Excuse Me....

I remember sitting at the supper table, about a million years ago, and listening to my parents talk about how quickly time goes by. I thought they were nuts. Summer lasted forever, and so did the day before Christmas.

Mostly, time stood still....

And now, finally, I see what they were talking about. What happened to Y2K? Remember? Everything that was dependent on a computer was going to come crashing to a halt. And we had bottled water and flashlights. I never understood that...

And nothing happened. But four days later, four days into a new millennium, my granddaughter was born. It was a trying time. The nurse couldn't start my daughter's IV, so I did it. The labor wasn't progressing but the baby's heart rate was decelerating with each contraction.

And so, there was a caesarian section....

And out came the most beautiful baby, with ruby red lips. She wasn't too happy about being disturbed, either. She was quite warm and cozy where she was, thank you very much! But she was fine. A wonderful way to start a new millennium, I'm thinking.

Well, in six days, she will be ten. Ten going on thirty. And, of course, I am wondering: where the heck did the time go?

She and I went out to dinner last night, just the two of us. She got the child's menu, which included a quiz about water usage. She read the questions out loud and had me answer them. It would seem that I am a “water wannabe”.......which is better than being a “water waster” but not as good as being a “water wizard.”

As she read them, and tallied my score, I was impressed with just how grown up she is getting to be. Well, until she let out a belch that would have made her boy cousins proud. I asked her “what do you say?” and she had several glib answers. I just kept asking until she finally said “excuse me....”

So, not all that grown up yet, I guess.

As I looked at the dancing brown eyes across the table from me, and watched the animated face of my little angel, I had to wonder what else might have happened in the last ten years. And could it compare with this sweet Child O'Mine?

Well, yes. There's Goggle Boy, too. And a high school graduation, and another teenager, too. And two more who speak Italian fluently, and a little bit of English, too.

I will leave the review of the news events and political ramifications of the last ten years to those who know much more about them than I do. I will continue to be amazed at the wonderful things that have happened in my life, and the lives that have joined with mine. In the end, it is those other lives that matter the most to me, and have impacted mine the most.

And now, as we enter the second decade of the new millennium, just two days from now, I simply can't believe how fast time has flown. So much of my life is behind me, but still, there are wonderful days and years ahead of me, too. I know that 2010 is going to be a life-changing, life-affirming year for me, and for those I love and hold dear.

2010 is going to be MY year!

Open Doors....

I just had one of the most wonderful Christmases of my life. No, I didn't get a new car, or diamonds, or anything spectacular. I got something much more important.

Open doors...

Yes, doors played an important role in my Christmas, believe it or not. It started with the new front door that isn't painted yet. Yes, I have started it, but it has not cooperated much. Something about paint, fiberglass and cold weather. I am not sure which was the main culprit but, they got together and ended my hopes of having a new door hung by Christmas.

Now, that didn't really bother me. I decided, early in December, that it didn't matter. I could spend my little bit of time off arguing with the door, or decorating the house for Christmas. It dawned on me that I could make a valiant attempt to finish the door and then, my friend, Steve, could say that he didn't have time to hang it for me.

It was Christmastime, you know.

And so, I decided not to try to paint it. With his help, we moved it into the guest room and called it a “decoration.” It will get finished this spring, when the weather is better. And then it will get hung, and next year, it will look beautiful, with its Christmas wreath in place.

All the doors got into the spirit of Christmas this year. Not with decorations but, by opening and closing, all day and evening long, for three days. I can say, without a doubt, that I have an open door policy at my house. Wonderful people, my special people, were in and out for the last three days.

I have an alarm system, too. So, comings and goings were announced by the beep beep beep beep of the alarm. When I heard it, I would go see who had arrived. It was always someone I wanted to see.

And the doors have a symbolic meaning to me, too. My house was filled with people who used to be married, and have remarried, and children from different marriages, and children who are cousins for their own reasons.

At one point, a former daughter-in-law of mine invited my granddaughter to go to her relative's home for dessert, and my granddaughter wanted to go. I told her that she might not know very many people there and her response was “So?”.....and off she went.

The age difference among the cousins and “cousins” didn't seem to matter, either. There were kids everywhere and things to do and see. Watching 10-year-olds greet each other with hugs is heartwarming, to say the least.

Adults were comfortable and calm and cheerful and kind. We were together because we wanted to be, and nothing else mattered. As I sat and listened to the conversations, I was overjoyed by the atmosphere that had been created: love and laughter were in abundance.

Doors to hearts were open, too.

Of Tacos and Titans...

As I bent down to unplug the Christmas tree lights, I hit my head on the wall. It didn't hurt, but it was a good enough excuse to let out the tears that were welling up in my heart. It was Christmas Eve, so long ago.

The family room was filled with the eerie glow from the light over the stove. All I could see on the tree was the red, green and white paper “chain” that the kids had made earlier in the day, while I was at work. Ever the inventive ones, they had fashioned each link of the chain in alternating shades of Christmas cheer and fastened them together with staples. A phone call at work, midday, from a child of mine, proudly informed me that the chain was the length of the house. By the time I got home, it was on the tree.

In the darkness, I looked around the room. It looked so different this Christmas. Not only was the tree out here this year, instead of in the living room, but all the furniture was gone, except for the ugly new couch, sitting forlornly in the middle of the room.

It had been a year of huge changes for me and my kids. My mother died just three months before Christmas, and my husband left a week later. And now, on the Eve of Christmas, he had finally taken his share of the furniture, leaving the family room barren.

A quick trip to the local department store had remedied that: first, my credit was approved; second, I was promised the couch could be delivered the very next day; and third, I picked out the least ugly of the three available couches. Done.

And now that ugly couch shared the family room with the Christmas tree and the only other object in the room: the television. For Christmas, I got my kids cable TV. I couldn't afford it, really, but I wanted them to have something to enjoy through the holidays. And they did. In fact, our Christmas Eve “celebration” was to sit together and watch “Clash of the Titans”.......not my choice, theirs.

As I walked into the kitchen, to turn off the light over the stove, I could still smell the tacos I had prepared for Christmas Eve Dinner. Again, the kids chose. No ham or turkey or beef roast for us; tacos, homemade, with all the fixings......served on my best china, too. Around the table, with candlelight, my kids and me.

Walking through the living room, it looked bare, too. Oh, it had plenty of furniture, but something was missing: the Christmas tree. I always put the tree in the living room. We always opened our presents on Christmas morning....in the living room. Not this year. Everything has changed. The Christmas tree is in the family room, by the television, waiting for the kids and me, tomorrow morning.

As I reached my bedroom door, I stopped. I turned around and headed back towards the front door. That's right, it's my job now: make sure the doors are locked and all the lights are out. I had forgotten. Again.

Finally, climbing into bed after a very long and tiring day, I wondered how I was supposed to survive all the upheaval in my life. A phone call earlier in the evening, from my family, had made me sad. They were all gathered in Oregon, at my brother's house, for the holidays. They were quite concerned about my father, as he spent his first Christmas without my mother in 44 years. He sounded good on the phone. Not happy, but hopeful.

And that is how I was feeling: not happy, but hopeful.

As I drifted off to sleep, I had another thought. What could possibly be worse than losing my mother, my husband, and all the family room furniture, just before Christmas? I had to smile as I realized that, as bad as it was, I was doing it. There were three kids asleep in their rooms, perhaps with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads. And in the morning, there would be meager presents to open, and more cable TV, and pancakes. Lots of pancakes.

Christmas came early that year. I received the best present I have ever received. Whatever happens, whatever befalls me, however sad and lonely I may think I am.....I can do it. I can make something out of nothing, and find cheer in the bleakest of times. There is always something good in everything that happens. Even in losing my mother and my husband....there was good.

I found my own strength....

I Met Santa Claus Yesterday…

Really, I did!

The Workshop, where all the toys are made, is at the North Pole. But Santa doesn’t live there. He lives in a small, rural farming community in Central California. It was my weekend to work and I was sent to teach Santa how to do wound care for Mrs. Claus.

Poor Santa! It was a very busy Christmas for him. Not only did he have all those toys to make and then deliver, Mrs. Claus had surgery on her back and got an infection. She is still recuperating from the ordeal. And Santa’s eyes were bloodshot….he has been pulling a lot of overtime recently.

He spent the month of December making public appearances in his little community, listening to the children as they told him their wishes, and then, carefully promising them that he would “do the best I can” to make their wishes come true.

As honorary mayor of his little community, he was the force behind the group that provided 900 children with Christmas gifts that they might not otherwise have received. Looking at the smile on his face as he told me, I could see how much being Santa means to him.

I didn’t realize that I would be seeing Santa. I just knew that I was going to a small community on the west side of the valley. I have a new definition for a small town: it was so small, they closed down the main street in town to take down the Community Christmas tree.

That’s a small town.

When I arrived at Santa’s house, I knew instantly that he is the real deal. I would know that laugh anywhere! He has beautiful white hair and he has shaved off his beard “for the spring and summer”. And yes, his stomach shakes like “a bowl full of jelly” when he laughs.

And he laughs often.

He took me into the bedroom and there, lying on the bed with her two dogs, was Mrs. Claus. She was just as I imagined she would be: white hair, rosy cheeks, constant smile, and a twinkle in her eyes. It was fun to watch the two of them interact: they have been married for sixty years and yet, they look at each other as if they just fell in love yesterday.

It was inspiring and it was sweet.

Santa was in the Navy in World War II. He was on a tanker that delivered airplane fuel to air bases in the South Pacific. He survived the torpedoing of his boat—twice! How do I know that? Because he said he would rather be on that boat, as the torpedo hit, than hurting his wife by doing the wound care.

He took instructions well.

In dealing with caregivers and wound care, I try to teach the logic and the end result, not a bunch of tasks. If people understand what they are trying to accomplish, and why, they are much more likely to remember what to do and to do it correctly.

It took him a long time to do the wound care. It is a complex wound but that was not the problem: he cannot talk and do the wound care at the same time, and he was talking a mile a minute! And I was enjoying listening.

He has a million stories to tell—or so he tells me—and so far, they are all very interesting!

When he finished doing the wound care, he was perspiring. I praised his accomplishment and he lit up with a smile. He helped his wife get more comfortable and tucked the covers in around her……it was very touching to watch.

Still talking almost constantly, Santa walked with me to the front door. He stopped talking and shook my hand. I could see there were tears forming in his eyes as he looked at me: “You know, she is my whole life and, I don’t know what I would do if……..” His voice trailed off and I gave him a hug.

It doesn’t surprise me that he loves his wife so much. Any man who could labor so hard, and so long, to make toys for all the children in the world, then spend a whole night delivering them, HAS to have a heart full of love.

And he does.

Gift Giving 101...

Tis the season to be jolly, yada yada yada.

Three weeks 'til Christmas, Peeps!

Need gifts? Well, you’ve come to the right place! Let Cali help you make short work of the whole gift-giving process in five easy steps, K?

First: make a list of all the people you might have to give a gift to…….try to think of everybody you might need to include.

Second: go through the list and make check marks next to the names of the people you least want to give gifts to….you know, in-laws, boyfriends, girlfriends, etc. Once you have checked them off, you need to put some effort into thinking of just the right thing……..to make them mad.

Rule #1: If someone is mad at you, you don’t have to buy them a Christmas gift.

Third: take another look at your much-shorter list. Who would fall for the “I‘m giving money to charity in your name this year” routine? Anybody? Hey, they don’t need to know that YOU are the charity you gave the money to, do they? Of course not!

Rule #2: If you say you gave to charity, you gave to charity! No more information is necessary.

Fourth: take a look at your pared-down list again. Is there anybody on that list that you can re-gift with the crap that YOU got last year?? Anybody at all? Did you keep a list of who gave you what?

Rule #3: If you re-gift, try not to give it to the person who gave it to you, K?

Fifth: If this list is any longer than three people, review the first 4 steps! After a thorough review, you are ready for the actual Christmas gift shopping. Before you leave, let’s check your outfit: jeans, shirt, jacket….check! Cute scarf, matching mittens, knit cap…..check! MasterCard…..check! Don’t leave home without it!

Rule #4: If you have to go Christmas shopping, you might as well look cute!

Hey, where are you going?? Not the mall!! You are headed to any “drug store” that is part of a national chain….Walgreens, Rite-Aid, CVS, Longs, you get the idea! Look for the gift card display.

First choice? A prepaid VISA card. Second choice? An I-tunes card. Third choice? A Borders card. Fourth choice? Okay, who is this finicky gift recipient? See Step #2!

Rule #5: If your Christmas shopping takes longer than 5 minutes, you’re putting too much effort into it…..

Now, when you have picked out the 2 or 3 gift cards that you need, it is time to turn your attention to gift wrap. You have two choices:

1) go through the process of finding a Christmas card for each person, you know, to tuck the gift card in, or

2) Buy one each: huge gift bag, tissue, and a brick. Place brick in bottom of bag, throw in gift card, cover with tissue and viola! Your Christmas shopping is DONE!

And the best part? There’s a good chance your gift list will be even shorter next year!

My Daily Bread....

Well, it’s Sunday night. I just finished ironing my uniforms for work this week. Before that, I did the supper dishes and found the kitchen counter. I like to do that on the weekend, and at least start the week with a kitchen counter.

I am always amazed at how fast the weekend flies by. Friday night, I was full of enthusiasm and ready to get lots of things done. As I listened to the football game being played at the stadium just five blocks away, I was happy, knowing that I had two whole days off!

And now it’s Sunday night. Where did the weekend go?

The list of things I wanted to accomplish this weekend was quite long, and unrealistic. But, being the eternal optimist, I had to think I was going to manage to get all of them done. Not even close.

I did go to the flag football game on Saturday. Mckay’s team lost but, he is always a winner, in Grandma’s book. And I got to visit with family, including my new daughter-in-law. I just realized: it’s the first time I have seen her since she and my son got married. Hmmmm…

And I did actually get a lot done this weekend. I visited with family and spent quality time with friends, too. I cleaned out some drawers that were long overdue for cleaning. And I put my suitcases away from my trip in July. Before I did that, I had to figure out when I think I might be traveling again. No use rushing to put them away if I’m going somewhere, right?

One of the things that didn’t get done was a trip to the grocery store. I don’t have a good excuse except to say that I really didn’t feel like it. Sometimes I am motivated to grocery shop but, not this weekend. It was just too much.

I remember when my boys were teenagers. They would hear the garage door open when I got home from the grocery store and they would come out—without having to be asked—and help me take the groceries in the kitchen. All I had to do was stay in the kitchen and start putting things away.

I thought it was sweet of them to help me. And I thought they were the greatest guys in the world. Little did I know that they were helping me in order to take inventory of what I bought at the store….Oh well.

So, last night, when it was time to forage for supper, I managed to come up with some eggs, an unopened package of bacon, and bread. Voila! Eggs over easy, bacon, and toast. It was delicious, nourishing, and satisfying. I promised myself that I would go to the store today….but I didn’t. And supper tonight?

Eggs over easy, bacon and toast….of course.

Thoughts About Ironing..

I love to iron. It is my hobby. No, really. It is.

You see, many years ago, I read something somewhere about hobbies. And how people don't have time to pursue their hobbies. It all sounded quite frustrating to me, as I was ironing and thinking about it. And then it dawned on me: it's about labels.

So, something I have to do became a hobby. It is the same thing as it was before—ironing--but now, instead of being a “chore” it is my “hobby.” So now I can honestly say that I have time to pursue my hobby.

I was raised by parents who believed that we needed to accomplish something. And I had trouble with that. It seems that I am proficient at daydreaming and there is hardly anything that comes of my daydreams.....so I don't accomplish much. Well, I didn't then, as a child. But now, as an adult, my daydreaming has been relabeled, too. It is called blogging.

I was talking to a friend today. He is ninety-four. He has the greatest name, and it is most unusual, too. I wish I could tell you but, alas, I can't. Somehow, we got on the subject of ironing. I told him that I always iron my uniforms, because I think nurses should look neat and pressed and professional.

He told me a long time ago that his mother was an RN. Today, when we were talking about ironing, he told me more. His father died when he was ten, leaving his mother a widow with three children. According to my friend, she then spent three years becoming an RN so she could support her children.

And then he told me about washing, starching and ironing her uniforms. It seems that she was very tired when she got home from the hospital, so he took on the ironing chores for her. I have this mental picture of a young, teenage boy, meticulously starching and ironing his mother's “cap and apron” for her to wear to work the next day.

It made me remember when I was about that age, too. I would set up the ironing board in the living room, early in the morning, to iron something to wear to school. Before I was done, my father and my brother had each deposited something on the board for me to iron for them, too.

I have never been all that fussy about ironing. I don't need to iron perfectly, or put in special creases and pleats. I just like to get the wrinkles out. And I was never fastidious enough to iron sheets, just the pillowcases.....years ago. And hankies. I used to iron my mother's hankies, too.

Yes, I have a hobby. Standing at the ironing board, accomplishing something. And daydreaming. If I had a dollar for every hour I have spent ironing, I would be rich. That's a lot of ironing....

And a lot of thinking...

Honor and Blessings..

I went to see a friend yesterday. She owns the antiques' shop where I used to have a booth. I haven't seen her in quite a while and we had a lovely visit.

She is the type of friend who really knows what it means to be friends: she would do anything for me, and knows she can count on me for the same. And, secure in that knowledge, we don't ask anything of each other. Just friendship.

I was in the shop to take her some things to sell. I have been collecting Stuff again, it would seem. Or perhaps more correctly, those treasures I couldn't part with before have been relegated to the stuff category. Whatever their designation, I took them to Sylvia.

Tall, thin, exuberant and topped with henna red hair, she is graceful and poised and very, very real. She loves to wear vintage clothing and hats. Yesterday, her outfit was quite conservative: denim gaucho pants and high-heeled boots. I didn't see her blouse: she was wearing a zipped-up leather jacket with a hood. Huge, dangling earrings completed the ensemble.

Sylvia is perhaps not the best educated woman I know, but she possesses more of the important life skills than most. She talks with her heart and listens with her mind. I have never heard her say a harsh word about anyone, ever. And she and I have talked.....a lot.

We talked about several of the dealers we both know, bringing each other up to date on what is happening with them. Elizabeth seems to be doing well. Karen still needs a knee replacement. Bonita has lung cancer, and this may very well be her last Christmas. And then, we talked about Jana Lee and her big Victorian house that she is remodeling. I have to laugh: Sylvia calls her Janet Leigh, as in the movie star, though I don't know why...

After more than an hour, I knew I had to get going. There was so much more that I needed to squeeze into my day. And Sylvia had to attend to the curious customers who had just walked into the store.

As we walked back toward the front of the store, she spied something in a display cabinet. She stepped in front of me, opened the cabinet door and pulled it out. After taking the price tag off, she handed it to me: a ceramic statue of The Infant Jesus of Prague.

Sylvia knows that that was something that I wanted. And she knows that I don't know why I wanted it, just that I did. I had asked her to keep an eye out for one and call me if she found one. And here, amidst all the pretty things in her shop, was exactly what I wanted.

He has peeling red paint on his long robes, touches of “gold” on his globe and cross, and a sweet, sincere face. And both of his hands. If you know the story of The Infant Jesus of Prague, having his hands is significant.

And now, he lives on top of the little box of drawers, hanging on a wall that needs to be painted, in my kitchen. At his feet is Feliz, the cat, who was purchased--from the artist who made him--many years ago by my son-in-law. The stories I have heard tell me that, if I take care of The Infant Jesus of Prague, and show him honor, he will give me whatever I ask for.

Since I don't need any more stuff, maybe He and Feliz can just watch over me....

Rain on the Roof....

It rained all night in Podunk. Or at least, it seemed like it did.

There is nothing more luxurious than falling asleep to the sound of the rain falling on the roof. As long as the roof doesn't leak. Knowing that those you love are safe and sound, too, makes drifting off to sleep a lovely task.

Rain is something that we don't get in the quantities we need around here. We have been in drought conditions for at least the last three years. Cities and municipalities create watering guidelines and some people just seem to ignore them. So rain is scarce and water is wasted.

I remember the nights it rained when I was a child. There was always something that had been left out in the rain, and running outside to retrieve it, I was likely to run into the rest of my family, doing the same thing. It must be a genetic trait.

Pleasant memories from long ago come to mind. My grammar school would let us bring our roller skates to school on rainy days. Our classrooms were in long rows, with windows on one side and an attached walkway along the other. Walkways at both ends connected all the walkways, so we could roller skate all the way around the school.

Teachers would stand at the corners (the “turns”) and blow their whistles if anyone was skating too fast or pushing others out of the way. More than a few of the boys thought skating during recess was a chance to train for “Roller Derby.”

I remember baking cookies and making hot chocolate for my children when they came in from school, after walking home in the rain. Sometimes, I would go pick them up, if I had the car, but mostly, I assuaged my guilt with milk and cookies. And sometimes, a neighbor brought them home for me.

Pleasant memories of rain in my life. That might be hard to imagine for someone who lives where it rains a lot, but in Podunk, rain is special. And it doesn't happen often enough. And so this morning, I am sitting here drinking my coffee, listening to the rain on the roof. And admiring the Christmas tree.

Maybe Christmas came early this year...

Starry Nights and Helping Hands...

I like to decorate with stars. They have a lot of meaning to me.

I bought a lot of glittery stars several years ago at the Mikasa outlet store. There, toward the back of the store, was a Christmas tree and all the decorations on it were for sale. I was looking at them and, when I spotted the stars, I decided I wanted all of them.

So, I was standing there, finding stars, picking them off the tree, and putting them in a shopping basket, the little ones you carry, not a cart. I was engrossed in my search and oblivious to my surroundings.

Well, apparently, there was this man who was watching me.....and he ended up walking over to the tree and, without saying a word, he started looking for the stars, too.

When he found one, he looked at me, then put it in the basket. Since I didn't object, he kept looking and kept putting them in the basket. He never said a word to me, nor I to him, but we worked together for at least five minutes.

He was a nice man. I mean, he looked nice. He was clean and nicely dressed and quite unassuming. It was not strange to me that he was helping me. I think, besides being nice, he was bored. My quest for stars gave him something to do. I am fairly sure that being in that store was not his idea.

And so, he and I picked the tree clean: all of the stars had made their way to my basket.

A little while later, after looking all around the store, as I walked up to the counter to pay for my stars.....that same man was holding the door open for a woman who was obviously his wife, and they were leaving. It was an odd sort of thing that I haven't forgotten...

It's those memories of Christmas past, and the simple acts of helping, that I cherish...

The Magic...

I have spent a lot of time today thinking about Christmas. Not about gifts, or shopping for them, but about the magic of Christmas. And wondering where my magic is.

I haven't done anything for Christmas yet. No gifts, no decorations, no baking. Nothing. Not a problem: I still have almost three weeks before Christmas is here. But, before I can get ready for Christmas, I have to find my magic.

It isn't that I am worried, mind you, because I know I will find it. I do every year. Regardless of what is going on in my life, Christmas will surround me and fill me with my magic. It always has. I will suddenly have the time and energy to do all the things that I think I want to do.

Twinkling lights everywhere. That's my fondest memory of Christmas. Twinkling lights in the sky, on the Christmas tree, and in people's eyes.

Everything looks better at night, with the lights twinkling. Christmas trees, cities and towns. Everything. I guess that, under the cover of darkness, the grit gives way to the twinkling light of hope.

I want to bake the cookies that warm up the kitchen and look so lovely on a platter on the brunch table on Christmas morning. I want to have candles everywhere and light them every evening. I want to see the living room with just the tree lit. I want to look around and see beloved faces smiling in the reflected lights from the tree.

A tablecloth on the dining table, Christmas dishes on golden chargers, goblets and candles and delicious food to eat. Christmas music playing softly on the stereo. Palpable excitement in the children's voices.

And the Nativity Scene that my mother bought for me, so many years ago, taking pride of place to remind us why we are celebrating. Baubles, and lights and sights and smells and sounds that bring it all back to me.....

I think it's here. In my home. And I just found it. The magic.....

It's in my heart!

Today, Tomorrow and Yesterday...

We have some history, this man and me. I have been seeing him since before his surgery. His cancer would be dissected out and then he could have radiation and chemo and possibly recover. No such luck: his surgical procedure was open and shut. Literally.

I always try to be cheerful when I see him. His grizzled countenance and steely blue eyes belie the gentle person inside. His stare is piercing. His words, short and meaningful. It took me a while to realize that he really isn't a bitter old man, he just likes to tease me. “How are you feeling today?” is met with “Terrible! But I'll be fine after you leave!”

His days and nights are spent in a hospital bed, strategically placed in his living room so he can look out the picture window. When he's able to talk his caregiver into it, he ventures outside, on the back patio, long enough to smoke a couple of cigarettes.

As he lay in his hospital bed today, I was listening to his heart and lung sounds and taking his vital signs. He was staring intently at me, looking to see if I betrayed what I was thinking by the look on my face. And I did not. He had to ask: “Is everything okay?” So I told him what his vital signs were, what the normal range was, and that he seemed to be just fine.

As I was putting my stethoscope away in my nursing bag, I looked at the photograph on the wall over the sofa; a handsome young man and his beautiful bride, standing behind a huge wedding cake, long, long ago.

She is gone now. Almost a year ago, and suddenly, too. I can see in his eyes that he misses her. I can see in the photograph that she was his life and his true love. And now, without her, he is struggling with his own fate.

I asked if he was on any new medications and my voice cracked as I said it. I hoped that he hadn't heard it and that his vision was not good enough to see the moisture in my eyes. I am a sucker for love stories. And clearly, this man loved his wife. Without her, he is floundering. Without her, he doesn't know why he should go on, much less how.

I was struck by all the intricacies of patient care and assessment. Physically, his vital signs were fine; Physiologically, his chances of surviving his diagnosis are slim to none. And psychologically, he has all but given up. There is only that one little spark......the teasing.

So I did what any good nurse would do: I walked back over to him and led with my chin: “I'm going to be on vacation next week, so you won't be seeing me....” His face broke into a huge smile and he fairly shouted “Good!” A couple of minutes later, as I walked toward the door, he said “have a great vacation and don't forget to come back....”

I felt the lump in my throat again as I thought to myself: When I come back.......Please be here!

I rushed to my car and got in before I let the moisture in my eyes flow.......

Please.....be here!

Life....At Six....

Goggle Boy was here yesterday. It is always interesting to watch him and listen to what he has to say, if he says anything at all. He hardly ever wears his goggles anymore: he is grown up now. He is six.

He has his very own place at Grandma's table, at the end, on an old bench. It suits him well: there is plenty of wiggle room. And room to launch, if he feels like launching. And I always try to sit next to him, if I can. I like to help him, if he needs it. He told us yesterday that he is a big boy and no one needs to spread the butter on his roll.

He can do it himself now.

There are lots of things he can do all by himself now. And he does them with great gusto. It is a rare moment to see him without a ball in his hands. He has loved playing with balls since he was just a toddler. A football now, a baseball last summer, and in about a month, a basketball.

It was fun to see him with his Italian cousin, when they were less than two. Both love playing with balls, and both said ball constantly. One in English, and one in Italian. And it was a bond, a connection between two cousins who could only communicate through their common interest.

The goggles happened later. He got them to wear when he went swimming. But he liked them and he wore them constantly. I think they gave him Super Powers. Or maybe it was the dishtowel cape. In any case, he looked adorable in his grandmother's eyes.

And yesterday, even without his goggles, he captured Grandma's fancy. Regaling me with stories of the “football party” he attended on Saturday. It was Reed's birthday. And yes, his best friend, Sam, was there, too. And the football game ended in a tie. How nice, everybody won.

Not so last winter. When Goggle Boy played city league basketball, the score was always the same. “We won! Ninety to nuthin'!” Of course, at just barely six, they don't keep score. It is all about learning to play as a team. And the coach gets to be on the court, too, helping his little guys learn the sport.

And “traveling”? No such thing. Little guys running down court, hanging on to the ball for dear life, was a common thing. Of course, Coach was close behind reminding him or her to “dribble the ball!. And usually, they would. I might add that the best shooter on the team was.......a girl!

But for now, Goggle Boy is content to throw a football any time he has a chance. He tossed it a few times yesterday, out in our street, with his dad. He doesn't need someone to play with though, he is perfectly happy throwing the football up and then running and catching it, all by himself.

Every time I look at the picture of Goggle Boy, it warms my heart. He is a unique little guy, and a good person, too. He takes his sports seriously, but not his life. He knows that he is destined for big things but, at six, it doesn't matter what they are. As long as he has a ball to throw, or catch, or kick, or hit.

Oh, and for Christmas? He asked Grandma for a tennis racket...

All Buttoned Up and Beautiful...

Those are the words Kathy Bates uttered when she found her money jar in the charred rubble of her home. It was only a movie, of course, called A Home of Our Own... As she shook it, then held it close, she was reassuring her children that they would be okay.

Sometimes, when things happen in close proximity, we are tempted to call it a coincidence. And sometimes, it isn't any such thing. Sometimes, thoughts, memories, and heartfelt desires converge and result in action.

But only sometimes....

Since I worked yesterday, my Thanksgiving meal was postponed until tomorrow. So today, I am busy baking pies and making stuffing for the bird.

And tomorrow around 1, my boys will join me and we will eat the traditional feast. Together around the table, my son, his two sons, and my oldest grandson, we will share the joy and remember those who cannot be with us.

I took a break from the meal preparations to go see what the mailman brought today. There, mixed in with advertisements for Christmas sales, and offers of significant savings on magazine subscriptions, was a little letter....

Not big, not fancy, not particularly showy, but packed with meaning. The local rescue mission is asking for help. And the letter starts: “Here's how your gift will touch thousands of lives this winter....” Well, of course, I had to read it.

It seems that they are going to be able to provide a complete turkey dinner, with all the trimmings, for just $1.92 per person. They plan on feeding 15,000 people this holiday season. And just as important, they will be providing 10,000 nights of safe shelter for people who would otherwise be sleeping in alleys, abandoned buildings, cars or other dangerous and inhospitable places.

Wow, that really struck a chord with me: dangerous and inhospitable places. I have noticed that those people never look at me when I drive down the street. I thought it was because they are embarrassed by their circumstances, and maybe they are. Or maybe it hurts to see the disdain in the eyes that look in their direction.

I saw the stark contrasts between living conditions just yesterday. One patient I visited lived with six other people in a rundown 2-bedroom apartment. They didn't have the money to buy his medications, and there was no hint of a festive holiday meal being prepared.

And, at another home, the food was in abundance: turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, string beans, corn, jello salad, fruit salad, rolls and more, much more. Still another home was beautifully appointed, with the most expensive things available. Though it was comfortable, and the people were very nice, I was taken aback by the contrasts between the places I had been.

And the little letter ends with this: We know your gifts are a sacrifice, especially in today's challenging economy. Thank you for caring! And there it was, all buttoned up and beautiful: the opportunity to share what I have with someone else.

So I am asking you to do the same, in your own community and in your own way: Find a need and embrace it!

Happy Holidays!

Blessings....

This seems to be the most popular time of year to count one's blessings. I think blessings are like socks: they come in all sizes, shapes and colors

but, as long as they keep your feet warm, they're good.

At times in my life, I have been short on socks, but never on blessings.

If someone has said “I love you” to you this week,

you are blessed.

If someone has called you today to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving,

you are blessed.

If you need the fingers on both hands to count your close friends,

you are blessed.

If you have a child's drawing on the door of your fridge,

you are blessed.

If you have an oven that works, and there's a turkey in it,

you are blessed.

If you are employed and you have today off from work,

you are blessed.

If you are working today and smiling about it,

you are blessed.

If every chair at your table will be filled at dinner time today,

you are blessed.

If you're alone and eat a turkey TV dinner, with your cat on your lap,

you are blessed.

If there's a little money in your wallet, and food in the fridge,

you are blessed.

I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I think that, sometimes, we look at the glass as being half empty and our mindset is on what we don't have, instead of what we do have.

Perhaps, in order to HAVE a blessing, you need to BE a blessing.....

I think I'll be a pair of rainbow socks today....

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Woe Is Me.......NOT!

I need milk. It's pretty hard to have twigs and milk for breakfast without the milk. Actually, twigs for breakfast is not all that great, even with the milk. But twigs are good for me and so, I eat them. It says “bran buds” on the box, but they look like twigs. And yes, they taste like twigs, too.

I thought about going to the store on the way home from work tonight. But then, so did everybody else in Podunk. Every store I passed had a parking lot full of cars, which means there had to be a minimum of one person per car in the store, right?

I am sure the popularity of the grocery stores this evening is directly related to the close proximity of the national holiday that is all about being thankful for our blessings and overeating. In order to overeat, there has to be food in the house. And food comes from the store.

Of course, it has to get to the store somehow, but that's not my problem. I've seen the commercials on TV: the hand comes out of the orange tree and gives the carton of orange juice to the lady shopper in the grocery store. I know how it works, really, I do.

So, I came home. I am hungry, so I am going to fix supper first, eat, and THEN go to the store. Tomorrow morning, as I toast a piece of bread for breakfast, I will chide myself for not going to the store tonight. I am not a pessimist, I just know how I am: once I'm home from work, I don't want to go anywhere.

I am lucky though. I am working on Thursday. I don't need to brave the crowds in the grocery store in order to get a turkey and all the trimmings.

On Black Friday, while everybody else is standing in line to get one of only TWO of the advertised doorbusters that is available, I will be in the grocery store, buying a turkey and all the trimmings.

I will get a small turkey, or a boneless turkey breast, stuffing mix, celery, onion, and walnuts to make it special, and shhhhhhhhhhhhh mashed potatoes in a box! You only have to serve REAL potatoes on the holiday, you can use boxed potatoes any other day of the year. Just don't tell Martha Stewart.

To me, the best part of the turkey is the leftovers. Turkey sandwiches, made with cream cheese and cranberry salsa are yummy! And then, all those little bits and pieces of turkey can be made into homemade turkey and rice soup, or turkey curry, served on mounds of fluffy rice as my

mother's recipe said.

Of course, as crowded as the grocery stores are tonight, they will be much easier to shop in on Thursday. I have never understood why the grocery store has to be open on Thanksgiving. I mean, if you forget olives, or cranberries, or something else, wouldn't you rather just do without?

That would be much better than having someone have to work on the holiday, instead of getting to be at home with family, I think.

It's different for me though. Right now, there is somebody in Podunk General Hospital, hoping he or she gets to go home tomorrow, in time to spend the holiday with family and friends. And somewhere in Podunk is a physician who will write the order discharging

that patient from the hospital.

The patient might have an IV antibiotic ordered, or a wound that needs care, or medications that he has to be taught to use. So, the physician will write orders for the home health nurse to visit him. And I will go see him on Thursday and make sure he is doing okay.

How cool is that?

Flies On the Butter.....

Norman Rockwell is not a friend of mine. I look at his art and it seems foreign to me. It is so different from what I plan to experience this holiday season.

Long ago, those holiday dinners existed. Generations around the table, lots of food and plenty of leftovers, laughter, stories, hugs and abundant love. What happened?

Life happened. We grew up, we married, we divorced, we remarried and we divorced again. There were steps and halves and ex’s and formers and friends. There seems to be a never-ending parade of changes…..life changes, time changes, and we change.

Even if I could somehow go back….no one would be the same. Nothing would be the same. Not just because we have all changed but because my memory plays tricks on me. Something that I remember dearly was probably not as wonderful as I think it was. Something that I remember as being tragic, or horrible, may not have been all that bad.

In one short year of my life, my mother was gone, my husband was gone, my father remarried, I remarried, and my older brother divorced and remarried. It seemed that we needed to wear nametags at our “Norman Rockwell” get togethers. I became a stepdaughter, a stepmother, a stepsister, a second wife, and a sister-in-law and daughter-in-law in less time than it took me to type this.

And now? The parents who loved me are gone. The mother-in-law and father-in-law who loved me are gone. The in-laws who never accepted me are still alive and still not speaking to me. The stepchildren and step grandchildren have disowned me…..and disavowed the part I played in raising them. My brothers are too busy with their own lives to worry about me at all.

I will be working on Thanksgiving, seeing patients in their homes. I will hurry my visits so I do not interrupt their holiday celebration any more than necessary. In return, I will go home to an empty house and a simple meal. And I will be “on call” until midnight.

I found out today that my son will be able to get his two sons for a couple of hours on the Sunday before Thanksgiving. We will cook all the traditional foods and sit down together to enjoy our meal as a family: mom, son, grandsons and son’s girlfriend. Norman Rockwell would paint more people into our picture, I am sure, but they won’t be there……

And we will enjoy ourselves. Traditionally, we go around the table and each of us will mention something that we are thankful for…….I will look at each person seated at the table and say that I am thankful for being with them.

After we eat and clean up the mess, and complain about how “stuffed” we are, we will go outside and play football….and I will win: nobody wants to tackle Grandma!

Under Construction...

I've been thinking...There seems to be a lot of road construction going on right now in Podunk. Everywhere I had to drive today was a construction zone. One of the main east-west arteries was closed a couple of blocks from where I needed to turn, and so I had to detour.

The main boulevard, running north-south, that leads to all the newer shopping areas, has been under construction for so long that I don't remember what it was like to NOT have heavy machinery everywhere. When they're through, the boulevard will be four lanes, each way. More traffic, more lanes, and more opportunities to miss your turn.

Oh well.

It also occurs to me that at least three projects recently have been to undo something that was done before. For instance, the street behind our office was a one-way, east, street for I can't remember how long and this year, it was reworked, repaved, and repainted. And now, it is a two-way street again. Of course, the hospital's new emergency department and emergency vehicle entrance are on that street, so maybe that is why it was changed.

Another project, last year or the year before, was to reopen a street that had been closed off as a “traffic hazard.” It seems that it was more of an inconvenience than a traffic hazard. Many people who worked at the county courthouse, or the country education department, were having to drive a considerable distance to get to work. And now, the street has been reopened and they have cut their commute nearly in half, supposedly.

I remember when Podunk got its first really huge, fancy department store. It was also the first building in town with an escalator. Not only could shoppers get to the second floor more conveniently, the escalator provided hours of entertainment to bored teenagers, preteens, and adventurous younger children, too.

Well, the department store declared bankruptcy and went out of business. Fortunately for Podunk, another department store chain came in and leased the building and opened just about two weeks ago. I won't tell you who they are, because they don't pay me to advertise for them. They do, however, sponsor a parade on Thanksgiving, but not in Podunk.

So many changes. Nothing seems to stay the same. Sometimes the changes make things better, and sometimes not. And, while I could complain about the expense for undoing changes that didn't turn out to be so great, I think I'll just be glad that someone, somewhere, wasn't afraid to undo something that wasn't all that great.

It's kinda like life, I think. Sometimes we do something, thinking it will be so great, and it isn't. And sometimes we are too embarrassed to admit that it was a mistake, and so, we live with it. I think Podunk has the right idea:

Sometimes a do-over is a good thing...

The Power of One...

So, I went to a class this morning. In nursing, we are always attending classes to learn new skills, new techniques, and new treatment modalities.

This one was different. For one thing, it was mandatory. That always gets my attention. I was signed up to take the class tonight but my caseload was down today, so I crashed the morning session instead.

I should have known that it would be different: there were tablecloths on the tables, a bowl of rocks in the middle of each table, peaceful music was playing, and when the class started, they dimmed the lights, too.

Two years ago, the nurses at my hospital were allowed to vote for the nursing theory that we wished to adopt at the hospital. We chose Jean Watson's Theory of Caring. If you go to her website, you see this written across the page:

Transforming Healthcare One Nurse at a Time

http://www.watsoncaringscience.org/

Yes, Nursing is a science and, as such, has many theories of nursing practice. In class today, I learned why we chose this one, and what it means to each of us. No dry rhetoric, no pat agenda, and no easy task, either.

The class was not only designed for us, it was presented by our nurses. Each caritas in the theory was illustrated by the story of one nurse, making a difference in one or more lives, in our hospital. Each story was told by the nurse who lived it. And all the stories were included in the booklet we received.

I found that, as the stories went on, I had moisture in my eyes and a lump in my throat. The simple acts performed by these caring nurses, the lives touched by their selflessness, and the enormity of the impact we can have, as nurses, in the lives of so many people....is mind-boggling.

To present Nursing Theory in such a personal way, through the use of stories and voices of our colleagues, right here in Podunk, was truly inspirational. I knew that I had the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others; that's why I chose to become a nurse. What I didn't really realize is that so many others feel what I feel and see it the way I do, too.

Before we left, we were asked to pick up one of the rocks in the bowl in the center of the table. We wrote our name on one side of it (in metallic gold ink...how cool is that?) and then, on the other side, we wrote something that we give to our patients, every day, to demonstrate our caring.

And what did I write? TIME...

A Hundred Million Miracles...

Yes, that's the title of a song from “Flower Drum Song...” and was sung by Miyoshi Umeki in the movie. It has always been my favorite song from that particular musical.

It seems to me that it is even more appropriate now, in these times. Why? Because we need to see the miracles that surround us everyday and let them renew our faith and hope.

We live in a miraculous world in less than stellar times. War, poverty, economic downturns, mistrust, mismanagement of resources, and an ever widening gap between the Haves and the Have Nots......impede our ability to see the good in life.

And yes, there is good in life. Lots of good things happen, every day. Not always to us, but certainly around us, if we will just look. Did the sun come up at dawn today? Were there stars in the sky last night? Did you wake up alive this morning?

Of course, you're right: way too oversimplified. I have a tendency to do that, you know. I reduce things to the lowest common denominator and come up with much better equations than lots of other folks do. Is it because I am Simple Minded? Or Simply Mindful of the abundant good around me?

Is it because I live a charmed life and have never known tragedy? Or poverty? Or the myriad of things that can take us to the depths of despair? Or is it because I have made a conscious choice to find the happy and cherish it?

Finding your own happy doesn't mean ignoring the plight of others. I am touched, every day, by the horrible things happening to others. Can I do anything about it? Sometimes, I can. As a nurse, I can say or do something to help others. Often, it isn't much that I can do, but it is something. And often, a single act of kindness, or morsel of hope, is enough to keep someone going for another day.

As the holiday season approaches, I am hoping that we can all share what we have with those who have less. It doesn't matter what holidays you celebrate, or how different your beliefs are from mine. We all know someone who needs help, and we all have something we can share.

There is no sparkly bauble, no worldly object, and no amount of money that can make me feel better than the mere knowledge that something I did made life a tiny bit better for someone else. And yes, you could say that is selfish of me: giving to others so I can feel good about myself. Guilty as charged.

I am involved in a couple of projects this year. One of our home health agency patients is moving out of a very small travel trailer into a seniors' housing complex. We are finding furniture for his apartment. The local Emergency Aid group is desperate for non-perishable items to feed the poor and the homeless on Thanksgiving, and again on Christmas.

Our hospital is collecting “Coats for Kids” and the local motorcycle club has their annual “Toy Run”....collecting toys along their route and ending up at the Recruiting Center to give the toys they collect to the Marine Corps' Toys for Tots.

So, if you must, complain about the economy, the government, global warming, and all that other stuff. When you are through, go look at the face of a child, sitting on Santa's lap, receiving the only toy she will receive this year. Look at her bright eyes, her sweet smile, and the ragged clothes she is wearing. Watch her as she clings to that Baby Doll that someone bought and donated.

Holiday cheer and generosity start with you and me. Let's each make at least one of those hundred million miracles happen during this holiday season...

Marty...

Sometimes, you meet someone you like immediately. Marty is like that. Outgoing, talkative and funny, I was glad that I had been sent to be his nurse.

He lives out north of Podunk, off a dirt road, in the country. When I arrived, the chain link gate was closed and locked. I called him on my cell phone but, before he answered, I saw him walking toward the gate.

He waved a big wave and smiled a big grin. I knew he was my patient, and that I was at the right place: his wife told me Noah's Ark was out front. Back toward the south of the property, propped up on supports, was a huge ark, rusty and derelict, but obviously once seaworthy.

Marty didn't meet me at the gate by himself; he brought his “posse”.....four dogs and a very curious cat. And chained to the fence, on a long chain, was Lucy, the goat. As we entered his home, he showed me his bird, “Tweety” and there, perched on the swing in the very large birdcage, was a plastic version of the cartoon character. “He's easy to take care of!” Marty said with a laugh.

Short and stocky, with a wild mane of silver hair, Marty couldn't look mean if he tried. He ushered me into the living room and offered me a chair.

He sat down near me on the sofa. And then it started. For the next hour and a half, he regaled me with stories of his life.

“You know, I'm a third grade graduate....” he said as he looked at me with his intensely brown eyes, waiting for my reaction. I just kept smiling and so he explained: his parents came here from Spain. They spoke no English and worked in the fields. He didn't have a chance to continue in school because his parents followed the crops.

Somewhere along the way, his father saved up enough money to buy a big rig and started making a living by hauling whatever anyone would pay him to haul. Marty learned to drive a truck before he learned to drive a car.

When he was sixteen, he saw a piece of paper tacked to the wall next to the phone in a truck stop. Some guy in El Paso, Texas, was looking for a truck driver. Marty called him and set up an interview. One of the guy's drivers was going to be in a nearby town in a couple of days and he gave Marty a ride to El Paso.

The driver, a guy named Joe, let Marty drive the truck most of the way back to Texas. When they arrived at the trucking company, the owner took one look at Marty and told him “I'm not going to hire you....” Marty, far from being discouraged, asked him why.

“You're too small, you wouldn't be able to change the tires, on the road.” With that, Marty showed him exactly what his father had taught him: he put some axle grease on a board, put it under the tire, and pulled it off, single-handed.

Still not convinced, the owner asked Marty if he knew how to fix tractors, and Marty said he did. By the time he had the old Ford tractor running, he had a job. Thrilled, Marty vowed to make him glad that he took a chance on him. Over the next decade or more, the truck owner taught Marty everything that he needed to know about the trucking business, and taught him to speak English with a Texas drawl.

A dozen years later, at the ripe old age of 28, Marty had made enough money to buy his own truck and start his own business. Watching him talk

about his past was a treat. The sparkle in his eyes was refreshing. His laugh was contagious. And his intelligence was abundantly obvious. I can only imagine where he would be and what he would be doing, if he had had the opportunity to finish high school, at least.

After assessing his wounds, and reviewing what he was doing to care for them, it became clear to me that I could not admit him to home health services. He knew what to do and how to do it. He understood the reasons for taking each of his medications, and he was going to see his physician in a few days, too.

After a delightful visit, I had to leave my new friend and get back to work. Still smiling over his stories, and with a bag of apples that he insisted that I take, I headed for my car. He was fascinated by the Prius and had to see all of it. His cat liked it, too: we had to convince her to get out, so I could leave.

And before I left, he made me promise that I would come visit him again. I did, because I want to take pictures of the ark. And Lucy, the goat.

The Finger Man...

Not everything in life is black and white. The shades of gray can be overpowering. Choosing which way to turn can be difficult, too. Black? White? Gray? Sometimes, circumstances, or ethics, make the choices for you.

A very long time ago, I worked in the Recovery Room. There were usually four RN's working in there, with a nursing assistant to help us. There were six stations; each could accommodate two patients, with telemetry, automatic blood pressure cuffs, and oxygen available for each. There was a writing surface in the middle, so the nurse could chart while taking care of the patients.

It was a fairly quiet day in the operating room. There were lots of surgeries being done, but the patients were moving smoothly through the process. Each time the double doors to the operating room burst open, a gurney, surrounded by OR personnel, would enter the Recovery Room.

Whichever nurse was going to take the patient would raise her hand and direct the parade to her station. As the OR nurse gave report, the Recovery Room nurse was putting the oxygen mask on the patient, hooking up the telemetry, and placing the blood pressure cuff. Wounds were looked at and orders reviewed.

And then, as quickly as they swooped into the room, the OR crew was headed back to the operating room to do it all over again.

And the Recovery Room nurse watched over the awakening patient, monitoring vital signs closely, and offering comforting words: your surgery is over, you're in the recovery room now. Are you warm enough? Are you having any pain?....

This day was no different, with surgical patients coming to us, then going to their rooms. In and out, for most of the morning. And then, our manager asked me to move to the sixth station, the one we didn't use very frequently. I moved a couple of gurneys that were parked there, put oxygen masks and tubing on the oxygen outlets, ran a test strip on the telemetry, and prepared for my patient.

The doors burst open, and the scene was repeated: gurney with patient, and a parade of OR personnel accompanying it. Only this time, it was different. There were two men in uniform, one on each side of the gurney.

I got the patient hooked up to the oxygen, the telemetry, and the blood pressure cuff. I put the cuff on his left arm because his right hand was elevated on a pillow, and bandaged. The OR nurse gave me report: he had surgery on his right index finger. His trigger finger. He had been holding a gun, and a police officer shot it out of his hand.

I was busy taking care of my patient, watching his vital signs and talking to him to help him wake up. When he did wake up, he started yelling that he was in pain. I started to walk the five or so steps to the narcotics cabinet, to get the pain medication that was ordered.

One of the officers spoke: “don't give him anything, he doesn't deserve it!” I stopped, and looked at him, and saw that he was serious, and angry. I turned around and continued my trip to the narcotics cabinet.

The other officer, on the other side of the bed, looked at the first one and said “You're no better than he is!” And I looked at him and saw that he was angry, too. I drew up the medication that was ordered, walked back to the patient and gave him his pain medication, in his IV. He settled down almost immediately.

Approximately 2 hours before that young man came to me on a gurney, he walked into a local pawn shop and demanded money. After the owner complied with his order, the young man shot him dead, at point blank range. He was apprehended about two blocks away, and that is where his gun was shot out of his hand.

When he left the Recovery Room, he was taken to the same day surgery department for another couple of hours, then booked into the county jail on murder charges.

Now, there are lots of issues here, concerning motives, the loss of an innocent life, justice, and even the death penalty. How did this young man come to be a murderer? What did he need that money for? What did the shop owner do to upset him, if anything? Will he receive due process? And on and on and on.

None of that mattered in the Recovery Room.

Stopping the Buck...

I have done what I do for over 30 years. I have learned more than I thought my brain would hold. I have had experiences that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And times and things have happened that I truly wish I could recreate, over and over again.

One thing that has never changed? The buck stops here. And that is the hardest part of being a nurse. In the public's mind, a nurse is a nurse, is a nurse. White shoes, scrubs, stethoscope around his or her neck and voila! A nurse.

I remember working an evening shift many, many years ago. I was in nursing school, and I worked for the experience and for the money to pay for school. I was on the surgical unit that evening, taking care of patients who had recently had surgery.

Our nurse that evening was also one of our nursing school instructors. I admired her for spending her vacations from school working as a registered nurse in the hospital. She was keeping her skills current and that was the type of instructor I wanted to have.

Back in those days, the unit only had one or two registered nurses working the evening shift, augmented by an LVN, or LPN, and several of us nurses' aides. While those of us who were nurses' aides felt like we were doing the lion's share of the work, it was actually the registered nurse who was making things happen.

So, on this particular evening, as I was busy with my tasks, taking vital signs, changing sheets, taking dinner trays to patients, and dumping wastebaskets, I felt like I was very busy and working very hard. And so were my teammates, the other three or four nurses' aides. Actually, two of us were not nursing assistants, we were Student Nurse Aides: students in the nursing program hired to work on the nursing units as nurses' aides, gaining more experience.

The surgical floor can be a very busy place, as I was to find out after graduating from nursing school. Things happen in the blink of an eye and it takes a skilled eye sometimes to see the subtle changes.

This particular evening, nothing out of the ordinary was happening. One of the ordinary things that was going on was all the IV drips. Usually, more than half of the surgical patients had IV medications to be given, and that function was the exclusive domain of the registered nurse.

So there I was, working with and for one of my instructors. She told us we could call her Dianne, since she was working as a nurse and was not there as our instructor. I found some sort of evil delight in finding her and reporting: “Dianne, the IV in Room 23 is almost empty....” just to watch her scramble.

After doing so about six times, for six different patients, she looked at me in sheer frustration and asked me to slow the IV down. I had to remind her that I was only a nurse's aide and I could not do that. Even though I had done it many times as a nursing student, I was not there in that capacity and I simply could not touch the IV.

Should I have slowed down the IV drips, to help her out? Well, maybe I could have, but then, you have to remember: she was my instructor, and I was afraid of being kicked out of school for performing duties beyond my scope of practice. Not an imagined fear, either, as it had happened to another student in a similar situation.

That was back in the days when IV fluids were in glass bottles. Any additives had to be added by the registered nurse before hanging the bottle and connecting it to the patient. I did help her out by gathering supplies for her: putting the right additives with the right IV solutions, and setting out syringes and alcohol swabs for her. In the end, she was the one who had to make sure that the IV solution was correct, the additive was correct, and the drip rate was correct.

And frequently, rushing into a room to hang a new bottle of IV solution meant finding an IV that had to be restarted. Also a job for the registered nurse.

It soon dawned on me that, as a nurses' aide, I could see things, and report things, and assist the registered nurse as she did her job, but I always had someone else to report to. I always had someone higher up on the food chain to hand off the problem to. And so, I learned an important lesson that evening...

In the world of hospital nursing, the buck stops with the registered nurse.