A Beautiful Mind

Today I was assigned a case about an hour away from home.

I had time to drive to the job, so I was already quite introspective, listening to my favorite Pandora station, ready to take on the day.

I'll be the first to admit I didn't really know what I was driving into, or to what extent "taking a few blood pressures, and giving injections" really meant.

I shadowed a few nurses to see how everything was done to get "my feet wet".

On the way to one of the clients houses I was given the run down that I was going to probably see some "bad stuff".

I smiled, and nodded because I think after 4 years of experience in this field- I've seen my share.

Wrong again.

Patient one:

We drove into a what seemed to be, deserted bottom of the barrel trailer park. I say it this way, because frankly, not all trailer parks are necessarily bottom of the barrel...this one was though. We circled a few blocks, looking for the right number plastered on the side of the aluminum siding, or whatever they make them with.

We pulled to the curb, and I got a bit of a nervous feeling because I wasn't sure what to expect with the first "client". I adjusted my polo shirt and straightened my dress pants to look as professional as I could in this situation, as we walked up the unsteady, uneven weathered and rotted wooden steps at the side of the house. The nurse I was with knocked loudly, 3 times as practiced. The door flew open.

I hadn't expected someone young.

The mentally ill and unstable drug abusers are generally, in my mind in their mid 50's- unshaven, unwashed, waiting on the corner for someone to toss a dollar or two at them. Now, I know this is a pretty politically incorrect way of thinking, but come on... I'm not the only one thinking this way. Not to say it's right.

He had a shaved head, shaved face, a tattooed tear drop at the bottom lid of his right eye and tattoos scattered haphazardly on both of his arms. He had a white cut off shirt on, and black jeans- sagging of coarse to his knees, but he was thoughtful enough to pull them up after we walked in the door.

He stood close. He was one of those close talkers. He shifted a few times uncomfortably, not quite sure how to act socially. He chuckled to himself a few times, of which reminded me of a few stoners I have known in my day, laughing at an inside joke...inside his own head.

We asked if he'd had some food, and enough money to get him by until the next pay day, he said yes.

And when we asked if he had been hearing voices, questioning his odd behavior- he said no. . . but the answer seemed rehearsed.

He didn't make eye contact except for when he heard one of us talking, but couldn't pin in his brain, which one of us actually said the words. He looked uneasily at me, knowing he was taking a gamble on who had asked him the question. I eased his nerve by glancing sideways at the other nurse I was with, as to hint to what direction he should be responding in, he followed the trail well.

We set up the injection, an antipsychotic mixture that most of the clients were on either monthly, weekly or twice weekly- he moved his arm so to prepare for the poke, scrunched up his nose as the needle went in- rubbed his shoulder after the damage was done- and readjusted his feet as to show he was tough enough to handle a little needle. I smiled a little.

This tough guy- straight out of jail- still nervous and anxious at the needle topic.

We left, and climbed back into the van. I asked, as I'd been wondering, "What's his story?".

The nurse explained to me that he was in and out of jail, schizophrenic and a habitual offender for alcohol and marijuana use. The nurse sighed a bit, said he'll probably end up back in jail.

I stared out the window, sad for him, knowing that he won't ever know any better than his situation right now.

Patient Two

More prepared for the next client, I walked in, confidently to the house with the other nurse. It was one of those old victorian style houses, that they'd split up to make a bunch of little mini-apartments out of that was now doubling as an adult foster care (AFC) home. We poked our head in the front door, as no one answered the first few hard knocks, we walked into the entry way where there appeared to be no one home, though there were four doors to choose from in the entry way...so it was questionable about who was actually there.

The nurse I was with walked more confident than me, she walked forward, opened one of the doors- searching for our client. The home helper looked to be some form of alternatively dressed, punk-rocker, hippie girl with gauged ears and a bandana tying back her dread locks...

These are the the people we hold responsible for these people who are "incompetent"? 

She hastily said she'd go find him, since his roommate might wonder why we were there.

Down clamored a mid-forty something man with baggy khaki pants, and wiry curly blonde, receding hair. He seemed harmless enough. I smiled politely and introduced myself. He responded appropriately, so I breathed a little sigh of relief.

Too soon.

As the nurse knelt down to prepare the injection (another anti-psychotic drug), he started talking to me so I listed quietly. He had a manic rush in his voice, urgently getting out his words as fast as they came into his brain. Racing through sentences faster than I could keep up. Talking about aliens, and his abusive father, portals or vortexes that could be opened up for more help, talking of viruses that exist in the universe that we do not know what to do with, children that he did not have (but believed that he did), and of his anger for his roommate that he was trying desperately to control.

This was too much for me. Not in the "I can't handle this" sense, but in the "if he doesn't stop talking nonsense, acting like I know what the hell he's talking about- I'm going to LOSE it, and laugh in his face types of losing it".

We left there relatively quickly. The nurse didn't seem to be bothered much by his behavior. I looked back at the house wondering what was going on in his head, and what a burden it must be to have that much flying around at once.

The Final Patient

In an end to my day, we went to one more house. This was yet another surprise to me as the door slowly opened. There stood a short, fit black girl with her hair tightly pulled back- capri shorts and a tank top on. She was the most put together one yet.

We sat down at the table and got right to it. She talked openly about going to Detox this week for five days. My eyes widened a bit, but I kept my confusion to a minimum, so not to be noticed. The male nurse I was with talked comfortably with her, asking him his assessment questions.

When did you last use? 
Last night, she said. 
What was it that you used, Heroin?
Yes, she said. 

As we got up to leave, I felt like I was leaving someone I'd known before. She was easy to talk to, down to earth and comfortable in a social situation. She was picking up her pack of cigarettes to start smoking as we left, and said thank you to us for coming to check on her meds and give her, her injection.

I climbed into the car, and looked at the nurse and asked him how old she was.

25. My age.

He said, she's been a long term heroin user, has lost her two young kids to CPS and will likely relapse from her treatment after Detox as it usually takes at least a few times to kick into the "long termers".

She mentioned she wanted to start college in the Fall. Hopefully she makes it there.

I drove away feeling a bit defeated with that patient. Another instance of a wasted life. Someone caught in a situation of bad timing, bad people, and bad choices. I found myself feeling bad for her too...though, I don't think she'd appreciate the sympathy.

She seemed to be very well aware of her circumstances that led her to where she was today.

Probably worse to be aware of the bad, then be content in your own delusions...

Choices

A clean house can make all of the difference for me. There's something about organizing the space around you, that makes you feel more in control...more sane. This morning I had my daughter home with me, on a day off that I hadn't planned on.

I found myself thinking, I could never be a stay at home mom- all day, every day.
I know I couldn't do it.
I know I'd probably ring her neck- daily. (in the lightest- happiest way possible)

2 year old chaos is like none other i've experienced thus far in my life.
There's a constant need for attention, wants and demands.
All of those needs and daily necessities are up to me.

We spend the first year making sure they stay alive. Checking up on them, in the middle of the night to hear their little breaths- so you can sleep a little easier for the next couple of hours, or until the next time you have to get up  after hearing them from the other room, whimper or cry. They're easy when they're babies. Their needs are met by milk, food, changing, napping, and when all else fails-  assuming they're teething or sick- and giving some gas drops and or Benadryl usually solves that mystery.

Then all of a sudden between 12 and 15 months- they start wanting more (as if we aren't already stretched to our limits). They start learning more, yearning for more knowledge about their surroundings. They start getting more daring and adventurous, entertaining and adorable...naughty and sometimes irritating. They're almost 2. They are becoming a little person right before your very eyes. They surprise you, and scare you. They make you laugh, and cry. They are the reason you wake up early in the morning (even on your day off).

And so, I find myself cherishing the moments I get to myself, even if it is just late at night, once she finally decides she's tired enough to stop watching "Pee-vee" (TV) with momma, stop wrestling the kitties, or munching on her "chee-choos" (any cereal or snack)- or even if it's for a couple of hours I'm squeezing out of daycare time.

Don't get me wrong, I cherish the moments I'm with her- but I think it's easier to love your kids, after you've been apart for any period of time. Any hard day at work usually fizzles out by the time I've picked her up from her daycare. It's hard not to wipe it all away when you see a little curly blonde hair, blue-eyed mini-you, running at you with open arms excited to tell you she went on the "side and wiing" (slide and swing) today with her little friends.

Not every moment is easy. But I can be proud that I know my kid is doing alright. I think it's natural to compare kids around your kid, to see how they're doing- or keeping up.

I'm excited to say she seems completely normal to me!
I've been blessed with a mild-mannered, easy-going almost-2 year old.



They say God will only give you what you can handle, and I know he's given me just that...even if it seems he's testing my limits some days. But- this is the route I chose, this is the road I decided was best for me, even if it wasn't the easiest or bump-free. Life is about choices, and I've lived long enough to know that taking the easy way out- never grants much satisfaction, and in fact, usually leaves a little void in the end.


I know that I'll look back in 5, 10, 15 years or so on- and realize my choices made me who I am today (the future-me). It's a bit scary because I know who I was 5 years ago- and I know I would have laughed at anyone telling me where I'd be today (the present-me).

It's exciting to look forward into the unknown, and wonder where exactly I'll be next.

Restless Life Syndrome

I can feel it coming on, every so often, like a bad case of heartburn- only tums don't help the burn. I get content in a situation, and BOOM I'm ready for more. It's a constant feeling that I can trace back as early as the mid-teen years, when my first job wasn't as exciting or offering me exactly what I'd hoped for- aside from the paycheck every week. Then came the next job, and the one after that. Then came nursing school- that was ok- that got me to a few good opportunities. Then some ups and downs in dating world, then before you know it- there I was ready to be a mom. 

Now- two years later, here I am at 25 with a house, 2 year old, decent job, and going to school to get some More out of life. 

That's the part I'm not terribly great at. The waiting game. 


It's an anxiety-feeling that overtakes me most days, waiting for something BIG to happen. Something new. Something out of the ordinary. But it never comes. It's like waiting for your instant-pick lottery numbers to finally hit, so you can finally win the lottery that you " just know" you're destined to win. 

Now, I'm not saying  that progress in my life hasn't been made- because that would sound ungrateful and untrue.  I've been blessed, I'd say, with the intuition and motivation to follow my gut instinct and go with each great opportunity as it has come along the way- and most of the time, that instinct has taken me to bigger and better things. 

When does the big break happen though. When does that "ah ha" moment really come, when I'll look back in 20 years and say, now THAT was the moment when everything changed. 

Am I rushing the future to figure out what moves I made right, or wrong to get me to that place, in the future? Probably. Does everyone have this feeling though? I feel like I look around, and all I see are polar opposites. People who are living their life, completely content in their situation- not really searching- or yearning for more. 

It's a depressing thing though, because it makes me feel like I do everything differently. How I raise my daughter, how I keep my home, how I don't let go of standards for the people I hold close to me- or those who I keep at a distance. I don't feel that I'm better than any one person or the next- but I definitely feel like some of those people have a few screws loose in their own priorities or standards. 

It's making a list of "to-do's" or things to check off throughout the day to feel accomplishment, but it's the feeling like the list is never ending. We spend our whole lives making new lists, just to finish the first list- and start another- and this continues until the day we die. 

We rush through our lives, and through the stages, to get to the next. It's figuring out how to take today for what it is- and cherish the moment knowing that tomorrow is a new day- with new opportunities, but being content in the truth that some of that is mostly out of our control. Or is it. Who makes our destiny? Ourselves, or something Bigger? 

Don't be afraid of the dark....

"One Two, Freddy's Comin' for you .Three-four, better lock your door. Five-Six, grab your crucifix. Seven-Eight, better stay awake. Nine-Ten, never sleep again." 

Most of my childhood (you can ask anyone) was spent idolizing(yeas, messed up as it may be) Freddy Kreuger, Chucky, Jason Vorhees, and Michael Meyers movies. The favorite of course being Nightmare on Elm street and Child's Play. 

In the early 90's there were these toys called "My Buddy" dolls. I'm convinced that, either they were made as a result of Chucky dolls, or Chucky movies were made as a result of the My Buddy dolls....with the likelihood that in some world, some where- some kid said his doll was talking to him, and making him do crazy things. I remember I'd scare my sister, by pretending the doll we had at home, was indeed Chucky, and in fact out to get her. 

   


Although I probably missed most of the Freddy-buzz when the Nightmare on Elm Street movies first came out, I was a huge fan by the time I was 4. 

I, my sisters and my cousin can attest to our infamous weekend nights at grandma and grandpa's house sitting on the couch with popcorn watching this beyond-scary-striped red and green sweater wearing-cellar-lurking psychopath on the USA network, curled up feeling as though we were getting away with murder (No pun intended), getting to watch this movie as Grandma sat in the background shaking her head at Grandpa's bad influence. 

I remember my grandpa used to remind me of Freddy Kreuger, in his basement with his wood burning stove. I remember being scared to death sometimes at night, to even look down those stairs at my grandparent's house...for fear that indeed, freddy kreuger would be standing there waiting for me in the "cellar". 

Little did I know that Freddy would essentially haunt my scariest of dreams, for the remainder of childhood and early adulthood. I to this day, still find Freddy in the background of my worst nightmares...






Movies out there today aren't the same. They're scarier. They're more frightening, and more realistic...and more intending to screw with your mind to the point of sleeping with the light on for a month after watching the movie, or-  until you forget about it enough to fall asleep without the paralyzing fear of whatever horror character is haunting your thoughts that day.

I scare myself so much sometimes I can't stand to walk into a room that's dark, without turning on the light first.

I don't even like the 6-7 o'clock hours of October, because I literally feel like I'm stuck in a Halloween movie, wondering when a hockey-mask-wearing killer is going to follow me into my house without me even feeling the breeze as he snuck past me! 



And so, movies continue to get scarier and as I get older, Halloween continues to get creepier and i find myself just waiting for Christmas because at least then....There's no scary times to dread! 

Big Sippy Cup

Last night Adyson, in all of her 13 month old "big baby" self, sat in front of my counter in the kitchen, as i washed the dishes- and as she howled with hurt as I denied her, her bottle. The bottle sat on the counter, waiting to be washed- as she held a miniature sippy cup, that could only hold about 5 or 6 ounces of milk. She held the green cup with little excitement, continued her tantrum- and threw it across the floor.

I turned my head as I watched the cup roll and hit the refrigerator. I looked to Adyson with alligator tears streaming down her face- her mute cries breaking through every so often through the sobbing, and I,  shortly later deciding that today- would not be the day I take away her bottle. It would not be the day that I make her "Act her age".
Today would be the day, as all of the other days before- that I give in to her being a baby.
I would hold her with her bottle full of warm milk , because she refuses to drink it cold, I would rock her gently back and forth as we watch TV before bedtime and settle into our normal nighttime routine.

Today, being a new day, I sat down with the yellow pad of paper and pen, to write out the grocery list. I went down the lines crossing off all of the food and other household supplies needed for the week, as I arrived to the last line.... I half-heartedly scribbled down three words...

Big . Sippy . Cup. 

I found myself writing these words with hesitation and a little bit of sideways smirk on my face. Only half-believing in these words anyway. Knowing in the back of my mind that this cup, like others- would end up on the shelf for several more weeks until I worked up the courage to do the unthinkable.

Could I possibly take all of the bottles- box them up into a bin to put away on a shelf or store downstairs with all of the other baby things that have been put away, never to be seen again? Could I really just go cold-turkey and get rid of one of the last traces of baby-life for Adyson?

I should also note that , at daycare -- she does not get a bottle. She does not get a pacifier. All methods that Miss Beth implemented when I said, let's start trying to do the big cup instead of a bottle. And so, one day- I stopped bringing her to daycare with a pacifier, and Beth stopped offering a bottle.

Little does Miss Beth know,  Adyson still gets that bottle and Paci at night with Ma-Ma. :-) 
I think I find myself grasping for the little moments still of baby-life with her but find myself at the same time, trying to find the line between making her into a "big girl" and keeping her little. We're really just working on their timeline anyway. Change happens when they're ready for it to happen, and permanent changes happen when we're ready to let them!

Concrete Angel(s)

“A statue stands in a shaded place

An angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot” 
― Martina Mcbride


Driving home today from work i found myself stopped at a corner, waiting for the cars in a hurry to pass by- off to their own destinations here and there, everyone more in a hurry than the last. So, I try to be less in an emergency myself.. and so, I  sit to wait for the traffic to move on. I look to my left then to my right to make sure all is well, but just as I start to ease forward , i notice two small children getting off of the yellow school bus in front of me.

The girls couldn't have been older than 5 and 4, give or take... and as the two held hands and continued on past the 1st, the 2nd, and the 3rd house past the bus stop... I found myself looking in the rear view mirror, wondering just how far these two had to go..before their mother or father- stepped out happily from their door steps - to greet them home from their long day at grade school. To unbundle them from the cool fall day.. to empty out their backpacks to see the notes from the teachers, to sit them down for a snack in front of their favorite afternoon cartoon?

Then, as i lost them in the distance... I felt overwhelmingly sad. I wondered... did they have someone waiting for them at home?

I was listening just the other day to the radio, sponsoring their annual "Roof-sit-for-kids" benefit. They announced that they raised almost 150,000 dollars to go towards prevention and other areas of need involving child abuse all over michigan. I learned several years ago though, to not pay too much listening time to that particular time of year for the radio. It's too sad.

It's a lifetime movie that you can't turn off, or switch to another happy channel- because you know that what you're turning off- is real for someone. The pain, and sorrow and awful reality of these petrifying stories of child abuse, neglect and complete lack of humanity... are true.

I always shake my head, because that's all that i can do, at stories like this. Terrifying clips on the news depicting another fatality for a child lost to the hands of his or her own mother or father, or someone else in their life who they were supposed to be in "safe hands" with. It's like we've become immune to these stories. Stories set aside in the line-up next to the evening weather, and evening sports clip... Another typical reason why i do not watch the news.

As an important side note. If there is a Hell where people who have done immeasurable Bad on Earth--- I would hope there is a special place for anyone who has done any hurt or irreparable harm to children here.

Party Animal.

"When I was a child I spoke as a child I understood as a child I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things." I Cor. xiii. 11.

Every now and again I find myself getting a little stir-crazy. I have the need to get dressed up, hair curled, makeup applied to perfection , heels on my feet that are more painful than the look is worth, and a little black dress that makes me feel like marilyn monroe at least for the night. A cinderella story that makes me feel like for a few moments that I am the superstar and everyone is watching me. 

So I go through the motions:

Find the sitter. 

Tuck my hunnie-pie in bed, in her warm footy- "jam jams".

Kiss her goodnight.

Give instructions to the teen that I used to be, responsible for just more than sinking into the couch for the evening, to watch an abundance of Jersey Shore or Teen Mom- 

And off I go. 

Every now and again, these nights are needed.

 Not just the usual trip to the bowling alley donning the notorious black top with jeans and black boots. We're talking,  taking a road down the long winding, exhausting trip, better known as downtown Grand Rapids.

Ah yes, into the land where Everyone feels like they're the superstar... And where every 20 something is on the prowl for the most drunken-evening filled with loud music so obnoxious that you can't hear the person across the table saying how AWESOME this bar is.

 *eye roll. 

And then the old-lady card gets figuratively slapped on my forehead. Despite how amazing I may feel in my hot black dress and superstar mentality- I feel like I'm melting away into the distance, watching a bad Teen Movie, portraying the many annoyances that I once felt about high school.

Every girl looks exactly the same. 

Every guy is looking for the girl who looks like the last girl, who just turned him down at the bar.

Every waitress  ignores the girl ordering the beer, 

But flaunt themselves to the drunk ordering tequila and some stupid shot named after the stripper down on the local corner. 

"YEAHHH LETS TAKE A PURPLE-HAIRED-SPICY LUCY SHOT"

 YAAAAH *FIST PUMP.

And the worst part is , people like these places. People go out all of the time, weekly and sometimes more than that- to bar hop. To go to more and more of these identical bars with Irish names with notoriety for being a breeding ground for drunken disorderly conduct. 

And I find it difficult to put on the party-face, and just blend in. 

Blend in with the girl next to me who's most responsibility in life is to pay her parents 100 bucks for rent- and to make sure she can struggle through her English 101 course down at the community college to try and make it on the Dean's list. 

*sigh.  To be without obligations right? 

And I say it without an ounce of envy in my voice, I can assure you. The fact remains that with life comes maturity and growth.. IT has to. 

Yet , there are people who manage to continue on with life- acting as though they are not supposed to move forward. 

I got told the other day that my "three drink limit" followed by an early-night-bedtime, was depressing. Why does it have to be? Why can't the expectation be the opposite. That we embrace being adults and acting like normal functioning members of society, instead of feigning for the next hangover and feeling awful about poor decisions made the night previous? 

The world is filled with Snooki-lindsay lohan-reality tv star wannabe's. 

We're trained to be stupid.