Choo Choo Trains

When I was very young, my daddy went away on business trips. A lot. He was the advertising director for a company in Lindsay, California. He went to New York frequently and to Argentina once. And I know he went to Albuquerque at least once: he brought me a Native American doll.

We went frequently to the train station to take him to the “choo choo” train. Trains operated on steam in those days….the sights and sounds are still in my head. I remember the rhythmic sound of the wheels turning and gaining speed and the “whoosh” of steam as the train pulled into the station. And, of course, the mournful cry of the train whistle, muffled because I had my hands over my ears.

I don’t think I understood the concept of traveling on the train when we first started taking Daddy to the station. I just knew that, if my daddy was gone, we would go there and he would appear at the train door. I loved to go get my daddy: he always brought me a present. And it wasn’t always a doll, either. Sometimes it was just something special, like a napkin with the picture of a train on it. I would put all my treasures from my daddy in a pink jewelry box with a ballerina on top.

My daddy traveled extensively during most of my early years, promoting products and securing orders for olives from purchasers all around the world. I was used to the routine: take him to the train, wait several days, and then go pick him up again. We always got to have ice cream to celebrate when Daddy came home.

The year I was four was pretty hard for us: my mom “went away” for nearly four months. I was never told why she went away, I just knew that my mommy was gone and my daddy was trying to keep everything together and work all the time, too.

I spent a lot of time with a babysitter. I don’t remember much about it except that the other kids took their naps on mats on the living room floor and I got to take my nap on her bed. And I got to listen to records on a little record player in her room, too. She seemed to like me, she would always tell me “you poor little baby, your mama’s gone away”….and it would make me sad.

My mother came home just before I started kindergarten. I went to afternoon kindergarten on the bus. We were picked up right in front of our house and dropped off there, too. Mommy was always home and usually had cookies and milk for me after school.

One day, the bus dropped me off and I walked up to the house, just like I always did. When I tried to open the door, it was locked. I tried again, it was still locked. I went through the side gate to the back door: it was locked, too. I started to panic! I ran back around to the front door and pounded on it. No answer. I peeked in the window: no mommy.

I was scared! My mother had left me for those four months and I thought she was gone again. I started to cry. I walked next door to the neighbor’s home and pounded on her door: no answer! By this time, my heart was pounding and I was sure I had been abandoned. I didn’t know what to do so I sat on the front porch and cried.

Nearly an hour later, the neighbor lady drove up to our house. My mommy got out of the car and ran up to me and picked me up and hugged me. I couldn’t stop crying and my mother was crying, too.

She was taking my daddy to the train station and was planning to be home before the school bus got there but, she had a flat tire. She called the neighbor lady who came to pick her up and bring her home. Later that evening, some men from our church went and fixed the flat tire and brought our car home.

I stopped liking the choo choo train after that…….

Angels Among Us

Some people might have a problem with the concept of ethereal beings, graced with beautiful white wings, seen in glowing bright rays of sun and known as angels. True, it is hard to accept, at times, but I submit to you that they do exist. How do I know? Because, kind people, I am one.

Sent to places and people not of my own choosing, to give comfort and show compassion for the pain and suffering that they feel. Sent to help them survive and start to recover. Sent to make sure that they can stand up when they need to stand, and provide a cushion when they fall. And they do fall. Hard. And I am there, waiting to catch them.

Holding hands that are dying and hearts forever. Bearing witness to the hurtful journey to Ever After. Offering words when I can, comforting silence, or a simple song. Quietly, consciously bringing about inner peace where there was turmoil, kindness and caring where there was indifference, and love in the absence of any sense of feeling.

I never know when the next person might appear, or what tragedy has befallen them. I sometimes don’t even realize I have been sent to help until it is all over. Since I am as human as you are, I have also had my own feelings crushed in the process of doing what I was sent to do. I have truly loved the someone I was sent merely to help. I have seen them die, in spite of my help but then, I do not write the plan. I am an instrument of that greater plan; a human with frailties that do not allow me to see the whole picture.

Bringing joy and sunshine to a man for months, not knowing I was sent there. Until after his death, when his daughter told me that my visits were the highlight of his days for the last six months of his life. Being mentioned in an obituary as the family’s “angel” during their mother’s last days. Holding a mother as she sobbed after watching her own little angel leave this earth.

I took the aptitude tests in high school: I was considered to be “mechanically inclined” and creative. In the sixties, that correlated with being a seamstress. I don’t remember any questions about compassion, or empathy, or being an angel. I wasn’t an angel then. I hadn’t earned my wings yet.


I don’t know why I was chosen to be an angel. Whoever made the decision has been there since the first day I set foot in nursing school. I was visited by an angel on my first day of nursing clinicals. To everyone else, she looked like a patient, suffering from incurable cancer and failing fast. To me, she was sent from above: she gave me the courage to do what I needed to do to be her nurse for that day, and she taught me things that cannot be learned in a class: to be an angel you must have acceptance, kindness, respect, and an open, loving heart.

If you think I am bragging, or full of myself, please consider the job description for being an angel. I suffer, every day, with others. I hurt when they hurt, I cry when they cry, and I serve as a verbal punching bag when they are angry with the situation, and I hug them and hold them for hours. I use my wings to encompass them and make them feel secure. I also use my wings to soar above the pain and suffering and gather more sunshine.

I have my moments, too. I am so weary and sad that I think I cannot function. I think I cannot do my angel thing any longer. I am down, and out, and crying. And just then, an angel is sent to help me.

Stand and Deliver

January 20, 2009: an historic day in American history. Never before has a man of color served as our Commander In Chief, our President. Our hopes for a better future are riding on his shoulders.

Or are they?

He is just a man. A human being like the rest of us. A son. A husband. A father. And a politician who was elected to the highest office in our government. He will shape our world.

Or will he?

He will make decisions. Lots of decisions. And those decisions will affect the lives of literally millions of people.

Or will they?

I am not questioning Barack Obama’s ability to lead this nation out of insanity and bring back peace and a decent life for all of us. Not at all. I am questioning us. Why is it Mr. Obama’s job to lead this nation back to sanity? What makes it his responsibility, solely? He didn’t make this mess, why do we expect him to clean it up by himself?

Why indeed?

I propose that the problems belong to all of us. Therefore, we are all responsible to find and institute the solutions. Stop ravaging our natural resources. Stop squandering our citizen’s lives in needless wars. Stop depending on others for the necessities of everyday life. Stop feeding greed and starving our people.

Stop it!

Can Barack Obama bring this country back together again? Can he stop the downward spiral? Can he bring back good old American Pride? A “Can-do” approach to solving our problems? Can he inspire us the way John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King did? Can he bring back hope?

Why should he?

One drop of water is insignificant. Bind that drop of water to another drop of water, and another, and another, and so on, ad infinitum, and you have an ocean. If each of us reach out to one other person, and that person reaches out to someone else, and someone else, and someone else, and so on, we can help our new President do what must be done to reclaim our country and bring our soldiers home. And we don’t have to do much, just:

Stand and Deliver

Turn It On, Wind It Up, Blow It Out, GTO….

I was thinking about the good old days tonight. I was talking to a friend today and he mentioned AMC Barracudas……and didn’t think I would remember them. Well, I do. I told him that Barracudas were just “Muscle Car” wannabes……

And that’s what got me thinking about the good old days. When songs had tunes, and words, and you could dance to them…….and they had meaning, too. Yeah, there were the protest songs, and the folk songs but, nothing quite compared to the car songs…..

“Little GTO, you’re really lookin’ fine. Three deuces and a four-speed and a 389”……wow! That’s powerful stuff. Of course, gas was a lot cheaper then, too…..Muscle Cars were gas hogs…….

”Listen her tack it up now, listen to her wind…..come on and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO…..”

Take her out to Pomona and race a quarter mile……Revving her up, waiting for the green on the Christmas tree…….pop that clutch and we’re outta here!

Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah, Wah…………Little GTO.

“Gonna save all my money and buy a GTO. Get a helmet and a roll bar and I’ll be ready to go….”

“Little buddy, gonna shut you down!”

Oh yeah, Baby! Those were the days!

Barney, Ethan, and Nurse Cali...

Sometimes, I feel bad about getting paid for what I do. Not bad enough to refuse my paycheck, though. Today was one of those days.

Not the whole day, mind you, but definitely this afternoon.

I went to see my little six-year-old patient with the grand mal seizures. I have to poke her with a needle once a month and flush her mediport. She calls it her “drink.” Mom puts Emla cream on the site at least half an hour before my visit. It numbs the skin and makes the needle stick less painful.

The whole visit takes place on the living room floor. Mom, patient, little brother, Ethan, and I all sit on the floor. The patient lies down next to me and lets me poke her with a needle. I can usually insert the Huber needle, flush, aspirate and flush again, and remove the Huber needle in less than a minute. That’s good because that is about the length of the patient’s attention span. Mine, too.

After the “drink”, I take everybody’s vital signs. And then everybody signs my paper. First, Ethan signs, then the patient, then Mom, and finally, me. It’s just how we do things.

Well, today, Ethan was feeling good. He got to stay up from his nap so he could see me. I have blogged about Ethan before: he is the cutest kid on this planet. Today, he gave me my hug and then decided he wanted to sit on my lap. Well, since we were all on the floor, he sat on my legs. I was bouncing him up and down on my legs and he was making funny noises. The patient was laughing and mom was enjoying having someone else entertain her two active offspring.

Somebody mentioned Barney and I started singing “I love to eat, eat, eat, apples and bananas…..” You should have seen Ethan’s eyes: big as saucers! Who cares if I know how to access a mediport, I can sing Barney songs! And sing them, and sing them, and sing them…….More encores than a Diva!

Mom was telling me about the new nurse at the patient’s school. It seems that, when mom picked the kids up at school today, the school nurse wanted to know: “who is Nurse Cali?” Apparently, the patient has been talking about me all day for the past two days…….she knew I would be coming to see her today.

It’s really not a big deal……..I let Laney tickle me and I act surprised. I laugh when she makes her funny faces. I let her play with my pulse oximeter…….she gets to “check” everybody’s oxygen. And, when she roars at me, I act scared… I poke her with a needle and she kisses my cheek and says “thank you” when it’s over……

Mostly, I just enjoy sitting on the floor and playing with the kids…..they love me and I love them.

Barney? Not so much…….

“Nurse Cali”

Cali 'Splains Politics.....

Caveat: I am not a political pundit. For two very good reasons: 1) I don’t like politics; and 2) I don’t know what a pundit is.

I do, however, understand politics quite well. I will ‘splain it to you so you can understand, too. I think it is important that we all understand how politics works. Oh, and the word “politics” is interchangeable with “government” “bureaucracy” and “hogwash.”

To make it easier for you to understand, I will present the facts (?) in definition form:

Politics: the catalyst that transformed “democracy” into “bureaucracy”. I am not sure of the chemical formula but I do know that hot air was involved.

Political Parties: most people think the two main political parties are the Democrats and the Republicans. Or Liberals and Conservatives. Or Donkeys and Elephants. Actually, I think they are all donkeys but, that’s just my opinion. No, political parties are where the government entertains itself and it usually involves booze and hookers.

Elected Representatives: these would be the hand-shaking, baby-kissers from last October. Some of them returned to oblivion. The rest just went away; they are the ones you elected. They are in Washington, attending political parties. You will probably never see them again.

Lobbyists: these are the people you don’t know, you don’t see, and you didn’t vote for. They run the government. Next time someone tells you to write to your congressman, do so. Ask him which lobbyist you need to contact to get things done.

Sub-Committees: these are smaller groups of legislators who gather together to get themselves on TV. The better known sub-committees, the ones with the money, get to be on C-SPAN, CNN, and MSNBC. Occasionally, a congressman will make the big time: Oprah.

Congressional Pay Raise: Once a year, I am called into my boss’s office for my “evaluation”. I am shown graphs and charts that demonstrate my “productivity” and then, guidelines that were used to determine my “Pay for Performance” raise. I wish I could just vote myself a pay raise. If Congress was evaluated the way I am, being in Congress would be volunteer work.

Legislation: a difficult topic to define. I will try to make it easy for you. Say you’re an elected representative, and you want to introduce legislation in Congress to improve something innocuous like, say, healthcare. Okay, your “legislation” is your healthcare reform bill. Let’s call that the boy rabbit. He is a good rabbit but, he is lonely. So, your friend, another elected representative, has a good idea for legislation, too. Let’s call it a girl rabbit. You help him, he helps you, so you put them together.

Unfortunately, by the time your boy rabbit, Bill, gets to the floor of Congress for a vote, you have, like, a million rabbits! And one of the little mutated rabbits is evil and sinister so, all those people pushing the “aye” or “nay” buttons push their “nay” buttons. And really push my buttons, too.

One of my buttons is Immigration Reform. Now, I ask you, if we don’t let “foreigners” in our country, who will pick the oranges? Or cotton? Or serve as nannies for our Congressmen? Besides, a very long time ago, someone named Francis Scott Key wrote our National Anthem. Does it, or does it not, start with:

“Jose, can you see?”

I hope this helps you! I have been thinking about it because I am going to the Inauguration Ball. It is in less than three weeks so, I hope I get my invitation soon! I am going to wear my red taffeta ball gown, my 4-inch stilettos, and, of course, my tee-ARRA. Look for me on CNN…….I’ll wave to you!

The Death of Innocents

I first posted this about eight months ago. I have written a lot of blogs since then.....I wanted to revisit this event because it was a very poignant moment in my nursing career.....

When I read in the paper that a small child has died, I am sad. My thoughts and prayers go out to that Tiny Innocent’s family. Let me tell you what it is like for The Forgotten Ones:

The call came through mid-morning: “truck vs. toddler, major internal injuries, prepare for emergent surgery.” As charge nurse in the operating room, this type of call was the hardest to handle. I found a room that was just finishing up a surgery, put them on standby, and raced off to the ER.

In the ER, inside the crowd of nurses and doctors, was a Tiny Innocent: wispy brown hair, pink cheeks, pouty pink mouth, pink overalls, ruffled shirt, and one pink sock. Her eyes were closed; she wasn’t moving. The surgeon interrupted my observations with a curt order to “set up for an exploratory laparotomy, NOW!”

I called back to the OR, spoke to the circulating nurse for the room I had already commandeered, and was told: “we’re ready!” The surgeon and I transported the Tiny Innocent, on her great big gurney, to the operating room.

We worked feverishly, nearly silently, preparing her for surgery. The silence was interrupted only by the surgeon’s orders; those orders were carried out immediately. In what seemed like an eternity, the surgeon asked me to call the ICU and make sure a room was ready for us: “tell them to have the family all gathered together, and get the Chaplain in there, too.”

As I spoke to the ICU charge nurse, my voice broke, and I couldn’t help crying. “I’m sorry” I said. “It’s okay, I understand” she replied. The surgeon couldn’t repair the damage to this Tiny Innocent; we were going to take her upstairs, to ICU, on a ventilator, and let her family say goodbye. I asked the ICU charge nurse to call me when they were ready.

The ringing of the phone momentarily startled me: “we’re ready” she said. “We’re on our way” I replied. Although our “load” was light, four of us clung to the gurney as we made our way upstairs to ICU; it was as if we couldn’t “let go” of our precious passenger; we needed to stay connected to her.

When we reached ICU, the anesthesiologist said he would go into the room alone—all of us might overwhelm the family. The anesthesiologist would be monitoring the ventilator during the family’s goodbyes, and then would turn it off and let the Tiny Innocent stop breathing on her own.

We rode the elevator back to the operating room in comforting silence. What words could possibly help? Our hearts were broken: we are supposed to FIX people, especially Tiny Innocents, not let them die!! We were the Forgotten Ones: touched deeply by the tragedy but forgotten by those who would offer comfort and understanding at such times.

We went back to the room to clean it up, removing all traces of the tragedy that had just occurred in there. And then we went on with the work at hand……

May God keep you in His arms, Tiny Innocent....you touched my life and the lives of many good people you never knew.

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.

Love is not a light switch!

I don’t know what is wrong with me. I have loved many times in my life. I have given my heart away too many times to count. And yet, here I am, still professing to believe in love. I was having a discussion recently with a very close friend; we were talking about love. It seemed to me that he thought love was something besides what I think it is, and I told him so:

Love is not a light switch!

After I said it, I had two thoughts: 1) Damn, Cali! That was profound! And 2) that would make a good blog! Sorry, that’s just how my mind works….. I think I really hit on something there:

Love is not a light switch.

I have a long list of people who have come into my life and then gone away, either by choice or by chance. Some of them hurt me quite badly at the time of their leaving. I can honestly say, though, that I still love them.

Love is not a light switch.

I had the hard measles when I was nine months old. By the time I was covered with red spots and it was diagnosed, the damage to my eyes had already been done. My pupils are always dilated…look at my pictures, you’ll see. If I turn on the overhead light in my kitchen, the light pierces my eyes like a knife. I can only stop the pain by turning off the light.

Love is not a light switch.

Okay, I know I am belaboring the point, sorry! I have been hurt by love, and it has pierced me just as the bright light pierces my eyes. Turning off the light makes my eyes feel better. It does absolutely nothing for my heart. Only time can heal a broken heart.

Please don’t be sad. This is not about sad. This is about a realization I had today: love has brought me a lot more joy than pain. In the case of one man I loved, it brought me three children. With the rest, the benefits were more intangible. But they were definitely there, and they were joyous, too.

I have known the pain of having my love rejected, too. I was told that I would be able to “get over him” only by getting really mad at him. I tried mad and I failed. All it did was hurt him and make me feel awful. And so, I apologized. And I walked away from that awful place. He is still in my heart; I couldn’t get angry at him for the same reasons that I fell in love with him, and filled my psyche? Was I not raised “properly”? Or do I just have an unending capacity to love others? Or is it simply because love is not a light switch?

I guess this is true: What the heart has once owned and had, it shall never lose.~ Henry Ward Beecher

That’s what I’m thinkin’ anyway!