Reconnections...

Sometimes, the unexpected just happens. I like it that way. Too much planning can ruin something….I think.

And today has been one of those days. I went to a seminar today, an update on the latest “best practices” in wound care. I always learn something at these seminars. The body of knowledge that I am responsible for, as a registered nurse, is staggering. So, seminars are a welcome opportunity to gain new knowledge and learn new guidelines.

Something else always happens when I attend these seminars: I reconnect with my profession. I always come away from these opportunities with a renewed sense of belonging and pride in my chosen career.

Today, I was able to talk to a couple of dear friends that I have not seen in years, literally! I asked one of them how old her baby is now…..and was amazed to learn that he is a fourth-grader! I guess it has been a while since I last saw her.

The seminar room was set up with round tables, each with places for eight people. I sat with three other nurses from my home health agency, a physical therapist and occupational therapist from our outpatient wound care clinic, and an LVN who is the full-time caregiver for her mother.

We had a delightful time at lunch, “talking shop” with each other and including everyone at the table in the conversation. Several people dropped by the table to visit with old friends. The OT sitting next to me asked me if I know a particular PT, and I do, since we work together. More than that, the OT at the seminar is friends with that PT from the agency, whose best friend is the wife of the salesman who sold me my Prius.

That’s how it is in Podunk.

Connections abound in a small town. Sometimes. And sometimes, not. My high school class had a reunion and I didn’t know anything about it until after it happened. One of my new patients has a son who graduated from high school with me, and he had been in town to attend the reunion. And I missed it.

So, I went online over the weekend and joined Classmates. When I got home today from the seminar, I had an email from a long-ago friend, who saw my profile on Classmates, asking me to be “friends” with her. I sent her a long email in response. And of course, I accepted her friendship request.

I also had a voicemail from my son. He invited me to go out to dinner with him and my two grandsons. I was glad to accept because I haven’t seen him, or the boys, in almost a month. We met at a local Mexican restaurant that is owned by a gentleman whose son was on my grandson’s baseball team last summer. The owner stopped by our table to inquire if the boys are playing football this fall, and of course, they are.

And so, a day of learning became a day of reconnections….with knowledge, with pride in my career, with old friends, old classmates, and my sweet little family.

Thoughts About Fall...

I have been sitting in the living room, sewing and thinking, for about an hour. I am finished now with a hand sewing project that I started a month ago. Right now, I am basking in the glow of success: the project is completed.

And all that thinking, too, brought me a finished product. Well, as finished as possible this morning. As I sewed, I could hear the football game in the background, as the TV in the family room is on, broadcasting the regional NFL game.

My thoughts turned to Fall, and how amazing it is to me that it is here already. It seems like just yesterday that I was going to New England to view the fall colors. But it was a year ago, next month.

As I look out the front window, it still startles me: the trees are gone. The yard looks barren to me. There are no trees to comfort me and watch over me. Their lifecycle ended too soon. I am still here.

It occurs to me that trees are harbingers of the season. Right now, my trees would have been dropping an occasional gray-green leaf. Our Fall is later, here on the West Coast. An occasional dropped leaf with the promise of more. Many, many more.

As the season progresses, and becomes official, the leaves turn to brilliant crimsons and golds and paler yellows and oranges. The lawn is blanketed in a sea of color that only nature could produce.

And the raking. Hours and hours of raking and picking up and dumping and raking again. And again. Until it is done. And the last leaf has fallen.

Then the trees take a rest. They spend the winter in a dormant state, providing a stark reminder against the cold, gray sky: life has cycles.

In the spring, they do something again. Buds form, then leaves sprout, and soon, the yard is bathed in shade again. Gentle breezes are accompanied by the soft music of rustling leaves. Life has sprung anew from the dormant, barren trees.

And in the summer, the leaves are my friends. The trees provide shelter from the heat of the day, and respite from the piercing rays of the sun. Ever thirsty, they steal water from the lawn, and spread their roots far and wide, in search of water.

But no more. They are gone. I will have to search for other harbingers of the changing seasons, or look at trees in others’ yards. And, as I look at those trees, I am always searching for a new generation of trees, and new friends to plant in my yard.

You see, trees are like people, they are always doing something. Even when they are just standing there, dormant, they must be thinking, just like me. Thinking, or doing, those are the choices.

I hear the football game in the background. The crowd is roaring and the announcer is talking loud and fast. Something must have just happened. Somebody did something and somebody else is glad that they did. That’s how things are…

Life is not a spectator sport.

A Letter to All My Patients…

To those of you I have tried to help…past, present, and future.

On the eve of my twenty-fifth anniversary as a registered nurse at the local hospital, I have some thoughts to share with you.

First, I have to thank you for helping me become a better nurse, one patient at a time. Each of you has contributed to my growth, and my understanding of what it means to be a nurse.

You have shared your joys and your sorrows with me. You have confided in me, when you didn’t trust anyone else. You have told me things that needed to be said and didn’t need to be heard. By others. Not now, anyway.

You were afraid, so you reached out your hand to me. And I took your hand in mine and gently squeezed it. What you don’t know is that you gave me the strength to help you, not the other way around.

You had questions, and you expected me to know the answers. Sometimes, I didn’t. You taught me to keep looking until I found the answers you needed, or the person you needed to answer them.

You didn’t understand what was going on, so you asked me. I figured out as much, in the telling, as you did. And I probably learned more than you did, too. You learned for yourself, but you taught me so I could help lots of other people.

We cried together, when your loved one died. I didn’t know what to say, so I just held your hand, or hugged you. You taught me that actions speak louder than words, and that no words could assuage your pain.

And you taught me the meaning of dignity, in the face of adversity. You made me close the door before I examined you. You reminded me that you are a person, not a diagnosis in a hospital room.

Twenty-five years with the same logo on my paycheck, yes.

But I have not been doing the same job for all those years. That is the beauty of nursing: there are so many ways to do it. I have worked night shift, in med-surg nursing. Then I was the float nurse in Endoscopy, Same Day Surgery, AM Admit, and Recovery Room.

Then I worked just Recovery Room. I had to go back into the operating rooms to get orders for my patients from the anesthesiologists, and my interest in surgical nursing was piqued. I went there next.

After five years as the Operating Room Charge Nurse, I thought I was ready to be a Nurse Manager on one of the med-surg floors. And I did that for another five years. I guess I proved to myself that I could do it, but there was something missing:

You.

I went into nursing to take care of patients. To use my collective nursing skills to help those who needed my help. In my heart of hearts, I am a bedside nurse. And so, I left management and came back to the bedside.

Only now, I am in your home, not in the sterile, impersonal hospital. And you have greeted me with open arms. You are mostly always glad to see me. And you continue to teach me what I need to know.

Some of you are just a blur to me. We didn’t get to spend that much time together, and there have been so many of you over the last quarter of a century. And some of you have left an indelible mark on me, changing my nursing practice with your grace and grit.

To all of you, my humble thanks for enriching my life.

A Dose of Happy...

I came to home health nursing later in my career. I spent many years as a hospital nurse, working all shifts and in many different specialties. I took a job in home health because I needed to get out of nursing management, and I had to work somewhere.

I thought I would just stay until I found something that I wanted to do. Little did I know that I had found my niche.

When I worked in the hospital, I used to go to work at oh dark thirty, and didn’t come home until well after dark in the evening. Even though all the nursing units had windows, I didn’t have time to look out them and see the sunshine.

So, the first joy of home health nursing was the opportunity to be outside, in the sunshine, enjoying the day. Another joy is in the music. I can listen to CDs as I drive around Podunk, and I usually do.

For the past few days, I have been enjoying a John Denver CD. Yes, John Denver. Happy music with recognizable melodies. Songs I know and can hum as I drive.

There was this one song on the CD and, every time it started, I pushed the button and moved on to the next song. I didn’t recognize it and I just wanted to listen to my favorites: “Annie’s Song” “Sunshine on My Shoulders” “Rocky Mountain High” “Country Roads” “Perhaps Love” and, of course, “Leaving on a Jet Plane….”

Well, this morning, I was busy trying to drive (?) and the song started…..and I liked it. In fact, I played it over and over today. It is a sweet song and it made me smile. And now, after a full day of work, I know most of the words to it, too.

As I arrived at a patient’s home this morning, and walked up the front walk, I was a million miles away, in my head, listening to the song still, and smiling. Sitting just inside the screen door, waiting for me, was the family dog: a mixed breed that is part pit bull. He was just sitting there, watching me approach, and wagging his tail.

No barking……at all.

As I reached the screen door, I called out the patient’s name, and he responded, “Come in”. And the dog moved backwards to let me in the house. I reached down and let him smell my hand, and then scratched behind his ears for him. Dogs love that.

When I walked in the patient’s bedroom, and he saw the dog walking with me, his eyes grew wide. He thought the dog was out back, tied up, and didn’t realize that he was in the house, waiting for me. And he was amazed that the dog didn’t bark at me.

Maybe he heard the song that was playing in my head, too……

Let me be the end of your rainbow,

Let me be the stars up above,

Let me be the one that you long for, darlin’

Let me be the one that you love…

Oh hooo

Let me be the one that you love!

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

Yes, they were commercial. Yes, they were mainstream. I was mainstream, too. I loved folk songs and, when Peter, Paul and

Mary came along, I loved their versions of the folk songs.

She never spoke on stage…part of her mystique. But she sang her heart out. You could tell how passionate she was about the words she was singing. Just look at her hands, forming fists, as she sang.

The songs I loved were the songs with messages. Yes, I played “Puff, The Magic Dragon” for my children, but I played “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” for me. And I sang “The Cruel War” and played guitar to accompany it. Poorly, but passionately.

I looked to Mary and her voice as a crystal clear reminder of my own social conscience. I heard the words and I saw her fist and I knew she meant every word she sang. The harmony was inspiring and the words stayed with me.

They came on the music scene as I was growing up, and we grew up together. Peter, Paul and Mary, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, the Weavers. All had an influence on me, and all affected the way I view the world now.

Another flower has left our garden. Another who bloomed where she was planted, at the Gaslight in Greenwich Village and beyond. Way beyond.

I wish you hadn’t left us Mary, but I am grateful that you left your songs with me….

The Relative Importance of Being Me…

I have never really understood the concept of envy. I mean, sure, I have thought I envied someone else before but, on closer examination, or deeper thought, I have realized that it was not meant to be. For me.

Basically, even when I wished for something else, I have always had what I needed.

I don’t look to the lives of others, and live vicariously. I try to put the vitality into my own existence. I know that I am getting older. And I also know that it isn’t the years of life that I have left that matters.

It is the life in those years that matters.

I am no one else but me. I am nowhere else but here. I have no more money than the jingle in my pocket. And my house needs a new roof, and new windows and a kitchen remodel.

Someone else’s house may be better, or kitchen may be newer, but this house is where I grew up, and where my memories were made, so this is the right house for me, for now.

Physically, I am a composite of both my parents, and that is as it should be. Mentally, I am the product of my genes, my education, and every experience I have ever had, and that is as it should be.

Whatever circumstances brought me to this place in time and this spot on earth, this is MY place and MY time and it is for me to make the most of, while I can. I am responsible for my own happiness and my own sustenance.

I also have a responsibility to give back to those who have given to me so generously. Gratitude for the good things rules my life. Not envy.

So come in kindness and be my friend. Allow me to be who I really am. And I will do the same for you.

And we will bloom where we have been planted….

In Search of the Kitchen Counter....

I usually tend to it on Saturday mornings, but this past weekend, I had to work. And so, I went in search of it this morning, on my day off….

I start every work week with a clean kitchen. It is important to me. And I end every work week with a messy kitchen, and cleaning it again is equally important to me. That messy kitchen counter represents something to me: I have been gone, tending to other things, and have left my counter, and myself, for another day.

I like to cook. I like to eat home-cooked meals. Simple foods that are inexpensive but rich in taste. Satisfying, nourishing simple foods. And most nights, that is what I do. I have been working on a crock pot full of pinto beans for three days. Beans and tortillas, then beans and tacos, and to end it all, chili con carne. Three nights’ worth of suppers from one crock pot full of beans.

And this morning, I was greeted by last night’s supper dishes. It always happens: I get home from work, tired and hungry, and I use the last of my energy to fix supper. I do manage to put any leftover food away, so it won’t spoil, but the dishes have to wait.

As I stood at the sink this morning, washing up all those dishes, and loading the dishwasher, I took a journey back in time. I know, I do that a lot. But I am alone, and they are easy, inexpensive journeys to take. No luggage needed. No passport. No itinerary. Just me and my memories.

I remember when I had small children at home. We had a really nice kitchen. I could look out the window over the kitchen sink and watch the kids play in the front yard. I had plenty of cupboards to store things in, and plenty of food in the refrigerator and freezer.

Many Saturday afternoons were spent in the kitchen, preparing a meal for my family. Baked beans to go with whatever my husband barbequed for supper. Or a cake, or two, for special events. Or fried chicken before it was passé to eat such things. Homemade mashed potatoes. Or hot potato salad.

I was thinking about how complicated every day was back then, with kids and work and a husband and meals to fix and clothes to wash for five people. And how simple my life is now. And yet, the kitchen counter was always clean, back then. And now it has become a landing zone for all sorts of things. Mostly food items, but other things, too.

This morning, I put away a tire pressure gauge, a lock and key, a six-pack of Comet cleanser (yup, went to Costco), the cereal box that was out all week, and a stack of folded clothes. And then the fun began: I cleaned the surface thoroughly, rearranged the kitchen canisters and stood back and admired my work.

It’s only a kitchen counter, but it’s Home, to me….

I Wonder....

So. Here are two chandeliers I bought years ago from a friend. They have languished in storage for at least seven years. Why did I buy them? I had great plans! I was going to take all the crystals off, then clean and paint them, and rewire them.

Why? So I could display them in my antiques booth and sell them. They met my basic rule: I could sell them for four times what I paid for them. Of course, time is money, and there would be a lot of time spent fixing them up and rewiring them.

And obviously, it never happened: I took this picture last weekend.

And now, as I look at the picture, I have to wonder: where did they come from? What events did they illuminate? What did they hear whispered beneath them?

Did one of them hang in a dining room? Presiding over the dining table and holiday feasts? Were there turkeys carved by their light? Did a family come together to celebrate an important occasion beneath one of them?

And holidays. Were they festooned with greenery and gaudy baubles for Christmas? Did Easter eggs hang from them? Or shiny red hearts? Perhaps a garland of spring flowers. Or maybe fairy-like angel hair? Or brightly colored bead garlands?

I know what my mother would have done with them: she would have used gold spray paint (her favorite!) and garlands of “diamonds” to catch the reflection of the lighted bulbs. At night, when it was dark, she would light the chandelier and it would look magical!

Me? I would paint them white. A few years ago, when “Shabby Chic” was all the rage, chandeliers hung in unusual places, like in gazebos and on patios. That’s what I would have done: paint them white and hang them on my patio.

So, why do I have them? What misfortune caused them to become homeless? My friend, from whom I bought them, has relatives who live in Coalinga. Perhaps the chandeliers are all that is left of a home that was destroyed in the Coalinga earthquake. They have no discoloration, so there was no fire involved in whatever happened to them.

Perhaps they just fell from grace. Perhaps they outlived their usefulness. Or another light fixture was more esthetically pleasing to the owner of the dwelling in which they resided.

They aren’t that old. The wiring is plastic-coated, not fabric-covered, so they are from the 1950’s or later. There isn’t a great deal of wear and tear on them, just wiring that needs to be redone. And a good polish, or some paint. Without much work, they could be Painted Ladies, in all their glory again.

Or perhaps they have spent most of their existence in a box, in storage, waiting for someone to recognize their true value and to appreciate their good qualities. Someone who wants to illuminate family gatherings, festive feasts, and lively conversations with some panache.

Maybe I’ll keep them….

Dakota

Dakota is a friend of mine. I went to see him this morning. As usual, he was glad to see me. It wasn’t always that way; he didn’t like me the first time I came to visit.

Dakota is a shih tzu….

Short, with long hair, intense brown eyes and a turned-up nose, Dakota is quite the handsome man. Just ask him. Or tell him how handsome he is, if you want to see a tail wag a dog.

Now that our misunderstanding is long past, Dakota is glad to see me and glad to have me take care of his mom. I don’t blame him for being concerned; after all, his mom did go to the hospital for almost a month. While she was gone, he had to stay with his “brother” and he has a cat! It was almost more than Dakota, an only dog, could bear.

That first time I visited, Dakota barked at me and would not stop, no matter how his mom told him. When she lightly ‘popped’ him on the nose, he only sneezed and started barking again. And so she swatted his hind end.

He stopped barking.

She told him to go in the other room and be a good dog. Poor guy, he was humiliated. Not only did he get a pop on the nose, and a swat on the hind end, now she was calling him a dog and telling him to go away. And all he did was try to tell me to leave her alone.

I looked at him and his expression was so forlorn…..I invited him to come sit by me by patting the couch next to me. He wasn’t sure about me, still……but it was better than being sent to his room. And so, he jumped up on the couch and settled in next to me.

As I was doing my assessment, and taking vital signs, my patient and I were talking and I forgot all about Dakota. As I deaccessed and reaccessed her porta cath with a new needle, I was completely focused on the task at hand. I put a bandage over the new needle and was cleaning up the mess I made when the patient and I suddenly became aware of someone snoring—very loudly!

Dakota had inched his way around behind me on the couch, out of sight, and had fallen asleep. Apparently, he was no longer worried that I might hurt his mom! And he and I have been friends ever since.

Dogs are not just dogs when “mom” or “dad” is a patient. They become four-legged guardians, protective of their masters, and wary of strangers who come into their home and do things. And they are helpmates and companions, too. They keep their masters company and provide a handy “person” to talk to, or watch TV, or lay on the couch and snore….

I have met many dogs in my home health career. Most of them are like Dakota: wary at first, but sensing that I mean their masters no harm, and that “I know my place.” And I do know about dogs: they all know that I come to the house to visit them, first, and then their mom or dad. As long as I give them attention first, and demonstrate that I am kind, and that I mean nobody any harm, they are fine with having me around.

Of course, it never hurts to tell them that they are handsome, either!