Hands On.....

“So you’re going to be a Clipboard Queen, eh?” It was a surgeon who asked me that. I was leaving my position as Charge Nurse in the Operating Room to be a Nurse Manager on a medical-surgical unit in the hospital.

Though it is a slightly derogatory term, he said it with a smile on his face. I am sure that, if he really thought I was going to spend my time carrying around a clipboard, and checking off chores as they were done, he would not have said it.

I don’t know why, but I thought of that comment again today. I am a long ways down the road from that comment… I have left nursing management altogether and gone back to the real joy of nursing: hands-on patient care. I am, at heart, a bedside nurse. I know now that I have always preferred patient care. Perhaps it is because I detest bureaucracy but, that’s another

blog.

Today, I was visiting a patient and sitting on the bed, next to him, cleaning and redressing his PICC line. He is blind, and speaks only a little English. His three children were standing in the room, watching everything I did to their father. The room was silent except for my comments as I told the patient everything I was doing—before I did it.

The first thing I did, when I got to his home, was to take his vital signs. I have a routine for taking vital signs, and I include temperature, heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure, and heart, lung and bowel sounds. It is probably the most important part of my assessment because there are so many other things to be seen and heard while I do it.

I noticed today that, when I am listening to breath sounds and heart sounds, with my stethoscope placed here and there tocapture sounds, I tend to have my other hand on the patient’s shoulder. I like that. I am not only assessing the patient, I am connecting with him, too.

And I thought about how much I enjoy giving nursing care in the patient’s home. Instead of being “held prisoner” in the hospital, he is in the comfort of his own home. Instead of fitting into the hospital routine, he is in his own milieu and I am the guest. He doesn’t have to do anything I ask him to do….and it is incumbent upon me to teach him what to do and try to encourage him to do it.

I am alone with the patient, family and caregivers in the home. I do not have the “hospital culture” to contend with. It is not necessary for a nursing assistant to take the patient’s vital signs, I can do that. In fact, I prefer to do that. I have the skills and training to interpret what I am hearing and feeling, not just record them and move on to the next task.

Each patient seen today had vital signs taken and some sort of nursing care given. I cleaned and redressed the IV site, changed the foley catheter, or did wound care for each patient. As usual, I did teaching with patients and families. I seem to be teaching throughout the visits, as I am doing my nursing care.

And, as I was taking care of my patients today, I thought about all of that. I thought about that comment, made to me so long ago. And I thought about how important my hands are in the healing process. Skilled hands to do the important nursing tasks, yes, but also hands to offer the simple comfort of touch. Healing hands.

Without a clipboard…

The Little Orange Boat...

When I was at the coast last week, I kept coming back to look at this little orange boat. I would stand and stare at it for long periods of time. For some reason, I felt an affinity with it.

And I have been thinking about it since I got home and now I know why. Why I have such a connection to it. The little orange boat is me.

There it sits, all by itself, on the opposite side of the boat slip from the other, bigger boats. Why? Has it been ostracized by the bigger, better boats? Or is it just sitting closer to the shore and the people who might need it?

And the bigger boats are painted subdued shades. Primarily whites and some conservative blues and tans. Nothing fancy, nothing outrageous, nothing bright. And the little orange boat is, well, orange. Bright orange. “You-can’t-miss-it” orange.

Sunny, cheerful orange.

Another thing: the other boats, on the other side of the slip, are destinations in and of themselves. Sure, they are going to put out to sea, for whatever reason, but the people who will be on them say “I am going to the boat.” And then they take the boat to their chosen destination.

The little orange boat is not a destination. It is a means to reach a destination. It is used by those who wish to board one of the boats moored farther out in the bay. Used, and then left, as they move onto the bigger, better boat.

Or perhaps, the little orange boat serves a greater purpose. Perhaps it should be looked at as a facilitator. Without it, how would the people get to their boats? They need the little orange boat. They don’t think about it—at all—but they need it. It is important and it serves a worthwhile purpose.

I went down to the harbor every day I was at the coast. And everyday, the little orange boat was there. I could count on seeing it there. I didn’t see anybody use it, but it was always there, ready and willing to help.

And did I mention? It was a sunny, cheerful orange.

Leapfrog...

Leapfrog is a children's game in which players vault over each other's stooped backs. The first participant rests hands on knees and bends over, which is called giving a back. Games of this sort have been called by this name since at least the late sixteenth century

(Wikipedia)

A simple, transitive verb form means to play the game. In business, it means to make obsolete. In military terms, the transitive verb means to engage the enemy with one unit while another moves ahead.

I’m too old to play the children’s game. Too peaceful to employ the military strategy. So, that leaves the business term. And I have to wonder: am I obsolete? Have I been leapfrogged?

I remember, as a child, thinking how old my parents were, in chronological age, for sure, but more importantly, they were “behind the times.” Although they were both quite intelligent and well-read, they didn’t seem to know enough about “modern times.”

Alas, I am my parents’ child and I have to wonder, did “modern times” leave me behind? Sometimes, I think I have a handle on things. After all, I DO know how to text on my cell phone. I even have a smart phone with a QWERTY keyboard! I can send and receive text messages, yes, but don’t ask me to upload my cell phone videos to Youtube.

I don’t know how.

But more vexing to me is that I seem to be out-of-step in my own profession. At least, at times, it feels that way. I don’t “get” the new ways of doing things and the emphasis on reimbursement and cost overruns and ROI’s. I find myself wondering what happened to plain, old-fashioned patient care?

I start thinking that, hmmmmmmm, maybe I have been leapfrogged.

And I don’t like it. I don’t think my knowledge base is out of step with the needs of my patients. I don’t know a lot of things but, when it comes to patient issues, I have seen it all and done it all. Well, almost. Enough to know when something is wrong and to get some help with it. Not enough to rest on my laurels and stop learning new things.

Maybe it is time for me to step aside and let the new generation of nurses do things their own way….

And then, I have a conversation such as the one I had this morning. I was talking to a nurse who is younger than I am. Much younger than I am. And she had some very valid concerns about a patient she was going to see today. We talked over her concerns and she asked me what I would do in the same situation.

And I told her.

I think I helped her look at the situation more globally, and I think I gave her some insight into a difficult area of nursing care. Patients can’t hear everything we say, and they aren’t necessarily going to do what we suggest they do. So, the secret is: make your words count. Say something that “sticks with” the patient. Something that they will still be thinking about long after the nurse has discharged them.

Something worth giving a second thought…..

And then, I thought again. I haven’t been leapfrogged. I have a lot to share with the younger generation of nurses. I may be “seasoned” and “of a certain age” but I am still a damn good nurse.

I won’t be a fuddy-duddy for at LEAST ten more years!

Home Again….

I packed up my things and left Morro Bay yesterday morning. I decided to go visit San Luis Obispo before heading home. I haven’t been there in years, and I haven’t visited the Mission there since I was a child.

Driving south on Highway 1, I said good bye to Morro Bay and my parents. I promised that I would return as soon as I can, and I will visit with them again soon. Maybe it is only walking on the beach and thinking about them and talking to them in spirit, but to me, it is a visit nonetheless.

As I left the coast, the clouds and fog disappeared. It was a beautiful, sunny day in San Luis Obispo. Besides being the location of one of California’s Missions, San Luis Obispo de Tolosa, it is also home to California Polytechnic University, or Cal Poly, as it is known.

I don’t remember it being so hard to find parking in SLO before but, I did manage to find both a fairly shady spot AND enough change to allow me to explore for a few hours. Camera in hand, I headed for Monterey Street and the Mission.

It is a beautiful place.

I spent about an hour looking at the Mission and the grounds and taking pictures. The serenity of the place is palpable, broken only by the voices of a group of children from a nearby YMCA Day Camp. They were happily rolling down a hill, and running around on the grass, getting rid of some built-up energy after touring the Mission.

Then I walked around downtown San Luis Obispo, and took pictures of some of the interesting architecture. After another hour had passed, I headed back to the car and pointed it in the direction of home.

By the time I got to Paso Robles, I could feel the heat. Exiting US 101 and heading east on State Route 46, the landscape changed from verdant and growing to dry and brown. Miles and miles of two-lane highway, bordered by dry and brown. At least the traffic was not as frenzied as it had been on the trip over to the coast, last week.

As I approached familiar places, I found myself thinking about my parents again, and how much I miss them. I feel their presence when I am at the beach, and now, as I headed back into the central valley, I felt like I was losing touch with them again.

By the time I reached the outskirts of Podunk, the CD was playing Celine Dion’s version of “My Heart Will Go On” and the tears were streaming down my face. I realized that, no matter where I go, or what I do, my parents are with me.

In fact all the people I love, the people who are special to me, are always with me. Passed, or still living, close by or far away, they are all with me. They are in my heart, always and forever. And, as I pulled into the driveway, I realized how lucky I am.

My heart is home again….

Cali

The Walk of Life…

I went for a walk this morning, down on the beach, by Morro Rock. It’s another foggy, overcast, cool day here but there were still lots of people on the beach. I used to walk from the motel, around the Embarcadero, past the PG and E towers and the Coast Guard Station, and around the eddy to the rock. From there, it is just a short walk onto the beach.

I used to walk along the side of the road, in the golden brown dirt that was littered with fragments of seashells. I was quite surprised to see that my dirt path has been replaced by a walkway and a bike path. And both were quite popular this morning.

I parked my car and grabbed my camera. As I walked down the rocky slope to the sand, I felt my heart beat a little faster.

Or maybe my heart rate was the same but the beat was a little stronger. Whichever is true, my heart knew that I am home.

My ancestors were Norsemen, the Vikings of old. They were men of the sea. Appropriately, when my Daddy died, we brought his ashes here and scattered them, in international waters, due west of Morro Rock.

And so, coming to walk on this beach is an opportunity to feel Daddy’s presence again, and share his love for the sea. I found myself walking along the beach this morning, telling him what is new in my life and what I have been doing.

Some people go to a cemetery, kneel down in front of a marker, and pray and think about their loved one. Some even run a finger along the name etched in the marble, feeling a connection to the loved one now gone.

I have no stone marker for either of my parents. My mother was buried at sea, over a quarter of a century ago. And so, I come to the sea, I walk along the beach, and I think about them. Their names are etched forever in my heart, and I feel their presence, as surely as I feel the sand between my toes.

As I walked along, I watched all the people on the beach and wading in the water. It occurred to me that I was looking at a synopsis of my life. At one time or another, I have been most of the people I saw on the beach. I have been a toddler, taking my first, tentative steps into the cold and foamy water. I have been the small child, helping my daddy build a sand castle. The teenager, running along the beach with my friends.

The young mommy, keeping a watchful eye on my little ones while I tried to keep sand off the blanket and out of the sandwiches. I have walked the beach, hand-in-hand with a loved one, lost in our own private conversation. I have thrown a stick for my dog to fetch, and hugged her tight when she brought it back. I have spent my time looking down, looking for seashells and other treasures from the sea.

I only saw one person that I have not been. Yet. She was probably in her eighties. Dressed comfortably and conservatively, in browns and grays, and wearing a floppy hat, she walked briskly down the beach. She smiled at me as she passed and her face was aglow with deeply embedded smile lines.

I plan to still be walking on the beach when I am in my eighties. I will still be watching all the people on the beach, and thinking about my parents, and talking to my daddy. And when you walk by?

I will have a smile for you!

My Life......In Pictures....

It’s quiet right now. The seals are barking only occasionally. They were jabbering away a few hours ago but now, it must be nap time. The sea gulls are squawking but it’s not really bothersome. There are a couple of kids in the motel pool, making typical “kids-in-a-pool” noises.

Quiet, overcast, and quite cool, actually. I would guess that it is about 35 to 40 degrees cooler here than it is in Podunk right now. And that suits me fine! I can deal with the heat when I have to but, I am enjoying a respite from it for a few days.

I went for a walk this afternoon, along the Embarcadero. I looked in a few of my favorite shops. My most favorite shop here in Morro Bay is The Garden Gallery. It is nothing more than a gift shop but, the collection of goods for sale are a cut above the usual gift shop. And they have plants, too.

I spent more than an hour looking at everything there. Well, looking AND taking photos. I wanted to be able to describe it and I couldn’t. Not without photos, at least. So, I took lots and lots of photos.

And people are so nice: more than once someone stopped somebody else from walking into my photo. I was able to snap pictures to my heart’s content. With no one getting in the way. I made a note to myself to watch for other “photographers” so I can be as courteous as they were to me today.

Funny, when I want to take photos, I seem to look more carefully at things. In the process of finding a good subject for each photo, I see things that I might not otherwise even notice. And everything I see becomes a “photo op” of sorts.

I see shapes and colors, too. Just like last evening. I took a photo then of a bunch of kayaks, colorful orange and yellow kayaks, stacked in a row. They made a lovely photo that really is a work of art.

So much of life is a work of art. There are the obvious moments, the sunrises and sunsets of our everyday lives, and there are the less obvious moments. Moments that should be shared with others and usually aren’t. Unless you are taking photos.

I am learning a lot about taking photos. I never learned F-stops or lens choices, or use of shadows and/or proper lighting techniques. All I know is that, if you shoot straight into the sun, the picture isn’t supposed to turn out very good.

And don’t try to take a picture at night with the flash turned off on your camera. Especially if the only light in the room is a nightlight. It absolutely won’t turn out! Except my profile picture and several others similar to it…which were taken at night, without a flash, and by the light of a nightlight.

Taking pictures would seem to require a good eye for subject matter. And perhaps, a creative spirit for picture composure. And definitely, a stubborn streak about a mile wide: that should take care of lighting problems!

It would seem that the desire to take photographs today, to share my experiences with others, has caused me to see things more clearly and in more detail. And I noticed things I might not have noticed otherwise. So I am getting more out of my little mini-vacation than I thought I would…and the photos to prove it.

I am going to go out to find something to eat soon….

I’ll take more pictures for you!

Table for One...

For a very long time, I didn’t hear those words. I was always with someone when I went to a restaurant. It was “table for two” or “table for five” or some multiple of one or two or three.

I would go out to eat with my husband and, when we had to wait for a table, he always gave his name as “Donner”. When it was our turn, the person in charge of such things would call out “Donner, party of two”….and we would take our seats, amid stares from anyone else who was waiting and “got” the joke.

Tonight, there was no “Donner Party”….it was just me. After walking up and down the Embarcadero, and taking at least a hundred pictures, I wanted to sit down to a nice meal. A seafood meal.

And so, I stopped and looked at the menu that was posted outside a restaurant called “The Galley”…..and the “pan seared scallops” sounded wonderful. They were served with fresh vegetables, in season, and my choice of “one side”….garlic mashed potatoes, wild rice pilaf, or French fries. That was no contest: pilaf, of course.

As I walked in, the Maitre D’ asked me: “table for one?” and I replied “yes!” I was shown to a small table in the corner of the main part of the dining room. I had a wonderful view of the fishing boats and Morro Rock.

And everybody in the restaurant…..

I took a pad of paper out of my purse and made some notes. I wrote down the name of the restaurant, what I ate, and a couple of cryptic notes about people I observed during dinner. There is an ever so slight possibility that my actions were misinterpreted: the waitress and the Maitre D’ couldn’t do enough for me!

My water glass was refilled when it got to half full. I was offered more rolls at least three times. My waitress asked me frequently how I was doing. And, of course, I was doing fine! Were they worried about the notes I was taking?

When I finished eating, I was offered a dessert menu. I know, from perusing the menu before I walked into the restaurant, that they feature crème brulee……oh gosh, would that have been fun? But, alas, I was too full. No dessert for me, thanks!

I may have to go back there before I go home to Podunk. The people were so nice, and so attentive, and the food was delicious! I will walk in and nod my head and smile when he asks: “table for one?”

And I will have the crème brulee…..

The Moon and Morro Bay....

I went outside tonight. It is a balmy evening, perfect for watching the moon rise in the sky. It’s a full moon, too. I could see his face tonight. The moon’s, that is.

I had already tucked the dogs into bed for the night, so I was outside alone. Sitting in a chair, looking at the moon. The temperature was just right, it was quiet outside, and the moon was beautiful.

I thought about all the times in my life that I have looked at the moon. I wondered if it had ever looked more beautiful. There is no doubt in my mind: moonlight over water is the most beautiful.

And then my thoughts turned to water. I am going to the ocean next week. I am drawn to the ocean as moths are to a flame. I have always loved being at the seashore. I think I come alive when I am looking out on the ocean.

And I know why; my ancestors were the Norsemen. The Vikings. They sailed to England and became tillers of the soil, and carpenters and Knights of the Crusades, but they never forgot their origin: the sea.

I am excited already, thinking about my little vacation. I called today to make my reservations. They know me by name at the motel. The young lady was going to give me a “frequent guest” discount but figured out that the “stay three nights, get the fourth one free” offer would save me more money.

For me, it is a joy to go to a place that I know so well and love so much. It is not the most scenic or the most beautiful place on the coast, but it is mine. I know what the weather will be like. I am familiar with the drive over there. I know what my motel room will look like. And I know the best places to eat.

I already know my room number at the motel. It is right next door to the room I usually have. The young lady this morning promised me that, if there is a cancellation, I can have “my” room. That would be nice.

I am already thinking about what I will do while I am there. Of course, I will walk miles and miles on the beach each day. I will go to Tidelands Park each evening to watch the sunset. I will go to The Cotton Ball to look for interesting and unusual fabric. I will go to the antiques stores in Cayucos. I will relax and read and write. And, of course, I will enjoy the seafood.

I guess you could say my vacation has already started!

Duchess of Earl...

I always wanted to be somebody’s Duchess of Earl.

I wasn’t sure what it meant, I just knew it would mean I was special. I was a young girl, not even a teen yet, but the song resonated with me. I could picture myself with ratted hair, flipped up on the ends, “Cleopatra eyes”, a slinky a-line dress, and stilettos, dancing with my Duke of Earl.

It isn’t the easiest song to dance to, but it is fun to sing. Or try to sing. It has minimal, if any, redeeming value. It is just fun. And back then, life was a lot more fun. Or so it seems, in retrospect.

Life was simpler. Life was easier to understand. A huge problem was something devastating and life-altering…..like say, a pimple. Or a bad hair day. Or not having shoes that were “dyed to match” your party dress.

Love was lovelier. Wearing your boyfriend’s ring on a chain around your neck. I remember the girls, in class, who would hold the chain and make the ring twirl on the end of it. It was as if they were saying “I have a boyfriend and you don’t!” Boyfriends took you to the school dances. They carried your books between classes. They put their arm around you when you walked, or held your hand. If you were lucky, you were dating a letterman and you got to wear his letterman sweater.

Goals were more understandable. Guys went to college, got degrees, found jobs, got married and supported their families. Gals went to college to get their MRS. Degree. Found a husband, had the big wedding, had a couple of kids, and stayed at home and raised them.

And the newspaper “society page” ran stories about Fiftieth Wedding Anniversaries, complete with pictures of the happy couple now, and then. Everybody had a mom and a dad at home.

Our lives were ahead of us, we were free, and indomitable, and the best there had ever been…..

We were the Dukes and Duchesses of Earl….

So much of my life revolves around paperwork...

Like everyone else, I am drowning in it.

I was so desperate today that I took something from work.

And I brought it home.

Not to worry: “they” will all end up back at the office. I didn’t steal anything, I just borrowed something.

Borrowed something to help me with my paperwork.

Each day I work, I have to turn in my Activity Log. It includes the information about the patients I see, how long I was at each house, how long it took me to get there, what kind of visit it was, and how many miles I drove.

Important stuff there…

And every patient has to sign a form, verifying that I truly did make a visit. And those verification forms have to be attached to the activity log. I don’t know if they are supposed to be attached in chronological order but, rest assured, mine are.

In the “old days”, the activity logs left our building and went to the information management department. The activity logs were set aside, and the verification forms were scanned and entered into the Electronic Medical Record. Then, the activity logs came BACK to our department so another clerk could verify our time and activities.

Once, I got back one of my activity logs because two of the verification sheets were missing. Now, I know I saw the patients and I know they signed the forms. I figured it must be a process problem. So, I did the logical thing: instead of using one staple to attach my verification forms to my activity log, I used five. Yes, five. Precisely five.

And I haven’t “lost” a verification form since.

Somewhere, somehow, the process changed. The forms no longer leave our department. The verification forms go one way and the activity logs go another. Information is reviewed, and data is input. And the end of the month is always busy. The end of the fiscal year is closer to mayhem.

What turned me into a common thief? I know you are wondering.

Our monthly staff meetings are full of important information. Statistical information delineating our fiscal standing. Pie charts telling us why our patients go back in the hospital. Copies of new protocols and procedures. Information sheets on black box drugs.

You can imagine my surprise when the Supply Nazi got up and made an announcement: “effectively immediately, field staff are NOT to use staples to attach verification forms to activity logs”

You’re kidding, right?

Wrong. Would you believe that somebody, somewhere, made the observation that a lot of time was being “wasted” by clerical staff trying to get the staples out of the activity logs? I am sure operating expenses skyrocketed, too, with the need for more staple removers.

Alas, since the activity logs are NOT leaving the building, there is no need to make more work for the clerical staff, so staples are not allowed. Not frowned upon, not discouraged, just not ALLOWED.

Now we use paperclips. Paper clips are recyclable; they can be used over and over again. If you can find any. And that is why I “liberated” a box of them today: so I can paper clip my paperwork together, right here at home. I don’t feel so bad for taking them home.

They are going to go back to the office again…..many times.

Fragments..

I was thinking this morning. One of the nurses I work with is pregnant. I was thinking about how nice it will be to have a new baby in the department… Another one of the nurses has a baby who is about six months’ old…

And then it dawned on me: these two young nurses weren’t even born when I started my nursing career! Oh my!

Of course, that opened the flood gates and fragments of my career started pouring into my consciousness. Little pieces of memories from all those years. Years that truly do add up to a lifetime.

My first patient, in nursing school: taught me all I needed to know about nursing. She was frail and fragile and wise. And dying. She taught me to go with my gut, use my instincts, and just be myself. Nursing is an art and a science, not a persona. Be myself.

I remember my first patient who died. She was a young mommy, like me, and she was an acquaintance: her husband worked with mine. She left this world kicking and screaming. It was very traumatic for her, her husband, and this new nurse. She left behind two small children.

I learned that death can be accepted, or fought. Never, in all the years since, have I seen a patient die in such terror. The memory has stayed with me. And the lesson, too: be there, be comforting, and be prepared for anything.

I remember being yelled at, not necessarily for the first time, by a particularly obnoxious surgeon. I was angry and hurt. And right. The patient DID need surgery and he took her to the operating room—emergently—early the next morning.

Funny, it was many years later, as the OR Charge Nurse, that I received the most harassing, vociferous, vicious attack by a surgeon. He was angry and he took it out on me. And who came to my rescue? That same obnoxious surgeon from years before!

So many things to remember these days. I have been doing this for a long time. This nursing thing. I have overcome the terror inherent in giving medications and assessing patients. I have learned the hard lessons that only experience can teach. I have tried to pass on what wisdom I have gained to those younger nurses who have followed me.

And now, I am going to gather all these fragments, the bits and pieces of my memories and save them. Maybe just in a pretty box, maybe in a journal, or maybe as blogs. But, save them, I must.

Put together, those fragments are my life..

Sewing Squares….

I have been working on a decorating project today. I love to decorate. It is what makes the difference—to me—between a house that is furnished…and a home.

I like to mix things up a bit. Move the furniture around. Hang pictures in different places. Paint, sew, rearrange. Make new out of old. Rescue, reuse, and recycle. It’s fun.

And today, I took throw pillows I have had forever and fabric I have had forever and put them together. And now? The couch in the living room looks new again. Simple changes made it interesting again.

Sewing straight lines on squares of fabric does not take any cerebral activity, so I was free to think while I was sewing. And so, I thought.

It occurs to me that what I was doing was symbolic of everything I have done in my life. I was capturing a moment in time by sewing a square. And by this time in my life, I have sewn lots of squares.

Some of the squares are plainer than others, meant to be used to connect the more interesting, decorative squares. And the decorative squares are more important events in my life. They contain fancier stitches, a variety of fabrics, intricate details, and focal points. Some days are meant to be plain squares and some are not.

Sometimes, the fabric I chose was perfect; other times, I had to compromise because I couldn’t find exactly what I wanted.

Or I couldn’t afford the perfect fabric. And somehow, the compromised square turned out as nice—or nicer—than the imagined one. At least, sometimes.

Other times, I knew I was compromising and I knew I wouldn’t like it, but I did it anyway. And was disappointed with the results. And mad at myself for doing something that I knew would not turn out the way I wanted.

But each time I have been ready to chastise myself for making a square that wasn’t all that great, I have had to remember

that it might have been all I had to work with at the time.

And sometimes, the inferior attempt turned out better than the plan. And something wonderful was made, despite my best efforts. What seemed doomed to fail, fairly shouted with success. And left me scratching my head…

And so, today, I sewed more squares. Took fabric I have been saving and added to the fabric of my life. Someday, after I am gone, my children can take all the squares I have made and fashion them into a quilt.

I hope it is pretty.