Unholiest of the holy

Long before I fell in love with the study of the human body and enlisted myself in an all-consuming nursing school program, I worked in retail and attended school at a small Christian university where being an English student was a natural and easy-going path. The social scene for me was not as effortless though. I was often comforted with sanctimonious expressions of, "We were praying for you at our discipleship meeting today." Ok. Thanks. Chapel was a requirement at this school, and since there wasn't a dress code students would turn up in their class room casual outfits. Girls would frequently be adorned in their crude pajama pants with "PINK" scrolled across their bottoms, so it was a surprise to me when one day I was stopped a block away from the chapel by a less than pleased R.A. who believed her duties extended beyond the confines of the dorm she presided over:

R.A.: (with concerned, I've-been-praying-for-you face) Are you going to chapel?
me: (very confused face) It appears I am. Why?
R.A.: (shaking her head and pointing assertively at my get-up) You can't wear that.
me: (looking down to evaluate my Rolling Stones t-shirt, denim shorts, and cowboy boots and pointing back at myself) This?
R.A.: That. You cannot wear that in The House of The Lord.
me: (amused) ok....

I turned around and headed to work instead. I loved my job at Betsey Johnson (recently the store closed after becoming bankrupt....I guess the financial equivalent to what a few of my school chums thought I was morally.) Every month I could pick any free dress I wanted and any damaged items were also free, so my closet grew rapidly. It was a perfect college job.

Fast forward to present day Life-of-me: a wife, mom, and student trying to be a thousand things at once. Fancy dresses don't really make the list of important things anymore though, so one day I decided to Ebay them. So far I have streamlined my closet and earned about $600! More closet space, more money! Win-Win! In the process I also discovered a few hidden gems that I just couldn't imagine why I had stopped wearing! So, excitedly I threw on one such dress (an above the knee embroidered black lace one with a sheer hem) and headed to church with an elderly lady that I take every Sunday. We go to a breathtaking Catholic church with a very refined parish. I am not used to the customs of Catholics, but I think this sums up some of the physical demands on any given Sunday:

enter church, dip hand in Holy water, cross yourself, walk to pew, kneel/bow, sit, kneel, sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, sit, kneel, sit, stand, shake hands with neighbors, kneel again, sit while parishioners receive communion, kneel when they get back, sit, kneel, stand, exit pew, kneel/bow, leave church and cross yourself on the way out the door

This particular Sunday I drank a lot of coffee. So, I had to make an exit to the ladies room because my post-baby-bladder was sending threatening messages to my brain. I exited the pew, bowed awkwardly because this is something I am not accustomed to and hurried along the way to the back of the church noting that the faces I encountered along the way all shared the same look of quiet revulsion. When I reached the ladies room I saw a full length mirror and decided to see what could be the matter..... I suppose when I bowed, I must have mooned about half of the congregation sitting behind me. In The House Of The Lord. It came back to me why I stopped wearing this dress: sheer hem too short to be considered decent. I thought, "Well Holy Ish, this is going to be an uncomfortable walk back to the pew." I did though and kneeled piously as I could, bowing only at my neck and not at my waist. When it came time to shake hands with my neighbors I gave my best I'm REALLY sorry face to the woman behind me who answered with a snide look. Understandable.

So perhaps the R.A. so many years ago wasn't too far off her mark. She may have been mothering me in some way that was as natural to her as denim, t-shirts, and cowboy boots are to me.

Hiatuses and Processionals

After being supremely lazy and feeling slightly awkward at the thought of droning on about myself to an absent audience, I have decided to bring my blogging hiatus to a close. The last semester of school pried me completely away from any ability to blog in order to keep my head above med/surg water. And summer forced me into the world (or should I say ocean) of Statistics where I again narrowly escaped. Enough of that though.
#1. I have decided to write a book. I hope all three of you reading will hold me accountable to this. It has been a dream of mine for a long time. Ideas stack up in my head and never find their way to paper. I think it's time. I feel more motivated than ever to make it happen.
#2. My championing Laziness has yet again won out on the blogging front, and instead of creating a blog all on my own I asked my Dad to do the work for me....
I approached my Dear Ol' Dad about writing out one of my favorite stories that I had only heard for the first time a few years ago (2 at the most). This story makes me smile any time I think of it because it is truly funny. I have to stress that, and you will see why. So, my father, never missing a moment to create a greater moral....never ignoring an opportunity to parent, has lovingly retold a story that I love. Please enjoy.

First, some  background.  When I was seven years old, our family and another family were returning from the movies one night, all of us piled into our car.  We were driving back home through the streets of downtown Birmingham.  My father was driving as five different conversations competed in the backround.  He stopped at a traffic light.  Then the light turned green. But he hesitated; he had noticed another car was running their red light.  Not so fortunate were the two men in the lane next to us.  They rolled into the intersection where a speeding car slammed into their front right fender.  We all watched as the force of the collision spun the hapless mens' car into a pinwheel.  So strong was the spinning of their car that their passenger door flew open, and the passenger was hanging outside the door, clinging as long as he could.  When both cars skidded to a stop, my father pulled our car to the curb, and ran across the street to stop the light-running car from escaping.  As the driver rolled down her window, alcohol vapor billowed out.  The lady was stunned, but was also so drunk that her speech was slurred.  Anyway, as a seven year old kid, I was so struck by the quick action of one driver, my father, that I determined I would never be clobbered by a light runner.  It seemed like a simple enough pledge: never run a red light, and always check before moving on green.  That pledge has actually saved me a couple of times since.

And now to the main story.  A high school friend, Bobby, and his family were returning home from downtown Birmingham when a drunk light runner rammed their car.  Bobby and his father were seriously injured.  Bobby's father was released from the hospital a few days later.  Bobby would be on indefinite life support, but would never regain his mind.  His poor family made the agonizing decision to pull his plug, and Bobby died quickly.  Many friends and family, including my family, attended his funeral.  After the service, we all formed a procession to the cemetary.  Motorcycle police provided escort.  I was in my car alone. 

I watched as one motorcycle escort stopped traffic for us, and then bolted off to the front of the funeral procession.  Suddenly, the light before me turned red.  I know, I was in a funeral procession, and I had the right-of-way.  But I reacted involuntarily, just as I had programmed myself to, and I stopped.  The procession in front of me faded away.  Routine traffic swallowed them up, even as I watched.  When the light finally turned green, I sped frantically to rejoin the procession, but I failed.  And I didn't know exactly where the cemetary was.  It was on the side of town we rarely visited.  I decided that I was just one of many, and that no one would notice my absence, so I turned into a hamburger joint to get a hamburger.  That's when I saw the tail of the funeral procession in my rear view mirror.  Despite my speeding, they had kept up with me, and now they were turning with me into the hamburger stand!  Again, I made a snap decision.  I sped through the drive-thru, and back into traffic, the rest of the procession in hot pursuit.  I guess I got lucky and eventually found the cemetary, the last cars in the procession still with me.  We drove so fast that we arrived at the cemetary at the same time as the front of the procession.  We weren't behind them, though - we met them head on.  As Bobby's poor mother exited the family limousine, she noticed us driving up to the lead car.  She looked very puzzled, but then joined her family who had kept walking up to the graveside.  

No one said a word to me, and I guess my own family never knew what had happened. Just one of those bad decisions you make for the right reason, I guess.  I can recall a few other bad-decisions-for-the-right-reason that I have made since then.

Love,

Daddy

Sheer Insanity

I was beginning to think of myself as pretty dull. Only a few blogs in, and that's all I got. Close the shop, folks. Then over dinner with some friends, a story that had long disappeared from my mind was unearthed. Now, even at the risk of my mom calling me to ask if I completely lost my brain in my early 20's, I will tell you the tale....

I used to work at a hoity-toity clothing store. I was poor, happy, and dressed pretty well. Life was good, and I was more trusting of people then than I am now. One night a man came in. He was in his 40s or 50s, I suppose. He was extremely tan and had the whitest teeth I had ever seen. Who doesn't trust someone with a perfect smile? Anyway, this guy chatted for awhile and told me that he could cut my hair. I was poor so I declined on the basis that I had no cash. He insisted and said I didn't have to pay! Well, alright! I waited for the shop to close, let him cut my hair, let him clean up the scraps while I finished closing, and we went our separate ways. Pretty normal.

About a few months later he returned and cut my hair plus my coworkers hair. The routine ensued every month thereafter. He was so friendly! My coworker and I enthusiastically welcomed his visits, so now we would put up a sign: "Back in 15!" We would go to the stock room, let him use his could-be-weapon scissors to harmlessly trim our locks. This went on for 2 years.

Then.....one night I wasn't there. He came in. Gave my friend her haircut, and said he would do the usual clean up while she got back to work. Said friend went to the front of the store and remembered she needed something from the back. She made her way casually to the stock room, rounded the corner, and found him. Shoving hair in his pants.

Yep. All these years. It wasn't until then that it had even occurred to me that I was: closing and locking my store, going to the back room alone with some guy armed with a potentially deadly weapon, and taking a seat while he gave me his crocodile grin and cut away. Seriously.

Don't know how else to end this one. It's a doozy, so I will let you simmer on that.

yours,

Tiffany

Electro Feel

Warning: this might be gross.

Last week I was given the opportunity to be a spectator in the O.R. and watch as multiple lung masses were cut out of a patient by a very skilled, badass, 76 year old thoracic surgeon. Yes, I said 76. When the doctor arrived in the O.R. he high-fived me and gave some very important instructions: I want you to stand directly behind me on a step stool, but if you feel like you are getting the least bit light headed I want you to sit on the floor and take off your mask - it's ok, the O.R. is a theatrical place. The room was busily and systematically prepared, the patient came in, the CRNA put them under, and I anxiously took my place. The surgeons were ready for work.

The Doctor: Tiffany, what are you going to do if you get light headed?

Me: I'm going to sit down and take off my mask.

The surgeons opened the skin and made their way through the layers of adipose tissue to expose the ribs.

The Doctor: Tiffany, if you feel light headed what will you do?

Me: I will sit on the floor and take off my mask.

The Doctor: That's right because if you don't you will fall, hit your head, get an epidural hematoma, and die. Then I will be mad.

Me: Ok.

He snapped two ribs, explaining to me their anatomy. So cool, and yet one thought kept creeping into my mind: don't faint. I wasn't the least bit grossed out. In fact I loved every second of observing, but all the talk of fainting made me wonder if I would. I thought to myself, "sing a song, sing a song..." to shut out the noise. As if on eternal repeat I sang (in my head) Electric Feel by MGMT. It's a good work out song, and an even better operating song. Every few minutes I would be interrupted:

The Doctor: What will you do if you feel weak?

Me: I will sit on the floor and take off my mask.

The Doctor: Good.

I saw the lung deflate, the masses removed with equipment completely foreign to me (whatever it was, it cut and stapled at the same time), and the doctor let me see the coolest thing of all: the heart!

The Doctor: Put your arm on my shoulder and lean over here. See, there is the aorta, the pulmonary arteries, the inferior vena cava. Going up you'll start to see the carotid...

The sight of it, the vital importance of it was electrifying. I felt like I was gaining so much knowledge...and momentum to care about what I do.

Cut to this week. I love going off the floor, so I volunteered to take my patient to podiatry. Bad idea. The people in the office were awesome. I got to take staples out of a crusted over incision where a big toe was removed due to gangrene. Skin flaked everywhere. Bits of dried up ooze haphazardly falling my direction. The dry scalish bits of skin were folded back with tweezers by the podiatrist. This guy loved what he did. He did it with great interest. I, on the other hand, felt my knees going weak. I thought, "I will sit on the floor. I don't have a mask. I will sit down." I made my way to a chair (which Dr. Badass would have hated, as he said I wouldn't make it). I did. I listened as they found more gangrene ooze under the other toes. I peaked and wished I hadn't. The nurse assured me, "You'll get used to it! You probably just didn't eat enough breakfast." Thank God I didn't. Let's face it: I'm not cut out for podiatry.

yours,

Tiffany

Family Calamity: Part 1

First watch:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXkpZ1AZM2M

I wish I could say this didn't happen to me. I wish. Let me explain...

About four years after the death of Nathan's grandfather his family finally decided to scatter his ashes. Our daughter was a newborn so the event coincided with all the extended family coming to town. For some reason it was decided that the best place to leave his ashes would be on the intracoastal waterway, so we all met at The Chapel by the Sea - a modest outdoor worship area next to the campus where Nathan and I attended college.

As Nathan and I drove to the event we had to wonder why this took so long. Four years? Then we ultimately came to discuss the very scene shown above from The Big Lebowski. Nathan made sure to remind me, "We can't let anyone stand down wind." Ha! Seriously, that would be awful.

We arrived, greeted our extended family members, listened to his dad share stories about Grandpa and deliver a sermon. We sang from the hymnals that were somehow supplied from the trunk of Nathan's parents' SUV. Not sure if this is a regular thing to have 15 hymnals on hand.

The moment was coming. The family debated who should scatter the ashes; each person passing the duty off to someone else. Nathan's dad took on the responsibility. He clutched the box of ashes and lifted the lid. Everyone emotionally gathered around the sea wall to say a final goodbye prayer. It was at that moment, a moment that I so richly regret, that I saw Nathan's mom standing on the sea wall trying to capture the last moment on her camera. She had been in this family, had known grandpa so much longer, she deserved to be in the pictures. I convinced her to trade places, stand with everyone else, and let me take the picture. She quickly obliged.

I was trying to find my angle. The best, most poetic view I could capture. I wanted to make sure everyone was in the shot. I didn't take any time to consider anything else. Nathan's dad grasped the box of ashes and swung his arm back like it was the opening pitch of a baseball game.

It's hard to describe the next horrific moment. The moment I realized the wind had dramatically shifted my direction. A widespread doomsday-like cloud was rushing towards me. Every particle racing my direction. "Don't scream, you'll inhale him," I thought. I turned my back to the advancing ashes. Can I outrun this? I will try. Go diagonal! This assessment left me two paths: diagonal left into the plausibly shark infested sea, diagonal right: all clear. I was no match for the wind. I was quickly covered. Every inch. My black pants now soot colored. My hair chalky. My eyes burning. My lips and mouth gritty. My pace slowed because the worst was over, but I couldn't turn around. I just continued walking to the car. Nathan's family was in a state of quiet horror. Nathan's sister ran over, "Don't make it a big deal!" and lovingly patted down my outfit. What a futile effort. Nathan rushed over, "What should we do?" Go home. Nathan's dad passed by to put the hymnals away, "It's just a little dust." No, no not really. It's your dad. He is on my clothes. In my hair. My mouth. My eyes. My nose. I can picture his remains on a cellular level passing through my airway, into my lungs, somehow diffusing into my blood supply and my only hope is that in a few days he will be gone.

Nathan reluctantly informed his family we needed to leave. His mom pleaded, "but I brought Subway..." Not really interested in eating right now. Nathan took both sandwiches to go, picked up our innocent newborn daughter, and we hit the road. The car ride was silent. The kind of silence that builds. Then somewhere, someone broke. Who even knows what was said, but here is the gist of each of our arguments:

Nathan: We shouldn't have left. It was insensitive to the people who were mourning.

Me: #1. Alleged mourning is about four years late. #2. I am covered in your grandfather, which is evidenced by my pants: they were black, now they are light grey.

Nathan: I told you to move!

Me:When?! What did you say?

Nathan: I did this. (swishes his hands in the air)

Me: That is not TELLING me anything! (To prove my point:) Here I am going to tell you something, but don't look at me. (wildly flail my arms around) Can you tell me what I just said?

I think it is clear to most sane people who would win this battle. And this was the first time in our marriage where I really wondered where I went wrong in my life plans. (It's ok, I think this is normal for most married people. If not, you don't need to inform me that everyone does in fact live happily ever after).

The hours that followed that event were not nearly as dramatic. I called my mom and retold my story. She laughed uncontrollably. Sympathy is hard to come by. The next day was Thanksgiving, and Nathan's dad sang me a song he thought was appropriate: "I Want to Wash that man Right out of my Hair" from the musical Hairspray. This was complete with dancey arm moves.

It's one and a half years later, and I now know this is funny. Not just a little funny. It's hilarious.

yours,

Tiffany

Blinded with Science

Tomorrow brings the start of a new semester. From now until May I will walk the halls of the VA Hospital soaking in all that I can about Med-Surg nursing and mental health. That's my professional life.

Personally, I am trying to challenge myself. Push myself to learn as much as I can, be as creative as I can, and love as much as I can. It was easy for one week, but my endurance is waining. It will come back.

Today I was affected by an emotional contagion that left me uninspired and unable to commit to the work of enjoyment. I needed to study. My brain would say, "need to study," the heaviness would reply, "can't study." The brain won - in a roundabout way.

Studying in the necessary way wasn't going to happen yet. I had to build towards it. What was I interested in and had yet to explore? Psychoneuroimmunology. (A field of study that examines our emotions effect on immune response.) I did it. The material online was more than enough to graze on. Over time the heaviness disappeared. It was replaced with inquisitiveness and the feeling of accomplishment.

So, I would like to know what the very few people who read this are interested in and have not allowed themselves to look further into. Often things cross our paths, they pique our interest, and time won't allow us to examine them further. What are your "things?"

Here is what my investigation of Psychoneuroimmunology revealed to me today:

• Studies show that increased stressors/chronic stress increases the number of white blood cells and decreases the number of our helper T cells, suppressor T cells, natural killer cells, cytotoxic T cells, and B cells.
• Stressors yield sympathetic nervous system and endocrine system changes, which then causes impaired immune function
• Simply explained: Stress manifests as anxiety/fear/sadness/tension -> increased heart rate, increased blood pressure. In a prolonged state this -> body's inability to maintain homeostasis. Bad news.
• Mid 20th Century studies indicated that psychotic patients had poor antibody response to whooping cough vaccines when compared to non-psychotic patients.

Hope this wasn't too nerdy or self-centered. I hope I will get to hear about subjects you readers are interested in and will try to look further into.

yours,

Tiffany

Best Friends and Serial Killers

V.V. came over today and our little girls had the chance to play together for the first time since before Christmas! That is an unusually long time to go without seeing each other since our families are, well, like family and at a minimum hang out once a week. It was so good to see her and even better to watch the girls play and interact with each other.

A few pictures from the day:

The weather could not have been more perfect so we loaded the girls up in the ol' radio flyer wagon and went walking in the neighborhood. We were crossing a street as a man in a white van was exiting. He let us cross the street first. As we reached the safe sidewalk ahead he rolled down his window and shouted, "Hot girls in moccasins!" Cool dude. ...Really though, I sort of wanted to say thanks for the compliment. We walked and talked some more and as we got closer to my street we saw him again. What makes this weird is that these streets don't join and there is little reason for someone to just go up and down each one of them. He rolled the window down again, "Where did you get your moccasins?" I appreciate neighborliness, so I obliged with a brief explanation. I was still perplexed about him though and assumed he must be a realtor since I could see a black binder in his car plus he's a dude in a white minivan. I asked. "No." That's all he said. Still no explanation why he was cruising the safe streets of my neighborhood. With that he drove off. It was strange to me, but I also realize I can be paranoid about strangers.

Let me mention exhibit B of said paranoia:

Nathan and I went through a pretty morbid phase of our relationship where we almost exclusively watched Law & Order and any other TV show that had anything to do with mobs, gangsters, serial killers, or unsolved murders. I generally don't regret my programming choices, but there is one show I wish I never ever ever watched: Interview with the IceMan Killer. (I don't know if that's the exact title, but that's the idea). This guy was the type of serial killer who was dad by day and monster by night. He could live in your neighborhood. He explained his kills. I was gripped and terrified by the random simplicity of his victims. He said he hid in one person's closet all day, and at night snuck out as they peacefully slept and killed them! This single bit of information has provoked me to do a nightly psycho-check in every closet and crevice of my house. It's totally disrupting to any normal routine, but his creepy story dances around in my mind if I attempt to lay in bed without checking at least every closet. Ridiculous. I know.

And really what would I do if someone was standing or crouched in my closet? I think of this often. In my mind I run through a catalog of combat moves I can unleash. I'd reveal them on here, but who knows who is reading! So serial killer, if you are reading this: Be careful. I'm ready to pounce. My moves are deadly, and they are for me to know and for you to find out.

yours,

Tiffany