scars

What does one post when she knows not what to post? Me, I write about how accident prone I am and how many scars I have.

First I should say that I have a tendency to form keloid scars so even minor injuries sometimes leave me with permanent scars. I am going to try to name my scars one by one from head to toe but I am certain I will miss a few.

On my scalp, I am sure there is a scar where I busted my head open on Marcey’s trampoline. We were playing break the egg and I was the egg. Marcey bounced me so high up in the air that I flew backwards and my head hit the pipe edge of the trampoline frame. Her Aunt Mary Lou poured alcohol on it and I splashed her with water from the sink.

On my left ear lobe, I have a scar where my brother pushed me into the corner of our livingroom table when I was very young. Of note, my brother also has a scar on his left ear where he was snagged by a straight pin that was stuck in the wall at our day care. I think it was God smiting him for pushing me into the livingroom table.

On my left shoulder, I have a half moon shaped scar from sitting up in the bathtub and ramming my shoulder into the faucet on accident. Tell me, how can one be so accident prone that they even get hurt just sitting up in the tub?

In the bend of my left arm, I have a circular scar where I snagged my arm on a piece of wire on the fence to our dog run when I was in junior high. For a very long time, blood couldn’t be taken from that arm because the scar was right over the vein. As I have grown, the scar has stretched over toward my elbow and the vein is once again in clear view.

On the back of my right hand, there is a very small scar. I have no idea how I got that one.

On my mid-back, just over my spine, I have a long scar where I impaled myself with a piece of wire while ducking under the door to the very large cage where we kept pet ducks when I was about ten years old. My mother had to dig the wire out from under my skin with tweezers.

Just above my bellybutton, I have a long horizontal scar from running a rope through my belt loops and pretending to rapel down a mountain at the local park. The rope slid through my belt loops and across my belly and left a nice rope burn.

Also above my bellybutton is a scar from my premid-life crisis on my 29th birthday when I got my bellybutton pierced. I liked the belly button jewelry but had to take it out when I started forming a keloid scar.

On my left inner thigh, I have a very long, puffy and ugly scar where my leg was gashed open by an upholstery staple when my brother and I were playing cowboys at my aunt’s mountain cabin. I jumped on the barstool in a leapfrog fashion and the upholstery staple caught my leg. I had many stitches. I was five years old when I got that one.

On my right knee, there is a scar where I had stitches after having a wreck on a motorbike.

On my left lower leg, there is a vertical scar also from the motorbike accident. I also have soft tissue injury to that leg and it is agonizing to bump it against anything. Thus I guard my right leg against all possible injury.

On the top of my right foot there is a small scar and I have no idea how I got it. Knowing how badly I scar, it was probably no more than a paper cut.

On the bottom of my left foot, in the middle of the instep where it is most tender, I have a scar from stepping on a big piece of glass and having to go to the ER and receive stitches. What’s most memorable about that injury is that my brother was so nice to me when it happened. He sat with me on the side of the bathtub and tried to stop the bleeding and make it feel better.

Okay. I admit it is boring reading and not good for much. But I am tired. I have been caring for a sick child, planning a birthday party, cleaning house and doing laundry all day. Gimme a break every now and then, will ya?

Happy Birthday, Crash

Happy 5th Birthday, Crash!

The time has flown! It seems that Crash wasn’t a baby for nearly as long as his older brother. I remember trying to imagine loving another child as much as I loved Bump. I actually worried that my heart wasn’t big enough for that much love. Boy, was I wrong. This little guy has made my life happier every day since he was born. That little smile melts my heart and his husky voice and softspoken manner are my undoing. I have the hardest time disciplining this child because he is just so darn cute and so loving and generous with his hugs and kisses — but only for me, his mama.

Poor little Crash is spending his birthday home sick from school with a viral rash all over his torso and face and a sinus infection. But my mom bought the new Wallace and Grommit movie for him to watch tomorrow and I will make him special cupcakes and a special lunch and we will make the day a celebration. He will have unlimited video game time and cartoon watching time. He will also get all of the mommy love he wants.

My baby. He is five. I am so proud of him.

Diane Sieg

Hello dearies. I am back. Did you miss me? My, but I have missed you.

Whew! *wipes sweat from brow* Oy, what a busy few days it has been!

This weekend was our hospital’s women’s heart event. February is National Heart Month which means I am always very busy, seeing how I am a cardiac nurse and all. There is an unbelievable amount of preparation that goes into any public event and the heart event happens to be the largest event we hold every year. And can I just take a moment to tell you that my feet still hurt from running around all day yesterday?

Friday, several of my colleagues and I had the privelege of having a delicious dinner with Diane Sieg. Diane was our keynote speaker for this year’s event. Brenda and I had the happy experience of meeting her and hearing her speak at one of our events two years ago. She is a phenomenal speaker. I highly recommend her to anyone needing a motivational speaker for any event.

Our dinner was . . . I guess lively might be the word I am looking for. Six vivacious and witty women who enjoy each other’s company immensely makes for some interesting dinner conversation. It turned into quite a long dinner for that very reason. We were just having a good time. It is nice to do that sometimes.

The event on Saturday went smoothly. We were sold out for the lunch and Diane’s message. Two years ago, her topic was “Stop Living Life Like An Emergency!” which is also the name of her book. This year, she spoke about women who have, figuratively speaking, lost their voice. Many were struck by the truth of her message. Women lose their voice in their marriage, in their jobs, and in their lives in general. One example Diane used was when a woman orders a salad with dressing on the side and doesn’t send it back when it comes to the table with dressing poured on top. Women so often sacrifice our wants and needs to make a situation more comfortable for everyone else. We have all done it at one time or another. For many women, it is a chronic condition. I found myself wishing that all of my friends could hear Diane’s message. I specifically asked her when she might record the message so I can buy it and play it for several friends.

As I drove home from the event, I mulled over Diane’s message in my head. I thought specifically of women who blog. It occured to me that many of us blog because this is where we have found our voice. Some would argue that I never have a problem finding my voice as I am quite outspoken. But this blog is truly where I have found an outlet for my thoughts and feelings as I feel my way through this life.

This is where I write about my fears that I am parenting by ear and on any given day might screw up monumentally and drive my children into therapy. This is where I write my sorrows and anxieties. In real life, I come across as a very confident and capable person. Here, on my blog, I can admit that some days I am really just faking everyone out and that I doubt my talents, abilities and self-worth just like any other woman. This is where I write some of my most tender feelings for my spouse and children and yet still feel free to complain when the same spouse and children make me insane. This is where I can connect with old friends and make new ones. This is where I write of childhood memories and hopes for the future.

This blog is my voice.

Sick Bed

My little guy, Crash, is sick. He is running fever, he is congested and his eyes get that glazed look every time his temp spikes. I spent the day cuddling him, letting him eat pancakes for lunch, and allowing him unlimited video game time. When I went out to buy him more medicine this evening, I also bought him a box of popsicles (green because that is his favorite color), a Hot Wheels coloring book, and new crayons. I did that because I remember my mother always coming home from the drug store with a new coloring book and popsicles when I was sick as a little girl. And believe me, I was sick a lot.

When I was a pre-teen/teenager, I was admitted to the hospital every year for asthma. I had status asthmaticus when I was eleven and nearly died. But the time I’ve been thinking about today was when I was about thirteen. I know I must have been thirteen because I had my own room and I don’t think I had my own room until I was thirteen. I digress.

When I was thirteen, I was once again admitted to the hospital. I was usually in the hospital because I needed a theophylline drip or oxygen. I remember being in an oxygen tent once but the other times I only remember oxygen masks or nasal cannulas. It is all fuzzy to me as I was always admitted when I was very low on oxygen and, naturally, one doesn’t remember things that happen while hypoxic. I digress again.

What I really want to say is that I remember coming home to my bedroom after that particular hospital stay. My mother had made curtains and a dust ruffle out of a pink bandana print fabric and had sewn lace around a pink bedspread. She wasn’t quite finished decorating my room when I was admitted to the hospital. But I remember the day I came home and she came in my room with a hammer and nails and hung several prints on my wall. She looked at me when she was done and said, “Now you will have something pretty to look at while you are getting well.”

That’s all. That’s what I remember the most. I remember how touched I was that she wanted to make my room pretty while I was recuperating. But I don’t know if I ever thanked her for it. So, I am thanking her now.

Thanks Mom. I love you.

Proctor

Tomorrow morning, I have to go to work and proctor a Basic Arrhythmia test for a group of nurses who are taking a critical care course in order to become ICU and CCU nurses. Really, all I have to do is sit there and take all of the tests to the nurse educator when everyone is finished.

It struck me, though, that I am going to be proctoring a test that I took seven years ago. I didn’t really sweat it too much because I have always been a whiz kid with heart rhythms, but it was considered to be one of the most difficult tests in our critical care course. I studied rhythm strips until I was seeing atrial fibrillation in my dreams.

And now I have enough experience and knowledge under my belt that I could probably teach the arrhythmia course. As a matter of fact, as one of only a couple of electrophysiology nurses at our hospital, I am regarded to be an expert on the topic. A few weeks ago, I was walking down the hall on our telemetry unit and happened upon a young nurse trying to explain sick sinus syndrome to a family. When I walked past, the young nurse sighed, “Thank God! Heather, will you please explain it to these people?” The nurse sat and listened as intently as the family members did. And then I gave the family directions to a great mexican food restaurant. I felt it was far more impressive that I knew where to eat good food than it was that I could talk about arrhythmias but that is neither here nor there.

I don’t say any of these things to brag. The most dangerous nurse is one who thinks she has nothing to learn. I learn new things every day and actively seek out the latest evidence-based guidelines for patient care.

Instead, I say these things because it seems so unreal to me that I am an authority on anything. In my heart, I still feel like the twenty-four year old nurse who walked into the ICU feeling intimidated and impressed by the critical care nursing gods and goddesses who walked about the unit. They were all so smart and intuitive! Would I ever be so smart and confident?

The answer was, yes, I would be smart and confident. I would develop a nurse’s intuition. I can still look at a patient who, to all outward appearances, appears to be stable and say, “I don’t have a good feeling about this one” and not be surprised at all when they code an hour later. I don’t know how I know. Ask any nurse and they will tell you the same thing. Sometimes you just know.

It just feels crazy, utterly crazy, that I will sit in front of a room tomorrow adminstering a test to new nurses who want to excel in critical care. It feels even crazier to have a nurse stop me in the hall and ask me to explain an arrhythmia. It feels crazy to have hospital employees knock on my office door and hand me a blood pressure or EKG strip and say, “What do you think of this?” Why is it crazy? It just is! I know that I have tucked a lot of knowledge and experience into my brain. I know I am good at what I do. I know that I know more about heart rhythms than many doctors. Cardiac is what I do. It is what I am good at. But still.

It’s crazy. It just is. I must be getting old.

Forts

There’s a reason my house is never clean. Two very good reasons. Their names are Crash and Bump.

See this pillow fort? Ten minutes before these pillows were transformed into a fort, I spent half an hour straightening up the front room, vacuuming the floor, and arranging the couch cushions just so. Then, I walked in and found it was all for naught. The sad thing? I couldn’t even get mad because the boys were having so much fun playing in it.

I remember my mom letting us build forts with a sheet draped over the couch and the coffee table. I almost told my boys it would be better with a sheet because then the light filters through the fabric and makes everything look soft and ethereal. I remember waving my hand slowly through the air in front of my face while beneath a fort made of sheets. The filtered light was just so pretty.

I’ve always liked to hide away in sunny but private places. When I was in junior high, my dad lived in a town house that had windows with very wide window sills. I liked to crawl into the window sill with a book, pull the curtains closed, and read all afternoon. Dad had a huge bookshelf full of books so I always found something to read. My most favorite of all his books was one by Erma Bombeck. Even as a kid, I completely understood her writing. It was hysterically funny to me despite the fact that she usually wrote about being a housewife and I was only an eleven or twelve year old child. My dad also loved Steven King and I remember reading a book full of short stories in that window sill. One of the stories was “Secret Window, Secret Garden” and it scared me far more than the stories about monsters or murderers. When I realized that the person terrorizing the main character was himself? Well, let’s just say I had nightmares after reading that story. It was the first time I realized that there is nothing scarier than real life.

I don’t build sheet forts or crawl into window sills anymore. I don’t have a hideaway where I can go when I just need to sit and dream. I am usually far too busy with the business of raising a family to even miss those peaceful, quiet retreats.

But this morning, after the kids were chauffeured to school and the husband was shuffled off to work, I sat in my sunny bedroom and read a few chapters of one of my favorite books. On a whim, I stacked pillows all around me and threw the sheet over them for a makeshift fort. I crawled in and looked around. The light seemed softer and kinder and I sensed that, if I looked into a mirror, the subtle age lines in my face would be softened. I waved my hand slowly in front of my face and it didn’t look like the chapped hand of a woman whose hands are constantly in motion whether it be chopping vegetables, washing dishes, typing letters or soothing a crying child with a caress or pat on the back. Instead, it looked like the hand of a young girl whose hands were often idle as she sat and listened to music or read books or simply sat in her bedroom gossiping with girl friends.

It seems to me that the world appears kinder when viewed through a softening veil. Differences seem more subtle. Difficulties seem more bearable. Challenges seem more exciting. Love feels more secure. Happy endings seem more attainable.

Sometimes, we need to view the world through a softening veil, through a fort made of sheets, through the eyes of a child.

Things that make me happy

Many years ago, I was a prolific journal keeper. I wrote in it faithfully every day and found there was never a day when I didn’t have a million thoughts in my head just waiting to jump onto the paper. I still have one huge journal that I kept during a particularly rough period in my life. It isn’t just writing. I also have photos and pictures I drew. I have letters I wrote during that time period. I also sculpted clay during that time but have lost all of the figures I once kept sitting on my dresser. I liked to look at them because they never came out looking the way I envisioned them in the beginning and yet they were a perfect representation of what I was feeling.

I’ve been thinking today about one particular journal entry entitled Things That Make Me Happy. I remember the list was very long. It went all the way down the left hand side of the notebook paper and then wrapped into the right hand side of the paper. I don’t remember all of the things I had listed but I remember several of them.

I’ve been wondering, Why don’t I do any of those things on the list anymore? How could I just one day decide I was too grown up, too tired, or too busy to make myself happy? Why don’t I swim laps? Why don’t I wear kooky vintage clothes that always made people stare either in admiration or disbelief at my ensemble? Why don’t I sing? Even if I am not that good at it, it makes me happy. So why not sing? Why not eat a lime ice with salt sprinkled on top? Why don’t I take a day where I do nothing but lie in bed and read my favorite books? Why don’t I listen to lame music that drives everyone else crazy? Actually, I still do that one. Why don’t I write poetry and stories?

It seems to me some days that there are too many people needing too much of me. I am only one person. I sometimes feel overwhelmed when I am expected to be everything for everyone in my life. With so many roles to play, there is never any time for myself.

I know exactly why I don’t do many of the things on that list. It is because I am doing laundry and cooking dinners. I am checking homework and enforcing bedtimes. I am paying bills and cleaning house. I am going to work and coming home exhausted. I am hosting Valentine’s parties and having teacher conferences. I am doing all of those things and rarely taking time to enjoy a single activity from that very old list.

Of course, it is a trade-off. Raising children and caring for my family is the most rewarding task I’ve ever undertaken. But get real, people. I don’t know any woman who doesn’t start feeling invisible every now and then because the entire family seems to think the household runs by magic. And I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t seek some sort of fulfillment outside of their spouse and family.

My goal this week is to find the journal and read the list. My goal this year is to do each thing on that list at least once. My goal this year is to start being me again.

my point, and I do have one . . .

As I type, I am sucking on a cherry Blow Pop. I am eating it the same way I did when I was a teenager. I swirl it around in my coke (except now it is diet coke) and slurp the coke off of it and stick it back in the coke again. This way, the coke makes the sucker dissolve faster and I have a cherry flavored coke at the end of the process. I will work on the sucker in such manner until there is only a very thin and delicate shell of candy around the gum at the middle of the sucker. It’s better to do it this way than to have only gum left at the end. This way, when I bite into the gummy center, there will still be a sweet cherry taste and it will take a few minutes to dissolve as I chew the gum. Otherwise, the gum at the center really doesn’t taste that good or last that long.

I took the Blow Pop from my youngest child’s bag of valentine goodies. Hey, I baked and frosted a jillion sugar cookies and hosted his V-Day party. The kid owes me.

I am feeling all happy right now because my husband has connected a contraption to my computer that enables me to work from my new PC or my old one with the touch of a button. It is so cool. And yes, I have two computers. Three actually. My new laptop will be here Thursday. And yes, all three of the computers are mine. We have other computers for the rest of the people in the household to use. How many? Well, let’s see . . . . *counts on fingers* There are my three computers, Brad’s PC, Brad’s tablet, the work laptop (but only when he is on call), and Bump and Crash’s PC. That makes what? Seven computers at any given time? I also really want a Blackberry but Brad says no. It will be mine eventually. Oh yes, it will be mine.

We are going to see The Pink Panther at the movies this afternoon. I know it has received horrible reviews. I know it has because my mother has told me a million times. I am going to see it anyway because I love Steve Martin and because it is a movie I can take the kids to that won’t cause me to fall into a coma. I will eat buttered popcorn, drink diet coke and possibly inhale a whole box of Milk Duds. I don’t care if I gain weight. It will be fun. And it will help pass the time until this week is over because, blimey, it has been a hard week.

I think I will also go shopping for a new bookshelf because all of my books are lying in boxes in my family room because Brad hates the bookcase we’ve had ever since we got married. Truthfully, I don’t blame him. It was a hand-me-down and it was old even when we inherited it. But I can’t bear to see my books treated in such a manner. They are my friends. They shouldn’t be left on the floor.

I may even go get a pedicure. It is freezing outside though so I shall have to weigh my desire to have my feet massaged and pampered and soaked in piping hot water against my desire to stay warm. Flip-flops aren’t exactly winter footwear.

If it isn’t obvious by now, I am self-medicating today. I don’t know why. Actually, I do know why. But, trust me, it is not an interesting story. It would read something like, “Blah, blah, sob, snort. Blah, blah, whine, cry.” And so on and so forth. I am doing you a favor by not starting up. It’s kind of like my mom used to say, “Don’t start with me, young lady.” So, I am not starting with you. Okay?

But it is okay because I like self-medicating. It is fun. It is my favorite form of distraction. I don’t have any truly dangerous habits or addictions so self-medicating is only a good thing for me. It usually involves chocolate, popcorn, hot baths, long naps, and long distance phone calls. See? Fun!

Oh yeah. The other thing I do to self-medicate is blog. On one of my three computers. I knew I had a point when I started writing the post.

What? You still don’t see my point? You’re right. I really didn’t have one. I was just trying to fake you out.

Maybe this will help: Blow Pops remind me of high school, I am a nerd and love computers but I married a nerd so it is okay, I am going to a movie that received bad reviews, I plan on eating lots of food and taking lots of baths and naps today.

I think that is the gist of it. Gee, it seems so simple when I put it that way.

why blog? why not?

I have had several of my non-blogger friends ask me lately, “What is a blog?” Immediately following my answer, the next logical question is, “Why do you want to publish your journal on the internet?”

That’s actually a good question. As for the first part, “What is a blog?” I usually show them Sharon’s blog. I don’t know why. I always tell them, “Well, this is my blog, but here is a real blog.” I guess it is because Adventures of a Domestic Engineer is the first blog I ever read on a regular basis. It is the Mother Blog in my mind.

As for the second question? Well, why do I publish my journal on the web?

My answer today was long and drawn out, but the gist of it was that I just like to know that some of my thoughts are being filtered through someone else’s brain. I imagine a sieve into which I pour my thoughts. The sieve filters out my craziest thoughts and ideas and then I re-examine them and decide if I agree that they are crazy or if I think they are valid. Sometimes, many times, I find that they are both crazy and valid.

I also tried to explain that, though I do tend to be very honest about my thoughts, feelings, and opinions on any given day when I post, I still keep in mind the audience who is reading. I have parents, cousins, co-workers, childhood friends, and many other readers whom I greatly respect and never wish to hurt or offend with my writing. So, I am not sure it is accurate to call this blog my journal. I have always been a prolific journal keeper and many of my journal entries have been destroyed by me through the years because I would hate for anyone to read them when I am dead and gone and be hurt by my words. I also have journal entries that I have kept safe and accessible because I sometimes have a strong urge to share them with friends. Here on this blog, you will only find entries that I have deemed to be relatively safe to read for all involved. I can only think of one post that has ever hurt another person and I promptly deleted it. It is not my intention to pick a bone with anyone via my blog or for my blog to become the only means of communication I have with friends and family.

I guess my answer as to why I keep a blog is that I keep a blog because I can. It’s that simple. I can write every day and post it for anyone to see. I can reap the benefit of reading many reactions and opinions related to my post. It expands my mind. It gives me a new perspective. It makes me think. It makes me pay attention when I write so as to get my point across rather than muddling along with no end in sight.

I keep a blog because it has been awesome to connect with so many personality types. It has been fun to interact with others who write to stay sane. I even like it that I have never seen many of my favorite bloggers because it has helped me to understand that looks matter not at all in a friendship. Beauty is truly found on the inside. Blogging has been a liberating experience. I have made some truly amazing friends.

So, just out of curiosity, how do you answer when you are asked why you keep an online journal?

people watching

I am a people watcher. I love to observe human interaction. I like to note the difference between the body language of dating couples or newlyweds versus those who’ve been married for a while. I watch young mothers and always pay attention to the difference in their demeanor depending on whether they have one child or more than one. I watch the way young women interact with their girlfriends when there are no men present and observe the sometimes subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle change in body language and tone of voice when a man joins the group.

Of all the people I like to watch, my favorite is to observe couples who have been married for many, many years. Sometimes, I will watch an old married couple sitting in a hospital waiting room and note that they never touch or hold hands or necessarily even converse, but the moment one of them leaves the room, the other glances toward the doorway every few seconds and doesn’t seem to rest easy until their spouse is once again seated at their side. It is touching. It makes me feel good inside to see that sort of devotion. It is not smothering but it is absolute.

Today as I stepped out of my office and into the hospital hallway, an older gentleman immediately caught my eye and began walking as quickly as he could toward me. He wore a panicked expression but tried to mask the worry in his voice. He asked, “Where is the bathroom?” I started saying, “Well, there is one down this hall or there is another one . . . ” He interrupted, “Because I think that’s where my wife is and I need to know where it is.” I stopped for a moment while I tried to reason where his wife might have gone. He mistook my silence as an unwillingness to help, I guess, because he said frantically, “She is not in good health. I am worried about her.” I pointed toward the ER and told him that I was pretty certain that bathroom would have been the one his wife entered and started walking with him down the hall. I told him, “I will go in and see if your wife is there. If she is sick, I will help her. It will be OK.” I had barely spoken those words when he placed a hand on my arm and stopped dead in his tracks. The double doors from the ER were held open and an older lady could be seen just beyond them talking to a staff member. He said, “My vision isn’t so good, but I think I see her.” I stepped forward and he followed me for a few steps and he nearly sobbed with relief, “That’s her. Thank you so much.” Then, his wife turned and saw him and walked toward him with a grin on her face. He walked leisurely toward her and said, “I’ve been waiting forever. Are you ready to go?” She said, “Yes, dear.” and laced her arm through his and they tottered off together.

I watched them walk away and wondered if the wife knew how much her husband cared for her and worried over her. I knew. I had seen his panicked expression and heard the relieved sob in his voice when he realized she was fine. But did she know?

Somehow, despite the lack of drama and passion in their exchange, I think she knew.

The moment the old man spotted his wife in the hallway and was stopped dead in his tracks? Call me a fool but I thought it was one of the most romantic and intimate moments I have ever observed. It was a beautiful illustration of love and devotion.

Moments like the one I witnessed today are the reason I am a people watcher. They are the reason I study body language and tone of voice. Those moments reaffirm my belief that people are inherently good and that we all need someone with whom to share our lives whether it be a friend or a spouse or our family.

People need other people. There’s nothing wrong with that.