World Down Syndrome Day, 3/21

3/21 is Down Syndrome Day.  Down Syndrome, aka, Trisomy 21, meaning when those tiny gametes met to create a zygote -- there was an extra chromosome 21 -- and that little zygote grew up to be our adorable miracle: Grant.  

So, he's just like the rest of us, except he has an extra chromosome.  It can make some things harder for him, like speech and fine motor skills -- but it also makes him pretty darn special; anyone who has ever been lucky enough to feel his hug knows exactly what I'm talking about.  He is patient, kind, loving and so stinking funny that he keeps us all giggling.  His connection with animals is infinitely deep, so much that it feels spiritual.  His tolerance of others is one I envy.  He teaches us new life lessons every single day and we are all better and wiser humans for it.

I'm so utterly humbled by and grateful for this little man that I can hardly go a day without seeing him.  He's my nephew, my little buddy, my helper and my backseat co-pilot and I can't imagine a life without him. ❤

Finding Peace

Just a nod to say, "Hey."

 

I went to visit some old friends today.

  

Not many people understand why I always find the time to veer out of my way to give them a nod, but these horses once helped me hold it together.

 

It was a different time, in a different place, at a different stage of life.  We were living in an apartment above a barn while we were building our house.  I had just undergone a second surgery to treat endometriosis.  (I'm afraid you'll have to Google it if you want the dreary details.  I don't like talking about it anymore.)  We'd already been through several miscarriages but remained commited to take whatever measures necessary to build our family.  I was on fertility drugs.  It was an emotional, frightening and difficult time in our lives. There were more than a few moments that I think we both believed I had truly lost my mind.  Hormones do that.

 

This majestic team of Belgians lived just down the road.  I passed them every trip into town and then back again.  There was something about their beauty that mesmerized me.  I would often pull to the shoulder of the road just to watch them.  Their muscled outlines, their playful spirits; they intrigued me. They were strong and powerful, built to pull heavy wagons and bred for work.  Yet there was an ease and grace about them that held me captive.  The protective stand of a mother next to her foal, the sunlight bouncing off a bright mane as they ran, the gentle nuzzle of that big, soft nose -- I never tired of watching them.

 

They calmed the chaos.  They brought me peace.  They reminded me that there was amazing beauty in strength.  They reminded me that even during the toughest trials, there was something to be said about putting a chin up, facing the sun and carrying on with grace.  The knowing twinkle of their eyes and soft whinny could coax a smile from me, even on the days I only wanted to cry.  They reminded me of a bigger picture, a bigger plan.  They reminded me that life was going on all around me and it was beautiful and awe inspiring.  Around them, I was always filled with a sense that it didn't matter what the future brought, everything really would be okay.

And it was.  

 

As if to say, "You're Welcome."

 

The fertility drugs didn't work for us but the lesson I learned still resonates deep within.  Life may get hard and we don't always get what we want; but on any given day, all we have to do is step away from the chaos to find beauty, to find strength, to find peace, to find grace.  That's what these horses did for me and it's hard to articulate how grateful I am for them.  They gave me everything I needed to get through that difficult time and many more.  They taught me what I needed to learn to build a great life.

 

Thank you, Mac McIntosh and the Lazy M Ranch for helping to fill my world with so much beauty.  These horses mean a great deal to me, as I'm sure they do to many others.

The Elusive Pine Marten

I have a funny story.  Well, at least I think it is funny; so funny, in fact, that it's hard to write about it without breaking into fits of laughter along the way.

I spent my late teens and early twenties up on local ski hills teaching people how to ski.  It was a long time ago, during the age of library cards and encyclopedia sales, definitely pre-dating the invention of the Internet.  The only thing that 'googled' back then were tiny, glue on, craft eyes.

This may come as a surprise, but ski instructors serve multiple roles on a mountain.  Sure, we taught the basic technique of remaining in an upright position on a downhill slope with sticks attached to one's feet; but we are also were babysitters, tour guides, rent-a-ski-buddies and an informal concierge. In addition to memorizing mountain trail maps; it was important to know the names of all the Cascade peaks between Shasta and Rainier, the lakes along Century Drive and the little facts that make each one special, the geology behind steam vents, recent weather patterns, the difference between different pine tree species and why some only grow at specific elevations but also, of course, the basics about local wildlife -- both the animals on the hill and the après ski hot spots in town.  Thank goodness, I was at the perfect age to absolutely know it all and I never second guessed myself or my answers to mountain guests.

Flash forward 20+ years, my husband and I were in Wyoming at the National Elk Reserve Visitor Center.  They had mounts of all the common wildlife in an exhibit and I saw a critter I had never seen before.  It was little but it was a ferocious looking thing, reminiscent of the Jabberwocky, you know, the one with 'jaws that bite and claws that catch' we are warned to beware of in middle school lit. classes.  I asked if it was some sort of mini-wolverine.  My husband seemed surprised that I didn't recognize the beast.

"Hun, that's a Pine Marten.  I'm surprised you haven't seen one of those before," he said with a quizzical chuckle.  After all, hadn't I spent hundreds of hours skiing on a mountain with both a lodge and ski lift named after the same animal?

"Whoa, wait...  You mean to tell me THAT is a Pine Marten?!"  I stood in disbelief and then started laughing.

Sure I'd seen Pine Martens.  I had even pointed them out to guests, explaining that they were the equivalent of mountain squirrels, playful and fun to watch, perfectly harmless.  I said they fed on pine nuts and bugs and we were lucky to catch glimpses of them because they were really quite shy.  I can't tell you how many people I shared this information with but I'm certain it was many.  So many, in fact, that I am still laughing...  I'm not sure where I learned about Pine Martens in the first place but I'm pretty sure the person who informed me about them is laughing, too!  (Could it have possibly been from a certain boy who knew I'd never venture off into the trees with him had I known these critters had fangs?  Highly suspicious, indeed!)

For the record, Pine Martens are weasels.  They eat birds, eggs and squirrels.  They have semi-retractable claws, making them unique in the weasel world, enabling them to be skillful tree climbers. They are elusive and nocturnal hunters.  I still think they are pretty cute -- at least from a distance and when they aren't hissing or killing something.
 

 

The Thing about my Birthday...

I don't always celebrate my birthday.  It's not always a happy day for me.  In fact, there are years that it is one of the toughest days I struggle through.  It has nothing to do with me or the fact I'm getting older or anything else even remotely related to the typical reasons some people don't celebrate their special day.  It has to do with grief and the unpredictable process that it imbibes.

I lost a close friend in an avalanche the day before I turned 22.  He was the first friend I thought I'd never be able to live without.  He was the kind of friend who understood the not-so-easy to understand parts of a teenager struggling to grow up and young woman floundering to assimilate her adult identity.  We shared something special and I was so fortunate to have that time with him. Losing him devastated me.

It's been over twenty years and this is what I can tell you about grief -- it never leaves you.  It becomes a part of you and there is no going back to the person you once were.  Everyone finds their own path through it and no two paths are the same.  Time doesn't heal this wound, but it does provide you the opportunity to figure out what 'the new you' needs in your life to survive it.  It will get easier but there will also be blindsiding moments that knock you down and take the wind out of you as if you had just been told the gutwrenching news.

This was one of those years.  I don't believe logic and grief have anything to do with each other so I don't waste time trying to figure out "the why" anymore.  It just happens.  I accept it, let myself be sad and detach for a little while.  I nurture my soul, regroup my thoughts and come out on the other side a little bit older and a hell of a lot stronger.

I share this because it's only when we stop talking about loved ones that they are truly gone.  I share this because I have a handful of friends and family making their own way through loss and sometimes knowing someone else is fighting the same battle somehow helps.  I share this because I was flaky and dismissive about well intended and thoughtful celebration plans this year and feel an explanation is due.  I share this because it's part of me.  It's gritty, it's dark, it's raw, it's a struggle, but it's me.  There is a reason I seek out the light of a sunset, sunrise and stars.  It is to help fill this dark spot.

Thank you for all of the happy birthday wishes and forgive me for maybe being a little more distant than usual.  I appreciate your thoughtfulness and all the great things you bring into my life.  Next year, we party like rock stars.

A New Roost

The best things in life rarely come easy.  There is something about the struggle that embeds meaning, grips our soul and connects us to the parts of life we value most.  Marriage.  Children.  Careers.  None of it is easy but most of us can't imagine our lives without them.

Life has taught me to surround myself with goodness and beauty.  It keeps me alive and feeds my spirit.  I anchor it with truth.  Without the truth, nothing is real, so I cling to it as if it just might be the single thread holding us all together.  These are the goals I aspire to. This is how I want my life to be carved.  Simple.  Real.  Beautiful.  Full of goodness.  Full of love.

I'm not petitioning for sainthood and I don't always live up to my own expectations.  I don't claim to be perfect.  There are days that I don't even feel 'good enough.' We all fall down.  We all have bad days, myself included.  I make mistakes, too.  It happens.  It just means that we can be better or do better next time.  Most of us are able to rise above, endure and find ways to recenter ourselves.  We recalibrate.  We start over.  We pull each other towards goodness. We move on.  We grow into better humans.

I haven't been writing as much lately because I have been very busy with a new job.  I transferred from the first hospital that launched my nursing career to one that is a lot bigger and a little closer.  The truth is, leaving my old job was heartbreaking.  Things had changed to the point that I had begun questioning why I had ever become a nurse in the first place.  I know.  The enormity of that statement is not lost on me.  It was a very big deal.  I needed to recenter myself.  I needed to seek out goodness and a place that supported the ideals that I believe in.  I needed to let go of what once was so I could reach out and find what I needed.

I'm not going to lie, it was terrifying.  I'd been in one place for 7 years and they were the hardest but best 7 years of my adult life.  All established nurses know that nursing school teaches you to pass the boards - all real nursing skills come from "Boots (ah, Danskos rather) on the Ground" action.  Understanding the pathophysiology of multiple disease processes is swell but it doesn't really teach you what you need to do when a doc orders a STAT dose of lasix at midnight on a demented patient with Sundowner's who is suppose to be on full bed rest.

Nursing school doesn't prep you for specialty areas, like emergency nursing.  You learn all of that from your endearing coworkers and supervisors who build your skills and support you like you have your own personal education and cheerleading squad.  Leaving meant letting go, jumping the nest, flying the coop.  Walking away from all of those genuinely wonderful people and that amazing team was one of the hardest, scariest things I've done.  I still can't talk about it without my eyes filling up with tears.  (Crap, tear wipe. Sniff.)

Ok.  Deep breath.  The point of my story is that I did it and it was a great decision.  I love my job again.  I love showing up.  I love being a nurse.  I love working around ER medicine and ER patients.  I love my new coworkers and manager.  It's still a hard job.  It's still scary sometimes.  It's suppose to be.  It's often what we do or don't do that means the difference between someone living and someone dying.  We all take that very seriously and it's that purposeful teamwork that I love most.  I enjoy learning new skills from other nurses that do things a different way.  It feels good to dust off these Danskos and spread my wings a little.  It feels so good and I love it so much, in fact, that I'm picking up many more shifts than usual.  I've been working just shy of what a full time position would be which is why I've been so busy.  I believe those hours will decrease as open shifts become less available in the next few weeks but for now, I'm a little worker bee.

This also means I have a pile of unfinished projects, my house is a wreck, laundry is backed up and all of the hilarious stories I have to share are protected by HIPPA laws and will never get to leave my own head.  Bummer.  There are some good ones!  Did I mention I love my job?!

As Quiet as a Spouse

I grew up in a loud house.  We didn't whisper, the dishes clanged and banged when they came out of the cupboard and there wasn't a big difference between walking and stomping.  Sneaking wasn't sneaking - it was more like not getting caught because someone else in another part of the house was being louder.  To top it off, I'm clumsy and have really crappy vision, especially after I take my contacts out.

My nightshift life keeps me up late.  Jeff's farm boy schedule puts him to sleep early.  This means that I spend my nights attempting to sneak around a dimly lit house and I am terrible at it.  You would think I would improve with practice but no.  It has yet to happen.  Jeff can get out of bed every morning, shower, get dressed and leave the house like a ghost.  He grew up hunting.  The guy is freaky quiet in sneak mode.  

I've spent 7 years of nights running into door frames, walls and doors.  I bend over in the dark to take off my socks and whack my head on my nightstand.  I've missed steps both on the way down and up the stairs.  I've dropped pans.  I have shattered more than one glass.  I've tripped over the shoes I've just taken off.  I've tripped over thin air.  I've lost my balance sneaking into our pitch black closet feeling my way to my PJs.  I've walked into the screen door - and the glass slider.  Cupboards slam, electronics malfunction.  I was once listening to my earphones only to realize when I took them out that the sound was playing through the speakers, too.  I think you get the idea.  I'm not really quiet.

So last night, I stayed up late.  I wasn't sleepy.  The outside temp was suppose to hit nearly freezing. (Eeeeee-gads!  What about the tomatoes?!) Scout, the wonder Aussie, was restless.  So I was up until just past 4.  I got ready for bed and didn't make a peep...  I'm practicing.  He will never take me hunting if I can't manage how much noise I make.  I was so proud of myself!

I was on the homestretch.  All I had to do was move my clothes off the end of the bed and slip in without waking him up.  I reached my hand out into the darkness to grab my sweatshirt and heard a yell.  I screamed.  Well, I had miscalculated where I was in the room and when I reached out to grab my sweatshirt, I mistakingly grabbed Jeff's warm, wiggly foot instead.  He came out of a dead sleep, doing the drowning man as he came to.  I screamed, not only because what ever I had a hold of was alive and moving but Jeff's yell startled the bajeezus out of me.  I would have wet my pants if I had anything in my bladder.  What a disaster!  And who can sleep after an adrenaline rush like that? 

So tonight there will be no sneaking.  There will be no darkness.  There will be no quiet.  I'm less loud when I'm not trying to be so quiet.  Better yet, I think I'll sleep upstairs and just face the fact I will never be a stealthy hunter or quiet spouse.  

A Fine Tuning

I grew up writing every day.  Not until a thought travels down a neuropathic network into the fingertips and out does it truly find fruition.  It's my catch and release.  If I don't get thoughts or ideas out; they ruminate, grow, expand and take over until there is gridlock.  Wine is pretty good at erasing most of them but too much wine is rarely a good thing.  (Take note:  I said RARELY.  Not never.)

I cut back my hours at work to invest in the things that matter most to me last year - my family, my dogs, my friends, my home and even myself.  Don't get me wrong.  I love what I do.  I find great peace and joy in being a nurse, especially an emergency room nurse.  I love helping patients.  It's important we all recognize our strengths and nursing is mine.  It keeps me thinking; it connects all the dots for me.  It gives me strength and reminds me of all the little things we tend to overlook -- like what a miracle life is in the first place and how everything can change so quickly that we don't even see it coming.  I enjoy making people feel better and if we can't get them better, at least we can bring them comfort. 

BUT...

It's a demanding job.  I don't half-ass things.  When I am at work, I am giving 100%.  There is no autopilot.  There is no "taking it easy" for the day.  I work with amazing people and we all care about our patients.  We may beat our head against the wall after caring for a few but it's because we care that we are so frustrated.  If we didn't care, they wouldn't matter.  They do.  A strong team is self-supportive.  We feed off of each other's energy and we give it back.  It's a reciprocal collaboration.

When the team is broken and there is no energy left to give, it's time to seek another source for replenishment.  We lost a significant part of our team and we lost them all at once.  We lost the cornerstones and cheerleaders.  We lost the people we count on most to hold us up when we are too tired to stand on our own.  We lost our strongest leaders.  With each exit, the void grew.  It's not that the replacements aren't good nurses themselves, it's that it takes a little bit of time to build a connection like that and we were pummeled.

So I cut back.  I rebalanced my equation.  I invested in the parts of my life that have a guaranteed return.  It was an odd transition and not always joyful.  Letting go of something that has always been such a giant part of me was a little bit alienating.  I realized that I didn't really know how to be myself without it and there were moments of, "Oh my God.  Who AM I?"  (Thank goodness I still work often enough to circumvent most of those moments.)

It's also come with moments so full of pure joy and happiness that I can't believe I didn't do this a very long time ago.  The other side of my brain is waking up.  I want to create.  I want to write.  I want to grow things.  I want to be alive.  I want to taste new foods and see new places.  I remember why I married that cute boy I met 20 years ago.  I want to gaze at the stars and watch every beautiful sunset from beginning to end.  I want to wonder about things and then go explore them.  I want to feel connected to that energy we all call by different names.  And it's happening.  Each day has new purpose.  I'm waking up.  I'm remembering how to be me.  I feel present for conversations that were taking place all around me that I never noticed before.  I watched my mostly non-verbal 3 year old nephew with Down's Syndrome communicate all day with a dog that would usually rather hang out with other dogs than humans.  They have their own language and it was amazing to watch.  It gave me goosebumps and I'm so glad I didn't miss it.

So I'm tuning up my blog in hopes to stretch a little more of that goodness out of myself.  The more I write, the less stagnated my mind feels and the more alive I feel.  It takes practice to sustain a good flow of thoughts and I am not a bestselling author to be sure.  I am rusty.  So bear with me while I practice, practice and practice.  I think there are some pretty amazing ideas stuck in this head.  It's just a matter of bringing them to life.

Too Much Truth, Not Enough Fiction

(This event occurred a significant time ago and has been waiting in the "draft" folder until details of the event have become obsolete in context to protect the privacy of those involved.)

A paramedic may have saved my life.  I wasn't sick.   I didn't call 911.  I'm a nurse in a rural hospital who was working an ER shift in the wrong place at the wrong time.  A voluntary psych patient walked into our doors with police escort.  The patient wasn't under arrest and didn't want to be seen. Legally, that patient has a right to walk out that door.  A quick assessment of the situation told me that the patient was both a threat to self and others.  Threatening statements, aggressive stance, diaphoresis, verbalizing ideas incongruent with reality; I needed to get this patient out of our packed lobby and away from the other patients.  So I did my job.  I used my limited psych nursing skills to lure and coax the patient back into our pseudo psych room.

I say pseudo because I work in a tiny emergency room and we don't have the space for an official psychiatric ER room.  This room is our back up gyno room for pelvic exams, sutures and general emergency department patients as well.  There are scalpels, stitch cutters, razors, wires, tubing, monitors, metal tray tables, IV and oxygen supplies, suction tubing, IV poles and other supplies that can all be used as weapons against us.  Even the wire shelving can be ripped from the wall and used to hurt us.  But like I said, the patient arrived in the waiting room without warning, so the room wasn't emptied prior to arrival.
 
The officer had no back up.  He was a friend of the patient's family and really just wanted to get this patient some help.  Let no good deed go unpunished.  The situation escalated quickly to the point of out of control.  An ambulance, by chance, had just dropped off a different patient.  In 3 seconds time, all of the cording in the wall had been ripped out, an ER stretcher thrown, a cop and RN locked behind a glass door with the unstable patient loose in the middle of the ER.  That fast.  In a millisecond, I realized this psychotic patient was in control and the gravity of the situation took hold.

I'm not going to lie.  It was the most terrifying moment of my nursing career.  I never saw it coming, I thought I was following all of the safety guidelines.  I was keeping the officer between me and the patient, I was aware of my space and exits, I was thinking ahead of what needed to be removed from the room.  But it was THAT fast.  The patient could have killed me.  That patient could have killed everyone in that ER.  All of the could haves, would haves and should haves went through my mind in an instant.  I don't know who unlocked the door.  I don't remember getting out.  I remember calling the front desk and asking for police backup "NOW" and the paramedic grabbing his radio and saying, "I've got it," some arguing, a taser sound and the same paramedic lunging across the ER to help the officer take this patient down.  Police back up walked through the door and it took 6 strong men to hold this patient down until the medications began to take effect 40 minutes later.

Yes, people.  That is your mental healthcare system.  FYI:  there really isn't one.  The system is overloaded.  When we called facilities for a psych bed, we got put on a waiting list 48 hours out - which means this patient was going to be staying in the ER for 2 more days with 1:1 nursing at the bedside.  It means the 7 bed ER is now down to 1 nurse and 6 beds with a very valid threat looming near.  It means that the patient experiencing the first real psychotic break in their lifetime isn't receiving the ideal psych care or medical treatment.  It means that everyone who walks into that ER is walking into harms way; patients, nurses, doctors, lab, radiology techs, respiratory therapists, visitors, housekeeping, kitchen staff, paramedics, etc.

This wasn't a drug induced psychosis that would wear off like with the "bath salts" being laced into meth.  This was a real, textbook, schizophrenic psychotic break.  Alert and oriented to some extent with grandiosity, delusions and violent threats escalating to violent behavior.  There is no reasoning, bargaining or placating.  This person is the most dangerous patient we see in the ER because they are unpredictable and have no limitations to the acts they are willing to commit for unknown reasons. Bargaining and rationalizing go out the window quickly when attempted with someone with limited comprehension of reality.  They can be easy going and cracking jokes while strangling you with electrical cords.

But it's the ER.  There's no time to stop.  There's not time to think.  We all stuff it into that bottomless pit of a place that allows us to keep going and we move on.  There's no time to think about anything but your next patient, your next order.  We were busy resetting a hip, orthoglassing a fracture, oxygenating an overdose, transferring a hemorrhage, ruling out a pulmonary embolism and triaging every patient that walked through our doors in 3-5 minutes or less while attending our psych patient and doing our best because each of us can imagine ourselves in the place of our patients, or their families, and we just want to do our best for them.

I'm writing this knowing very well that I won't be able to share it until the specifics of the event are blurred to protect the privacy of the patients.  We aren't allowed to discuss events like this, even with fellow coworkers that weren't involved in the case.  We can't tell our spouses.  We can't discuss particulars or specifics.  The patient that threatened to kill me, attacked a cop he knew on a friendly basis and destroyed an ER room has more rights than I do and I can't share any information about anything without a subpoena and even then, a lawyer needs to review with me what I can and can't say. So I mixed a few facts up here just to keep it legal.

I feel for the psych patient.  I feel for the family.  I can't even imagine how frightening an event like this must be.  But mostly, I am grateful.  I am grateful for the paramedic that literally jumped across the ER to save my ass before a cop could even unholster his weapon.  I know how much worse it could have been.  I can't tell you how many times the scene has played out in my mind with different endings and bigger headlines.

I'm hoping our psych patient gets the appropriate care.  I'm hoping our administration understands the need for more security and a better intake system for these patients.  I'm hoping that law enforcement takes a closer look at their "voluntary" transport and drop off protocols.  I'm hoping to educate the general public about how messed up our system is and that some of you will get involved and make changes.  Just because we aren't allowed to discuss these issues doesn't mean it isn't a huge problem. It is.  HIPPA and privacy protection laws just prevent anyone from knowing about it.

I'm so thankful for our EMS crews that keep us safe.  It could have been so much worse.  If you want shorter wait times and an ER that has room to actually care for people with REAL emergencies, help us reform the mental health care system.  Help us get drug users, dealers and meth heads out of our ER.  Help us educate the public that an ER is not a place to get free bandaids, Tylenol, Sierra Mist or a note to get out of work.  Help keep us healthcare workers safe so we can do our jobs because you or a loved one might just need us someday.  

No News is Good News

I don't watch much news on TV.  Part of that has to do with only getting Portland's news stations.  I just can't relate to them.  One week the greater good of Portland is pissed off that their roads are falling apart.  The next week, the same people are pissed off that road construction is going on around them.  Citizens speaking out on the news continuously demand for someone to be held accountable and for someone to correct some sort of problem.

It's not really like that in rural America.  I don't mean to imply that we don't have a long list of our own beefs, yes, pun intended.  We do.  We are inherently independent.  We don't really have a "someone" to blame or "someone" to fix it.  It's more "us" and "we" than "them" and "they" out here.  When our electricity goes out, we grab the binoculars and scan our neighbor's places for functioning irrigation sprinklers or lights to see how big the outage is before we call the power company so we can give them an idea of which power pole went down.  When our water pressure drops, we troubleshoot it ourselves.  We test our own water.  If it goes bad, well, it's our own problem and we just pray it's not the well going bad.  That's on us.  Nobody calls.  Nobody is expected to call.  Honestly, we likely won't even test the water until everyone in the house is sick - and doesn't get better - for maybe weeks...  We certainly aren't going to make a stink about being notified more than once or outside of a 4 hour window.  And we aren't going to demand a costly, city investigation of any of it.  That's time, money and resources that are needed somewhere else.  

When a storm wreaks havok on neighbors fields, we get out of our trucks to help move their irrigation lines, equipment, cows, horses and goats; back to where they belong.  We don't sue them or boycott them or call the news station to come video us carrying poster board signs out in front of their homes.  On the flip side, we don't go cut down their trees for a better view - er, ah, at least without asking.  Turn-a-bout is fair play.  Anyone who has had their lush, green lawn oversprayed with ground sterilizer knows that The Golden Rule is real out here, and you never know when you may need a neighbor to come pull you out of an irrigation ditch or loan you some duct tape.

I understand that having a neighbor's home 6-8 feet away from your own is much different than living a half a mile away.  I get that all the rules, regulations, laws and home owner association codes are disabling within the city limits.  I can only imagine the frustration level reached for a 2 mile drive taking 3 hours.  The city is a different animal.  Part of me is envious.  It might be nice to have the luxury of blame and condemnation.  It might even feel good to assign culpability and demand an outside entity correct the latest issue.  At the same time, I get to live in a world where my coworker's husband was championed this winter for plowing local streets, not because it was his job but because he had the equipment, made the time and had the desire to make things better for everyone.  (Thank you, Josh Tolman!)  I get to live in a world where balance is a way of life and understanding cause/effect and action/consequence is ingrained in our existence, not explained in a college course. It's not easy nor is it fun but it makes us independent and accountable for our own selves, lives, families and home -- and it keeps us from making asses of ourselves on the local news. Frankly, we're too busy and none of us get the local news station anyway.

If...

If I could live one day over again, it would be my last day with you.  I wouldn't be too busy packing boxes for college, I wouldn't be distracted by barking dogs and I wouldn't let you walk out that door without memorizing every little detail of your face, voice and laugh.  I am a better person because of you and I'm so, so grateful for our time together.  I find you now in the warmth of sunkissed cheeks after a day on the mountain, in the breeze of a star-filled night, in the laugh of a child that yearns to defy gravity the way you once did; I find you in the cherubic cheeks of your newborn niece's photo.  I find you in every place pure and innocent and beautiful and good.  I'll see you on the flip side, my faraway friend.  Know you are greatly loved and greatly missed.

2014

Less wine, more tea.
Less sugar, more water.
Less sitting, more doing.

Hunting Season

I grew up with one foot in the ocean, one foot in the mountains, my head in the clouds and both hands holding a book.  I know how to use four wheel drive (I'm just glad we don't have to physically put hubs in anymore), I can clean my own fish, and we all know that August through November is a time of year known to most of us simply as "Hunting Season" and that a coveted invitation to Elk Camp is a rite of passage.  I'd say that this is my favorite time of year, but in truth, it's the changing of the season that is my favorite.  I love this. The smell of campfires, the comradery, the end of warm nights in exchange for wild winds and promises of snow.  This is what I grew up knowing.  This is how I enjoy living.  

Elk are amazing animals.  I marvel in their strength, size and ability to elude the mighty hunter. Their beauty is majestic.  A part of me gets a little sad each time one of these animals goes down with a hunter's bullet but it's a fleeting moment that is soon replaced with excitement.  I know in the next several days, the opportunity will come to take the animal apart, piece by piece, and the anatomy lesson is better than any classroom lab or lecture that I've ever been a part of.  I answer most of my own questions by tangibly searching them out.  Is that a vessel or nerve bundle?  Let me get a closer look.  Let me pull it, bend it, trace it with my finger to the origin and let me learn.  It's hard to get enough of it.  


Anatomy lessons lead right into butchering lessons.  Muscles, tendons, bones and ligaments soon shape into steaks, roasts, burger and jerky as the body becomes a carcass.  No pieces are wasted. It's as close to a religious experience as I've been a part of.  Knives are sharpened, jokes are told, meat is cut, wrapped, labeled, shared and frozen.  This is how it's been done for decades.  It brings a continuity to life that our disposable world easily eludes.  It's like coming home after a long trip.  It's an odd form of security. It's a recentering ritual that brings us back to our hunting and gathering roots born hundreds of thousands of years ago.  It's innate and instinctive.  


I was invited back to my roots this year.  It reminded me where I came from and who I am.  In the struggle between life and death, I will always fight for life, it's the nurse in me, but I also appreciate a good steak.  Hunter versus gatherer.  Sometimes it's important to have a foot planted in both worlds to understand the best parts of each.  I know it's something I can't imagine a life without and that make this time of year a little special.  


Besides, what else is there to do while we wait for enough snow for the mountains to open?  Life is good, friends.  

Finding the Right Ratio

I was overtaken by an amazing revelation when I woke today.  This is what happy is suppose to feel like.

Sometimes I get too caught up in the "doing" part of life.   I get too busy to feed the parts of my brain that need to be fed something other than mandatory continuing education credits.  I put off opportunities to fill my spirit and soul because I am simply too tired to fit it into an already overlapping schedule of work, sleep, meetings, errands and household tasks.  I forget to invest in myself so that I have what it takes to give to others.   I find myself defined by roles, responsibilities and expectations. I become a slave to an unfulfilling schedule that eventually begins to reshape the person I am - until something snaps and suddenly, I am reminded, hey, this isn't me.  I know better than this.  

That moment came to me about a year ago while sitting next to the glacial lake at the top of Broken Top.  It was reinforced in San Francisco after a dinner of amazing sushi and just enough saki.  I felt it reverberate through my soul when my skis touched snow last winter but it wasn't until a road trip to Tahoe to watch a friend run the Western States 100 mile trail race that I knew what to do. 

Like the mathematical laws that drive everything from physics to philosophy, my happiness has always been based on a simple formula that balances the ratio of fun to cruddy stuff.  It's so simple, in fact, that I forget it.  I needed less cruddy stuff and more fun.  I needed to make more time to enjoy the things that make me whole.  I needed to surround myself with people who bring an amazing energy into the life they live.  I needed to demand more time for myself and walk away from others demanding time from me.  So, in a giant leap of faith, I quit my job.

(After a few meetings and negotiations, an agreement was reached that I'd still work a few shifts a month, but quitting outright might have been the scariest and bravest thing I've ever done so I don't want the moment to be lost in the story.)

I've been off for 3 weeks now, (wait a minute, it's only been 3 weeks?!) and today, I feel like a new person.  

Cutting Back

We are given one life that we can live anyway that we see fit.  We balance responsibility with desire, obligation with what makes us happy.  At the end of the day, we ask for fulfillment so we may fall asleep satisfied with all that we are and all that we've done.  It's a tricky balancing act and I feel lucky to achieve it even a few times a week.  I'm sure I'm not alone.  Late nights with a glass of wine staring into the stars dampens the sting of a bad day, but it doesn't erase it. The goal is to have more good days than bad, to surround myself with people I genuinely believe in, who can bring out a great belly laugh, and to love whole-heartily, all of it - my past, my present and the people who have touched either one of them.  Those are my simple priorities.  That's how I believe in living my life. Open, honest, true and with purpose while doing the best I can to do "the right" thing.  Lofty goals in today's dog eat dog world.

I don't need an obnoxious amount of money, I only need enough to maintain a simple life. I don't need applause or recognition or even to stand out in a crowd.  What I do need is to feel proud, confident and like part of a team of people or group of friends that command respect by the examples they set.  Listening to "me,me,me and I,I,I" people tell me how great they are, is more painful than taking two handfuls of sand and rubbing my own eyes out.  Having these same people demand that I respect them for telling me how great they are, is tortuous.  To give up the life I want to live; time with friends, family, dogs or any other beautiful creature and be held hostage in such an atmosphere is simply a deal breaker.  I feel like parts of my life have hit the "deal breaking" level and it's time to make some adjustments.

I'm an ER nurse.  Talk is cheap, most people lie, actions and behaviors speak louder than words.  I can gauge most situations quickly with a fair amount of accuracy.  It's part of my job.  I need to be able to read between the lines to give the patient the best care.  It's a quality that flows over into real life for me.  I'm surrounded by amazing people and they are out there proving it everyday.  These people don't make a list of accomplishments and publish it in newsletters because: #1 they believe they will figure out an even better way to do it the next time, #2 they are too busy performing amazing feats to sit down and put that much thought into themselves, #3 they don't think it was really that big of a deal in the first place and, #4 they redirect all that attention back into positive energy to support the team or project.  They are humble, genuine, open, honest, hardworking, generous and I'm proud to call them my friends and coworkers.

I'm cutting my hours way back in the ER right now to go in search of that ever elusive balance between work, home, family, friends and the almighty belly-laugh.  My goals are to get a tan, teach the dogs to sit and finish a scrapbook.  For the past 2 years, Jeff and my work schedules have averaged 2 days off a month together - which shouldn't imply we've had the chance to spend them together because there are other things that sometimes have to take priority - like grocery shopping or (something I have less understanding of) the weekly poker game.  I'm not joking when I say that I know more about the lives of my coworker's pets and kids than I know about my own husband's. He's asleep, I'm awake.  He's home, I'm at work.  I'm home, he's at work.  It's a never ending juggling act.  I'm afraid that the majority of our conversations have taken place sitting in separate rigs, going opposite directions, in the middle of the road or driveway, through an open window and within sixty second increments for the past 2-3 years. It's time to fix that.  

I will still be picking up some shifts to satisfy that insane need I have for ER nursing but I am also going to take some time to enjoy this crazy thing we call life.  I'm going to see more of my niece and nephews.  I am going to drive to an orchard to pick fruit and then can it.  I'm going to catch up on wall painting and clutter purging.  I'm going to get a fishing line wet.  (Don't steelhead run one more time this fall? I'm going to find out.) I'm going to get some old bulbs in the ground and the scrapbook room cleaned up.  And I'm thinking, hmmm...  Maybe we need a few more pheasants around this farm and *giant smile* a little pig named Snort.

The Ugly Truth About Chickens

 

They stink, they eat their own eggs, they peck each other bald and consume more feed than what it costs to buy the organic, range-free eggs. All of these truths were tolerable until we inherited my Dad's dog, Max. Max doesn't care for chickens. In fact, the only chicken Max has any affinity for is a dead chicken. He can kill a chicken quicker than a .22 bullet to the heart. When the chickens went into 24 hour confinement, so did their excrement. They no longer free ranged and that quadrupled their feed amount at about the same time corn based animal feed nearly doubled in cost. Raising chickens was no longer fun, relaxing or rewarding. It became tedious, expensive and frankly, quite smelly. I had a friend in need of some chickens, so I boxed them up, loaded them into the back of her SUV and said farewell to my chicken raising days.

There is now an eerie calm and hushed silence out on the farm. I no longer have every bird within a 5 mile radius stopping by for a bite to eat or quick drink from the chicken pen. There is no 4 AM rooster crow to remind us that the sun will be rising in the next 3 hours or angry cackle from a mad hen warning that the dogs are too close to the pen. No frozen water to break or tote by 5 gallon bucket in the sub freezing temperatures. Do I miss my chickens? Hmmm.... Ask me in a few more months.  I'm now thinking bunnies are the wave of the future on the Jordan farm - or maybe a little pig - or a couple goats - or a new calf...

 



Climbing Mountains

Broken Top

 

Life has a way of molding us.  Every event, every transition, every change has a way of carving us into the person we have become.  I think back 25 years and I can't help but smile.  Sure there are some things that I wish I had done differently but I even surprise myself with how little I regret. 

 

I'm glad I went skiing instead of pursuing my original goal of med school.  I'm proud for being able to leave all I've ever known to venture off to Alaska on my own.  I had some great summers working for the white water rafting company in the summer and skiing my brains out during the winter.  I didn't make money.  I didn't get a lot of fancy initials behind my name but I did get clocked coming down Mt. B going 56 mph on skis - and back in those days we didn't wear helmets.

 

I met incredible people.  Real people.  I learned about horses, ranches, rodeos and almost about hockey.  I discovered that my worst pair of boots will always be more comfortable than my best pair of shoes and that I've got a bit of a knack for this way of life.  I may learn everything the hard way but I learn it and the next time around things tend to go a bit easier.  I learned that some of the biggest lessons come from the most unlikely sources and to pay attention because if you don't, the moment passes and the lesson is lost.  I learned that I absolutely would survive losing someone I thought I couldn't live without and that it's okay to change because of that loss. 

 

I've grown and stretched and forgiven.  I'm not as self-absorbed or as arrogant as I once was.  I've learned to live without regrets and I try very hard not to let pride get in the way.  I knew I was where I was always meant to be when I started working for the lab at St. Charles.  That experience opened a new world.  When I finished my RN, it took a few months before I could grasp that I was a real nurse, with real patients.  I still have moments when my job feels surreal and gives me goosebumps.  Saving lives is a pretty cool way to spend a shift, isn't it?

 

The people that meet me now don't know these parts of me.  They look at me and think, "Crap, Amy's going to give me hell for not having my kid in a helmet!"  They don't know that I hung by my knees from the railroad bridge across the Crooked River Gorge or bungee jumped off of the Blue River Dam in the middle of a pitch black night.  I know what an Alaskan Brown Bear smells and sounds like - and there's only one way to know those things for sure.  I've been down class III rapids in a life jacket - no helmet.  I've chased a giant sea creature that easily out-sized our little skiff.  I know what it feels like to launch off of the cornice at the tip top of Mt Bachelor and not even skim snow with my skis until I was already halfway down the bowl.  I have what it takes to stand in a pile of mud and afterbirth to perform CPR on a stillborn calf and I certainly have what it takes to shoot a coyote circling its body.  And yes, I can drink an entire bottle of Jagermeister but it will take me all night and the result is not pretty.

 

I suppose I am a bit of a cliche.  I got married.  I settled down.  My name changed to "Hey Wifey" and then to "Auntie A" - and with each change came greater responsibility and the bigger realization of just how lucky I was to have survived some of those stories.  Every bone I broke and joint I've strained reminds me now of where I've been and what I've done.  Every scar comes with a story of it's own.  I've spent enough time tempting fate, now I calculate my risks.

 

A friend and I recently hiked up Broken Top.  So many years had passed since I felt the freedom I felt.  I love those mountains.  I love winding, rocky dirt roads that turn into nothing more than a trail on the map.  I love being outside and feeling the wind in my hair and the dirt in my socks.  Being up there reminded me of so many things that I had forgotten about.  It was like coming home.  I still don't like bears or cougars so I will always be prepared when I'm on those less traveled paths, but I do plan on reminding myself a little more often of who I really am and fully intend to climb more mountains - maybe even on skis. 

The Lawn

I have to admit it.  I wanted the lawn.  I wanted pretty, uniform cut, dark green grass surrounding our home.  It was going to cut down on the dust, the heat and all the work we put into weed control around here.  It was going to be a place for the dogs, kids and even the adults to enjoy.  Other people have it.  We had two lawns growing up - three if you count the far back lawn.  It didn't seem too hard to grow or require that much upkeep.  I thought once we had it in, we were home free...  I was so wrong.

Our lawn is a time machine.  It sucks up hours, if not days at a time.  One day it's trimmed, green and beautiful.  I smile as I gaze at it with pride.  I work my 4 nights, squeezing in some quick sprinkler sessions when I get home and before I leave.  It all seems okay -- until it suddenly doesn't.  Dry spots, dull spots, brown spots, missing spots...  Grubs, moles, sage rats, sodworms, aphids, june beetles, crane flies, over watering, underwatering, seeding, feeding, insecticides, edging, filling, mowing, moving hoses, changing hoses, changing sprinklers, moving sprinklers.  My lawn is a Dr Seuss book just waiting to be written.  It takes all of my attention, all of my time and uses every last bit of patience I have left.  This is not fun.  This is not easy.  Then after spending all of my days off to care for the lawn -- it is trimmed, green and beautiful again.  I smile with pride as I drive down the driveway and then much to my dismay, the cycle repeats itself.

I've reached the point that I've put so much time and energy into it - I can't walk away from it.  I can't ignore those dry spots in the back and go enjoy myself at the lake for the day because I know, if I don't water them right away - they will turn brown and take weeks to come back.  I can't ignore the mowing.  It grows so quickly that if it doesn't get done -- it will be 10 times the work to get the cutting clumps raked off so they don't kill the lawn beneath them.  If I give the mole a chance - the dogs will find him and that means filling 15 large holes instead of just 2 small ones.  The grubs can eat the roots of very large chunks of lawn within a few nights.  That grass is dead.  It needs to be dug out and reseeded.  Bindy weed needs sprayed at first sight or it will spread voraciously.  Timers are a great idea but they limit water flow.  If I use the timers, I get half the coverage so it takes twice as long - or longer - depending on how many times I have to move the hose or change the sprinkler. 

So if you want to see us this summer (what's left of it), I'm afraid you will have to drive out.  I will pour you a glass of ice tea and you can sit on the deck and I will work on the lawn while we chat.  I haven't given up the battle yet.  The thistle infestation might send me over the edge but I'm not going down without a fight.  It's over the drainfield and really, who wants to hang out over that anyway. 

New Beginnings

 

We have a new addition -- Ruger, the latest little Corgi to join the pack.  He's sweet, stubborn and has already made a playmate of his sister, Josie Wales, who is just one year older.  He's been home for 3 nights now and has settled in well.  We are in the process of crate training and I swear I don't remember it kicking my butt like this in the past -- but that may have been due to sleep deprivation and memory loss.  It is the first time I have entrusted the dogs to dog sit for me while I took a much needed nap.  All is well that ends well and we sure love the little guy.

I am back on night shift at the hospital and will be spending more time back in the ER.  It's where I do the most good and feel like I'm in my element.  The old saying that if you make a job out of something you love, you'll never work a day in your life seems to fit my situation well.  I feel a bit rusty and out of sync but I'm sure it won't be long before the flow returns.  I love my job most of the time and I know enough to realize how lucky I am for that.  It's where I belong and I'm doing what I was always meant to do.  That is a satisfaction that I do not question.

It's been a tough year.  I thought the year my parents and my husband's dad got divorced was tough but it seems like just as the dust was settling from that is when my Dad died and everything that had been "unsettled" just came apart.  It's hard to lose a parent.  It's harder to watch your siblings experience that grief and know that there's nothing to be done to fix it.  I think I thought moving to day shift would make me more available to them to help fill some of the void my Dad left behind but I was wrong.  That void is too vast and nothing within my power will make any of this easier on them.  We all have to find our own way through it.  That being said, I sure miss him.  Every day I miss him.

I have a lot to be thankful for and even more still yet to do.  Crate train the puppy, clean the hot tub, fill the pantry, play in the dirt, save a few lives, laugh some good laughs and live the dream that we all call life.  I think that is the best way to honor everything my Dad made certain to ingrain in my existence -- to simply live it to the fullest and do the best that I can do.

The Harsh Reality

The harsh reality is that my adult coping mechanisms do not engage until noon.  I have given this 4 in the morning crap my best shot and I am not winning the battle.  I might be able to fake my way through a 6AM wake up call a few days a week and manage it but roll-call comes much earlier than that.  I can wake up on Island time and enjoy the day but intricate elements of my survival plan include umbrella drinks and beach-side siestas - and management refuses to sign off on either.  So...  I am left with the facts.  I will never thrive on day shift and oh - how I ever enjoy thriving!

My life is about smiling from the inside out.  It's about happy, goofy dogs playing in the sun.  It's about truly "being present" for the moment.  It's about sharing that energy with friends and family.  It's about resolving any possible problems before they happen.  I like having a plan.  I like to eliminate worries before they hit the horizon.  As my nephew Grady told his mom one morning, "Mom, it's Auntie A.  She takes care of everything.  There are NO worries..."

I can't do that at 4AM.  At that hour, I am grumpy.  I obsess about coffee.  I am resentful of my husband, still asleep in our nice, warm bed.  And I worry.  I worry about my patients.  I worry about my skills.  I worry about my charting.  I do things two, three, four different times because I don't remember actually doing it.  My brain is asleep, people.  I can't wake it up.  I don't enjoy chatter.  I am not present.  I am in survival mode.  Non-critical chit-chat pisses me off -- don't those people have more important things to do?  And where the hell is the coffee?!  There is no smiling on the inside, there is merely gritting my teeth on the outside.  I can't troubleshoot, I can't problem-solve and I certainly can not formulate a plan.  These are higher level thinking skills and non-existent in the brain that is simply fighting to survive.

And daylight savings time? It simply put me over the edge. This morning crap is crazy and to do it all one hour earlier than the week before - that's just plumb freaking nuts!

So I have begged my bosses to help me find a way back to night shift.  It's where I belong.  It's where "my people" thrive.  It's where all of the "told-you-so" friends are sitting back with a big ear to ear and all-too-knowing smile.

I am again smiling from the inside and happy to know that someday I will be back to my normal self.  Until then, just a suggestion; approach me cautiously before noon and perhaps even arm yourself with an extra cup of coffee - just in case.





The "make it all better" coffee mug.

Life

Reach.  Stretch.  Grow.  Love.  Dream.