take notice of her, except saw that she was super skinny and was reading a book on how to be naturally thin. The thought flashed through my mind, "Maybe she's anorexic" but then noticed the baby bump. Anyway, so we kept quizzing and I saw her keep shooting glances our way, and finally she interrupted and asked us what we were studying for. We told her, and she proceeded to tell us that she was a nurse at Sloane and she had been interviewing a lot of new nurses for positions, but they just weren't hiring. We told her that we were in the NP program at Columbia, and she told us she had graduated from NYU and then talked at us for literally a good twenty minutes straight about how we "must, absolutely must" get bedside nursing jobs before becoming NPs because they wouldn't even look at NPs who didn't have that requisite experience, etc. etc. She told us that no one was hiring and it was very hard right now (duh, we know) and then continued to elaborate upon her doom and gloom theme. G was getting seriously pissed, and we listened politely to her but tried to wrap it up as soon as was politely possible. It was seriously discouraging, and she assumed a lot of things about us and our experience level thus far, telling us that clinical time wasn't enough, we needed hospital time. I am choosing to believe that she extended her unsolicited advice out of the goodness of her heart, but if I was being completely objective, her tone and mannerisms seemed to have an undertone of an attitude I have noticed a lot out here. When we tell nurses that we are going to be NPs and have done the accelerated nursing program, there is usually an "oh" followed by a "well, you need experience otherwise you are going to suck and don't know anything" in not so many words, but implied. It seems that nurses who have been nurses for awhile rather resent us for what we are doing. Understandable, I guess. Unfortunate, but understandable. I have gotten to the point where if I am talking to a nurse, I don't even tell her I am going to be an NP. I don't want to deal with the attitude.
The Retired Plastic Surgeon Who Told Us What We Knew
We were reviewing the endocrine portion of the questions and had gotten to something called Hemoglobin A1C which you take in diabetics to tell how well, long term, they have been controlling their blood sugar. This is a point that had been driven home to us all year, and we were just discussing it, when this short, cute, old man came up to us and said, with no preamble, "A1C is by far the best indicator of blood sugar control..." and then went off about it for a few minutes. They say your true character comes out when you are stressed or tired, and as I was both, I'm not sure I like what my internal reaction to him tells about me. I was irritated. I was like,inside, "Look. WE KNOW. We have been studying forever and are going crazy and we don't need to waste time humoring someone who wants to tell us all about something that we know better than our own names. Please, for the love, just leave us alone!" But I got over it, and realized I was being a huge meany, and prayed for a better attitude. We chatted with a bit and he told us what he did, and then told us that we were entering a noble profession and that we were very needed. He turned out to be very sweet and encouraging, and was a nice change from the Sloane dispenser of Doom the day before.
The Old Lady Who Quizzed Us
Later on that same day, we were still quizzing, and I noticed, behind Allie, a strange-looking old lady who was practically hanging over her shoulder, listening to her asking us questions. It wasn't subtle and it wasn't an isolated event; she practically had her ear next to Allie's mouth, and was looking at me, and then was rocking back and forth and looking at Gig. It was very bizarre. She was listening to us for a long time, but I studiously avoided making eye-contact. It was getting really out of control, and suddenly, she pipes up from behind Allie, just butting into conversation, "You are a nurse at a nursing home. One of your elderly clients comes up to you and says, "My testicles, my testicles, I lost my testicles! I had them this morning, put them down next to the sink, and lost them! Where are my testicles?" What was he really talking about having lost?" We were all much taken aback, needless to say, but answered, "Um, his spectacles?" "Yes!" she says, and we ask her if she is a nurse (like we couldn't tell) and she said she used to be. She had the look of being a long-term psych nurse. I'm sorry to stereotype so shamelessly, but you really can tell the nurses who have worked in a psych unit for their career. On a side note, I don't think my friend Liz will be like that, though. She's a peach! Anyway, she continued to listen to us, almost on Allie's back, until we ran out of steam. Gig murmurs under her breath a sentiment I'm pretty sure we all shared, "I'm SO OVER people right now!" Amen, sister.
The Artist Who Tooted His Own Horn
I was at Starbs yesterday, trying futilely to connect to the internet, and asked the man next to me, who had tried already to strike up a convo with me, if he was connected. He was, and then proceeded to ask me what I did...he guessed writer. I said, no, nursing, and he told me about his recent foot surgery and gall bladder removal and how he wasn't listening to the doctor and resting. We talked shop for a bit, then he told me all about a van he's painting for MTV with his art. He turns around and shows me the back of his sweatshirt "See? This is my stuff!" It looked like graffiti art. Cool, but not really my thing. He then tells me all about how famous he is and how his art is in all the major museums in the world, etc. etc. He seemed quite proud of his accomplishments. I listened, but I thought that there was a fifty/fifty chance he was completely full of crap. We talked, or rather, he told me of his accomplishments, for at least a half-hour and then I started pack up, while still listening to him. I had to get work done, and it sure as heck wasn't going to happen here,apparently. At one point, he told me how there were demons in this world (which I agree with) and how he got in a fight with a possessed guy and beat the crap out of him (this he tells me with a puffed out chest). Cute. Anyway, I too have had my fill of people for awhile. I pray that God would make me internally kinder to those people out there who I just don't understand, but for now, I think I'm content to stay in my cozy apartment and lose myself in an Agatha Christie.
There certainly are many many interesting characters in this world, and I usually greatly enjoy meeting them, but I am too burned out right now to even make the effort.
And as I write this, a lady with unfortunate bright blue eyeshadow, which matches her J Crew shirt, walks in and sits by me. Oh no. Please, Lord, no.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Passover
“Now on the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Where will you have us prepare for you to eat the Passover?’ He said, ‘Go into the city to a certain man and say to him, “The Teacher says, My time is at hand. I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.”’And the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover.” –Matt. 26:17-19
I got to experience my first Seder last night, at the home of the aunt and uncle of a dear friend, and it was truly amazing. I’ve always wanted to celebrate with a real Jewish family; see the traditions and rituals that Jesus most likely would have partaken of. As a Christian, these next few days are very solemn and heavy for me, and cause me to do a lot introspection and thanksgiving to Christ for what He did. I want to know all aspects of God’s character, and He was a Jew. Anyway, it was such a privilege for me to be invited to partake in the Seder. Allie’s family is so wonderful, and prepared quite the feast for us.
The evening started with the Kiddush: “Blessed are You, L-rd, our G-d, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine. Blessed are You, G-d, our G-d, King of the universe, who has chosen us from among all people, and raised us above all tongues, and made us holy through His commandments. And You, G-d, our G-d, have given us in love.”
This is said in Hebrew, though, and when I closed my eyes, I could hear the voices of God’s people since the beginning reciting these holy words. I got goosebumps. As we went through the Haggadah, the book of Passover, we remembered the plagues that God sent on the Egyptians when Pharoah would not let the Israelites go. We dipped our pinky fingers into the wine after saying each plague, and placed one drop on our plates, for a total of ten. This was in commemoration of the tears shed by all, even the innocent Egyptians who suffered the plagues as well.
When Allie’s uncle lifted the unleavened bread and broke it, and lifted the cup of wine and blessed it, I almost started crying. This is something that we have done every Sunday since I can remember, at church. For us it is called Communion, and is in remembrance of the Last Supper, which Jesus ate with His disciples before He was betrayed in the Garden of Gethsemane. When I saw this, and that this was something Jews have been doing since the first Passover, I realized anew how intricately my faith is woven with that of the Jews. Of course, I’ve always known Jesus was a Jew, that goes without saying. But to see the beautiful ceremony of remembrance and thanks to God that Jesus partook of, in living color, here in front of me, well, it absolutely overwhelmed my heart with joy and solemnity. I can’t really put it into words, but I’ll try. It was like I was transported back in time, briefly, and saw with my own eyes the bread and the wine that Jesus broke for His friends. They thought they were going to just a normal Seder, but He knew it was so much more than that. In church last week, the pastor said that at the Last Supper, there was no lamb on the table, as is tradition, because the Lamb, the Passover Lamb, the sacrifice, the blood that would cover the lintels of the doors of His people and save them from death, was AT the table. Jesus is called the Lamb of God, and this took on a whole new significance for me last night.
I felt like I was a part of something so much bigger than me, and all of the thoughts and stirrings of my heart stilled, and I was there, worshipping the Creator of the universe, blessed be He. I wish I could adequately put into words exactly what it was like for me, but I don’t think I can. To say it was moving or powerful wouldn’t be going nearly far enough.
At one point, we remembered Allie’s grandmother Mira, who lost her entire family in the Holocaust, and survived concentration camps herself. She met the infamous Dr. Mengele, and as we read a remembrance her husband had written for the family years ago, I was tingling all over. Things that had only just been periphery to me were crashing down upon me with weighty significance. Allie is one of my dearest friends; I love her so much. And as I heard the story of her grandmother, the agonies she suffered, how she overcame them and still praised God, I praised God along with them that I was able to be apart of this beautiful remembrance. Allie told me later that her grandmother was saved twice, both times by a Christian. Wow.
Today, tomorrow, and Sunday might possibly be my three favorite days of the year. What Jesus did on the cross for us is the most glorious and most horrific thing done in the history of life. Glorious, because He did what no one else could do; He reconciled us to God. Horrific, because of the agonies and disgraces, the sheer horror of what He suffered. I have watched “Passion of the Christ” exactly once. I couldn’t watch what was being done to Him, Him Who is my heart of hearts, more than that. It absolutely slays me, and I have to spend many hours in prayer and solitude afterward, just to regain some emotional stability. But these next few days carry an incredible, momentous weight for me, and I can’t wait to celebrate the Resurrection with friends on Sunday.
Going to Passover last night with such a wonderful, loving family was such a great gift to me. I woke up this morning with my heart just singing to God, and remembering again how incredibly blessed I am.
On a side note: yesterday was also something called “The Commencement of the 206th Solar Revolution”. From what a friend told me: “The sun has a cycle in which every twenty-eight years it returns back to the position in which it was originally suspended on the first Tuesday night of Creation. Celebrating this phenomenon, Jews throughout the world arise the next morning (Wednesday) and gather together. Seeing the sun, they recite the beracha “Oseh ma’asek beresheet”. Apparently the sun has only been in this position, on Ereb Pesah (first night of Passover) only three times in history. Once, before the first Passover, when the Jews left Egypt. The second time, when Esther saved the Jews from the evil Haman. And third, yesterday.
The prayer they pray in the morning of this event is called “The Blessing of the Sun”:
Blessed are You, Adonai,
Our God,
King of the Universe
Who performs the work of Creation.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, March 9, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
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.
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.
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