Today's the last day for my seniors. I am happy for them; they have terrific futures ahead. But I am very sad for me. I know I'll never have another group quite like this one.
There's Jackie, whose family is from South Africa, and because our system of immigration sometimes punishes the people who try to get and stay her legally while the illegals suck up taxpayer money (this is one issue I am pretty conservative on), she and her family are getting on a plane next week to go back to Johannesburg. She desperately wanted to stay in the country, and go to college here, but she is keeping a positive attitude for her family's sake. She worked very hard for me, using her writing and desktop publishing talents to make professional-looking brochures about the electronic and print parts of our collection. Losing her as a student makes me unbearably sad because our whole country is losing her, and as ambitious and smart as she is, she would have done great things here.
Then there's Seth, who never met a technical problem he couldn't solve. Not only was he a great tech guy, he also has a dry, sarcastic sense of humor you don't usually find in people under 30. When I wrote him a letter of recommendation, he gifted me with an enormous bar of quality dark chocolate, slyly slipping the bar to me and saying it was "the good stuff." Anybody who favors dark chocolate automatically gains a few points in my book. He's going to Louisville next year and is excited about the academics, but dreads being that far away from a Chipotle. I'm telling you, he's like the son I never had.
There's Erin, who wrote beautifully for our library blog and also used her artistic ability to make posters advertising Banned Books Week, Teen Read Week, and National Library Week. She was pretty quiet, but proved the old adage that quiet rivers run deep. She's one of those people who, when you look them in the eye, you can see the wheels turning, digesting everything they see to later be put into the Great American Novel.
There's Bethany, who sings and acts and is going to a prestigious southern university next year as a pitstop to eventually seeing her name in lights on Broadway. And there's Kayla, and Shea, and Megan, and Kaitlyn, and Tyler, and Ethan, all who did their jobs well with little or no complaining.
But like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, there's one I'll miss most of all.
Amanda came in early every morning to get equipment out the door well before the bell rang. She is an avid reader, and she and I spent much of the year recommending books to each other and discussing the social issues explored in the best of the books we shared. She was the hardest worker I had, and any time I thanked her and told her so she said, "I like to do it." She could have spent the last two weeks of her high-school career coasting, but instead she organized a book drive to help an elementary school in southern Kentucky that was devastated by the recent flooding. Because of her, 18 boxes of books are going to go to those teachers whose entire classroom libraries got ruined when the flood waters rushed in, reaching seven feet inside the school building. When she came up with the idea, I knew my mother-in-law might not make it and I told her that I wouldn't have the time or the energy to help her.
"That's okay," she said. "I really want to do this by myself. I feel like I need to do this."
And she did. All I did was send out an email or two and allow her to store the books here.
When people ask me what I do, and I tell them I work in a high school, I almost always hear the same thing:
"I don't know how you do it, working with these kids today." And then they shake their heads.
These kids today are exactly how and why I do what I do. Yes, there are some that are troubling. But when I look at the Amandas, I know the truth: these kids today are alright. Our future is in good hands.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Things I'll Carry
I'm back.
I'm not all here, though. I'm still grieving, and I know that I will be for a while. My life doesn't quite seem to fit right now; it's like I'm wearing someone else's clothes and everything is just a little too baggy at the seams.
Jason and I are fine when there are people around. It helped that pretty much every day last week, someone from the family or our group of friends came over for a little while. It was easy to get distracted, to not think too much about what the road ahead is going to look like.
But Monday, we were alone all day. And we had way too much time to think about her and her absence. Way too much time to look at the funeral flowers still blooming in our house, to pass by her purse, still in our living room because we still don't know what to do with it, to look at the pictures we pulled for the various tributes done for the funeral. I shed a lot of tears yesterday because so much of what I see reminds me of so much that we lost.
Aside from her purse, and aside from her pictures, there are things Kathie leaves in our home that provide comfort, not sadness. They are the things I'll always carry in my heart, the marks she left on my life. I've known Jason's mom since I was 16 years old; she is a big part of who I am.
These are the things I carry:
1. The Gravy Song
Kathie and her mother were "gravy singers." I love to listen to music and sing while I cook; this is not something I got from my mom, whose preferred pasttime during cooking is to talk on the phone and/or cuss loudly at every little mishap. Kathie kept a music player of some sort in her kitchen, and I do now, too. She didn't just listen to her music as she cooked, though. She sang. When she tried to teach me how to make gravy one night when I was struggling with the concept of turning chicken drippings, flour, and milk into something wonderful, she told me that I had to sing to it. She and her mother sang Jim Reeves's "He'll Have To Go" whenever they made gravy, and apparently, that's the trick to making the chemistry work just right. I don't do gravy very often, but I learned from Kathie that song in general makes the chore of preparing dinner a little more like "me" time.
2. Big Sexy Hair
When I first grew my hair from my post-chemo pixie into a short, layered shag, my stylist reached for the big red can that was so familiar to me from seeing it in my mother-in-law's room: Big Sexy Hair volumizer. I had to laugh; I was going to have Kathie hair. For her funeral Saturday, I reached for that big red can and puffed my hair up into a style that would have made her proud. As her boss said at her wake, "Everyone knew her as the tall, thin lady with the big hair and pretty smile." I don't have the tall and thin part so much, but from time to time I see the value in putting on some big hair and a nice smile.
3. Stephen King
I was a big fan before Kathie and I met, but an even bigger fan after. It was one of the things we bonded over (I think once she learned that I liked Stephen King and watched The Guiding Light, she found me completely acceptable to date her son.) She introduced me to The Talisman, and loaned me her copy, which had been split down the spine and re-taped. She had ripped the book down the middle because she had wanted her husband, Steve, to start reading the book while she was finishing it. We would continue to swap and gift each other books until the very end; the last thing I bought her was the newest Jodi Picoult book for her to read in the hospital. Last night when I picked up my just-purchased copy of Steven King's novel Duma Key, which she loved, it gave me comfort to know we were sharing one last book.
4. A Well-Kept House
Housekeeping is not a skill I picked up as a child. I will admit to being pretty spoiled chore-wise and never being expected to do much more than put my dirty dishes in the sink and give my room a going-over once every couple of weeks. Having a spotless house was just not a priority for my mom. But it was for Jason's. For years I witnessed whole-family housecleaning that involved vacuuming couch cushions (something, sadly, I didn't even know you could do), dragging out a steam cleaner for carpets, and taking liquid Comet to any hard surface that could handle it. Sometimes, just for fun, she would decide she wanted a room painted 12 hours before a party she was having. When Kathie stayed with Jason and me for a few days several years ago, she praised my housekeeping and I glowed from that compliment for weeks. Everything I do around the house now I learned from watching her (and her kids, who she employed like a small army.)
5. Family Dinners That Are About Way More Than the Food
Dinner at Jason's house could be a little intimidating. There were always so darn many of them gathered around the table, and I was always afraid I would get called out for using a "sauce" word. But after the actual food part was over, it was a great time. Stories were told and old songs were sung. Most of the stories I know about Jason and his growing up came from breaking bread with his family. Since I come from a very small family, and because my dad worked second shift and only ate with us on weekends and holidays, I wasn't used to big family dinners where everyone passed the potatoes and the tall tales. Even though now my own family is small, I try to make our nightly dinners the same way, with a little time after the forks have been put down to talk and laugh and spend some time together. And of course, to make fun of each other for sauce words.
I know that soon Jason and his siblings will go through Kathie's belongings and decide who gets to keep what. I remember from doing this with my dad's things that the treasures you keep are those things you want in your home because their presence reminds you of your loved one and some special moment you shared. I feel like Kathie has already given me many treasures. All I have to do is look at the home I've made, the traditions Jason, Ainsley, and I honor, to see her presence in my life.
Thank you, Kathie, for helping to make me the wife and mother I am. And I promise I will keep writing. You liked reading what I had to say, and as long as I have stories to tell, I will tell them and know that somewhere you are listening. And probably singing the gravy song.
I'm not all here, though. I'm still grieving, and I know that I will be for a while. My life doesn't quite seem to fit right now; it's like I'm wearing someone else's clothes and everything is just a little too baggy at the seams.
Jason and I are fine when there are people around. It helped that pretty much every day last week, someone from the family or our group of friends came over for a little while. It was easy to get distracted, to not think too much about what the road ahead is going to look like.
But Monday, we were alone all day. And we had way too much time to think about her and her absence. Way too much time to look at the funeral flowers still blooming in our house, to pass by her purse, still in our living room because we still don't know what to do with it, to look at the pictures we pulled for the various tributes done for the funeral. I shed a lot of tears yesterday because so much of what I see reminds me of so much that we lost.
Aside from her purse, and aside from her pictures, there are things Kathie leaves in our home that provide comfort, not sadness. They are the things I'll always carry in my heart, the marks she left on my life. I've known Jason's mom since I was 16 years old; she is a big part of who I am.
These are the things I carry:
1. The Gravy Song
Kathie and her mother were "gravy singers." I love to listen to music and sing while I cook; this is not something I got from my mom, whose preferred pasttime during cooking is to talk on the phone and/or cuss loudly at every little mishap. Kathie kept a music player of some sort in her kitchen, and I do now, too. She didn't just listen to her music as she cooked, though. She sang. When she tried to teach me how to make gravy one night when I was struggling with the concept of turning chicken drippings, flour, and milk into something wonderful, she told me that I had to sing to it. She and her mother sang Jim Reeves's "He'll Have To Go" whenever they made gravy, and apparently, that's the trick to making the chemistry work just right. I don't do gravy very often, but I learned from Kathie that song in general makes the chore of preparing dinner a little more like "me" time.
2. Big Sexy Hair
When I first grew my hair from my post-chemo pixie into a short, layered shag, my stylist reached for the big red can that was so familiar to me from seeing it in my mother-in-law's room: Big Sexy Hair volumizer. I had to laugh; I was going to have Kathie hair. For her funeral Saturday, I reached for that big red can and puffed my hair up into a style that would have made her proud. As her boss said at her wake, "Everyone knew her as the tall, thin lady with the big hair and pretty smile." I don't have the tall and thin part so much, but from time to time I see the value in putting on some big hair and a nice smile.
3. Stephen King
I was a big fan before Kathie and I met, but an even bigger fan after. It was one of the things we bonded over (I think once she learned that I liked Stephen King and watched The Guiding Light, she found me completely acceptable to date her son.) She introduced me to The Talisman, and loaned me her copy, which had been split down the spine and re-taped. She had ripped the book down the middle because she had wanted her husband, Steve, to start reading the book while she was finishing it. We would continue to swap and gift each other books until the very end; the last thing I bought her was the newest Jodi Picoult book for her to read in the hospital. Last night when I picked up my just-purchased copy of Steven King's novel Duma Key, which she loved, it gave me comfort to know we were sharing one last book.
4. A Well-Kept House
Housekeeping is not a skill I picked up as a child. I will admit to being pretty spoiled chore-wise and never being expected to do much more than put my dirty dishes in the sink and give my room a going-over once every couple of weeks. Having a spotless house was just not a priority for my mom. But it was for Jason's. For years I witnessed whole-family housecleaning that involved vacuuming couch cushions (something, sadly, I didn't even know you could do), dragging out a steam cleaner for carpets, and taking liquid Comet to any hard surface that could handle it. Sometimes, just for fun, she would decide she wanted a room painted 12 hours before a party she was having. When Kathie stayed with Jason and me for a few days several years ago, she praised my housekeeping and I glowed from that compliment for weeks. Everything I do around the house now I learned from watching her (and her kids, who she employed like a small army.)
5. Family Dinners That Are About Way More Than the Food
Dinner at Jason's house could be a little intimidating. There were always so darn many of them gathered around the table, and I was always afraid I would get called out for using a "sauce" word. But after the actual food part was over, it was a great time. Stories were told and old songs were sung. Most of the stories I know about Jason and his growing up came from breaking bread with his family. Since I come from a very small family, and because my dad worked second shift and only ate with us on weekends and holidays, I wasn't used to big family dinners where everyone passed the potatoes and the tall tales. Even though now my own family is small, I try to make our nightly dinners the same way, with a little time after the forks have been put down to talk and laugh and spend some time together. And of course, to make fun of each other for sauce words.
I know that soon Jason and his siblings will go through Kathie's belongings and decide who gets to keep what. I remember from doing this with my dad's things that the treasures you keep are those things you want in your home because their presence reminds you of your loved one and some special moment you shared. I feel like Kathie has already given me many treasures. All I have to do is look at the home I've made, the traditions Jason, Ainsley, and I honor, to see her presence in my life.
Thank you, Kathie, for helping to make me the wife and mother I am. And I promise I will keep writing. You liked reading what I had to say, and as long as I have stories to tell, I will tell them and know that somewhere you are listening. And probably singing the gravy song.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Touched By an iPod
So I said I wouldn't be writing for a while. But then something interesting happened, and I need to write it down so I don't forget.
If you're skeptical about life after death and all that, and if you're going to read this and think, "Oh, that's just a coincidence, Cranky," then just stop reading. Because maybe it is, but it gave me comfort, and that's all that matters, right?
Yesterday was a rough day for me. Monday was a bad day for Jason, and I spent a lot of time helping him, being at his side as his family made arrangements and dug through pictures and called extended family and friends. By 10am yesterday, I had made all the calls I needed to make, spoken to the bereavement committee at church, and even gone through my closet to pick out appropriate mourning clothes. Jason was gone running one last funeral home stop, Ainsley was at school, and I had the house to myself.
That's not really a good thing.
I started an on-and-off crying jag that lasted much of the afternoon. And then I got grouchy and started biting everyone's heads off, because that's how I roll when I get stressed out and overwhelmed.
"Why don't you get out of here for a little bit?" Jason said. "Go for a run or something to get it out of your system. You're making me crazy."
Don't judge him; he said it with love.
So I donned my running shoes, strapped on my iPod and set it to shuffle, and headed out on the longer of the two neighborhood courses I run. I wanted to wear out my body and mind.
The first song that popped up was "Love Rescue Me" by U2. I hadn't had that song pop up in a while. The lyrics in the last verse caught my attention:
I've conquered my past
The future is here at last
I stand at the entrance
To a new world I can see
The ruins to the right of me
Will soon have lost sight of me
Love rescue me
"Huh," I thought. "That's appropriate to Kathie's last hours."
The next song that popped up absolutely slayed me. I've never cried while running before, but I couldn't stop the tears. It was from the O, Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack and when I hear it under the best of circumstances, I boo-hoo. It's called "I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)." Here is a link to the Cox family doing it. Have tissues at ready.
It was about then I decided Jason's mom was talking to me through my iPod.
I don't know exactly how many songs I have on my iPod. It's a Nano, and I know it's pretty close to its capacity. So I am thinking there are at least a couple hundred on there. Yes, it's possible that song could have popped up during my 50-minute run just by chance.
But wait! There's more!
The next song was a Melissa Etheridge song that I love called, "I Will Never Be the Same." It's about the indelible mark someone leaves on your soul when you love them but lose them. It's also a heartbreaker. The verse that got me was this one:
And you swore that you were bound for glory
And for wanting you had no shame
But I loved you
And then I lost you
And I will never be the same
See what I mean?
Because I believe that we can talk to people we've lost, and sometimes they hear us, I sent up a little message in my head.
"Kathie, if you're doing this, if you're trying to talk to me, send me a sign. Make the next song something that you know will make me think of you, that will show me this is you, that tells me how you feel."
When the next song started, I actually laughed through my tears. And I could swear I could her her laugh, too.
It was "Love Can Build a Bridge" by the Judds, and it was the version from their reunion concert from New Year's Eve 1999. I remember that New Year's Eve all too well; we had just lost Steve, Kathie's husband and Jason's stepfather, to a sudden heart attack. We were all together that New Year's Eve trying to comfort each other and her. When I bought the CD of the concert, I could only bear to listen to it a few times because I associate it with that dark week of our lives. But I love that song, and love that Mama Judd sings it with both of her daughters in that version. Like Mama Kath used to sometimes sing with her two daughters.
That song was followed by an Alison Krauss song I didn't even know I had on my iPod: "But You Know I Love You", a song written about a travelling musician leaving family behind.
And if I could find my way back to the time
When the problems of this life of mine didn't cross our minds
All the answers were found in children's nursery rhymes
I'd come running back to you...
After that it was almost as if I felt the sadness lift away, and if she was with me there for a little while, she went on to say goodbye to someone else. I had peace. There was a moment where I thought, "Stop being ridiculous. You just put it on shuffle while you were in your 'Sad Songs' playlist and forgot you did that." But then Beyonce's "Check On It" came on, that great ballad about working your booty to tease and catch the attention of members of the opposite sex, and I realized it was just on random shuffle and either chance or something beyond chance had decided to play with my fragile emotions for a little while.
Either way, I had a peaceful evening. I'm back at work, distracting myself with the small-by-comparison needs of our students and staff. And I've only cried once today, and that was because dear friend MelMart stopped in with her guitar to sing me a song that she would like to do at Kathie's funeral mass (I cried so hard, in fact, that I snorted, which is really quite embarrassing.) Things are better, and while I can't for sure say it's because I got a musical message from the beyond, I can at least say it's because of the healing power of music.
If you're skeptical about life after death and all that, and if you're going to read this and think, "Oh, that's just a coincidence, Cranky," then just stop reading. Because maybe it is, but it gave me comfort, and that's all that matters, right?
Yesterday was a rough day for me. Monday was a bad day for Jason, and I spent a lot of time helping him, being at his side as his family made arrangements and dug through pictures and called extended family and friends. By 10am yesterday, I had made all the calls I needed to make, spoken to the bereavement committee at church, and even gone through my closet to pick out appropriate mourning clothes. Jason was gone running one last funeral home stop, Ainsley was at school, and I had the house to myself.
That's not really a good thing.
I started an on-and-off crying jag that lasted much of the afternoon. And then I got grouchy and started biting everyone's heads off, because that's how I roll when I get stressed out and overwhelmed.
"Why don't you get out of here for a little bit?" Jason said. "Go for a run or something to get it out of your system. You're making me crazy."
Don't judge him; he said it with love.
So I donned my running shoes, strapped on my iPod and set it to shuffle, and headed out on the longer of the two neighborhood courses I run. I wanted to wear out my body and mind.
The first song that popped up was "Love Rescue Me" by U2. I hadn't had that song pop up in a while. The lyrics in the last verse caught my attention:
I've conquered my past
The future is here at last
I stand at the entrance
To a new world I can see
The ruins to the right of me
Will soon have lost sight of me
Love rescue me
"Huh," I thought. "That's appropriate to Kathie's last hours."
The next song that popped up absolutely slayed me. I've never cried while running before, but I couldn't stop the tears. It was from the O, Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack and when I hear it under the best of circumstances, I boo-hoo. It's called "I Am Weary (Let Me Rest)." Here is a link to the Cox family doing it. Have tissues at ready.
It was about then I decided Jason's mom was talking to me through my iPod.
I don't know exactly how many songs I have on my iPod. It's a Nano, and I know it's pretty close to its capacity. So I am thinking there are at least a couple hundred on there. Yes, it's possible that song could have popped up during my 50-minute run just by chance.
But wait! There's more!
The next song was a Melissa Etheridge song that I love called, "I Will Never Be the Same." It's about the indelible mark someone leaves on your soul when you love them but lose them. It's also a heartbreaker. The verse that got me was this one:
And you swore that you were bound for glory
And for wanting you had no shame
But I loved you
And then I lost you
And I will never be the same
See what I mean?
Because I believe that we can talk to people we've lost, and sometimes they hear us, I sent up a little message in my head.
"Kathie, if you're doing this, if you're trying to talk to me, send me a sign. Make the next song something that you know will make me think of you, that will show me this is you, that tells me how you feel."
When the next song started, I actually laughed through my tears. And I could swear I could her her laugh, too.
It was "Love Can Build a Bridge" by the Judds, and it was the version from their reunion concert from New Year's Eve 1999. I remember that New Year's Eve all too well; we had just lost Steve, Kathie's husband and Jason's stepfather, to a sudden heart attack. We were all together that New Year's Eve trying to comfort each other and her. When I bought the CD of the concert, I could only bear to listen to it a few times because I associate it with that dark week of our lives. But I love that song, and love that Mama Judd sings it with both of her daughters in that version. Like Mama Kath used to sometimes sing with her two daughters.
That song was followed by an Alison Krauss song I didn't even know I had on my iPod: "But You Know I Love You", a song written about a travelling musician leaving family behind.
And if I could find my way back to the time
When the problems of this life of mine didn't cross our minds
All the answers were found in children's nursery rhymes
I'd come running back to you...
After that it was almost as if I felt the sadness lift away, and if she was with me there for a little while, she went on to say goodbye to someone else. I had peace. There was a moment where I thought, "Stop being ridiculous. You just put it on shuffle while you were in your 'Sad Songs' playlist and forgot you did that." But then Beyonce's "Check On It" came on, that great ballad about working your booty to tease and catch the attention of members of the opposite sex, and I realized it was just on random shuffle and either chance or something beyond chance had decided to play with my fragile emotions for a little while.
Either way, I had a peaceful evening. I'm back at work, distracting myself with the small-by-comparison needs of our students and staff. And I've only cried once today, and that was because dear friend MelMart stopped in with her guitar to sing me a song that she would like to do at Kathie's funeral mass (I cried so hard, in fact, that I snorted, which is really quite embarrassing.) Things are better, and while I can't for sure say it's because I got a musical message from the beyond, I can at least say it's because of the healing power of music.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Grief
I just wanted to let you know, my precious and few readers, that Cranky will be taking a break this week.
Jason's mother passed away Monday morning after her brave battle with COPD. She was a fighter until the very end.
As you can imagine, this is a hard week. I don't think I can bring the funny for a while. And when I've tried to write what I'm really feeling right now it all comes out trite and cliched, so I am going to take some time off and when I come back next week, I am sure I'll be able to put something together in Kathie's honor that befits the Cranky Librarian brand. Kathie read my blog from time to time and told Jason once, "I didn't know she was that funny. She should write a book." Coming from the matriarch of the most naturally funny people I know, that was high praise and I want to write about her in a way that will make her laugh, and make her proud.
Because behind the illness, and behind the grief we all are feeling, Kathie was a person who loved life and enjoyed every minute. She wouldn't want us to take things too seriously now.
But in my own grief, and in my worry about Jason, who is trying so hard to be a rock, I am in a very somber, humorless state of mind right now.
I will return next week, and I hope that Kathie inspires me to get my sense of humor back.
Much love,
Cranky
Jason's mother passed away Monday morning after her brave battle with COPD. She was a fighter until the very end.
As you can imagine, this is a hard week. I don't think I can bring the funny for a while. And when I've tried to write what I'm really feeling right now it all comes out trite and cliched, so I am going to take some time off and when I come back next week, I am sure I'll be able to put something together in Kathie's honor that befits the Cranky Librarian brand. Kathie read my blog from time to time and told Jason once, "I didn't know she was that funny. She should write a book." Coming from the matriarch of the most naturally funny people I know, that was high praise and I want to write about her in a way that will make her laugh, and make her proud.
Because behind the illness, and behind the grief we all are feeling, Kathie was a person who loved life and enjoyed every minute. She wouldn't want us to take things too seriously now.
But in my own grief, and in my worry about Jason, who is trying so hard to be a rock, I am in a very somber, humorless state of mind right now.
I will return next week, and I hope that Kathie inspires me to get my sense of humor back.
Much love,
Cranky
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
In Praise Of: Nurses
Many of you know that Jason's mom has been fighting COPD for years. She's been in the hospital being treated for complications of this illness since March, and yesterday things took a grim turn. I got one of "those" phone calls, the kind you don't like to get, and as I raced to the hospital I really thought it was the end.
She is, however, still with us. I don't know how things are going to end, and Jason is just dealing with it the only way any of us knows how: day by day.
As I so frequently am when someone I love is in a medical crisis, I was struck by the nurses. So today's edition of the "In Praise Of" segment honors those men and women who run the show in a hospital.
I've seen some bad nurses (and after Ainsley's birth, had one attend to me) but more often than not the nurses I've seen in action have been angels walking on earth.
When Jason and I were allowed back to see his mom, one of the nurses from the last unit she was in was with her.
"I love you," she said, patting her patient's hand. "How could I not? You're so easy to love." And then she turned away and wiped away tears.
I've always heard that nurses and doctors don't let themselves get too attached to their patients, because if they did, every day would be a day of mourning and they could never make the tough decisions. Maybe I've watched too much ER and Scrubs, but I think sometimes a personal touch from a medical professional goes a long way. Sometimes it helps to know that that person with your life in their hands is a human being.
Jason's mom's nurses care about her and love her and I know she feels that.
All of my chemo nurses were good, but I had one who was great. Her name was Fran, and she was there for that very first round when I was still high from the Ativan I was given to relax me through a bone marrow biopsy. Even though I was beyond annoying, asking her over and over again if I got my anti-nausea meds because I was too dopey to have any short-term memory, she laughed with me instead of at me. She always tried to grab my chart when I came in so that she could administer my meds. On my next-to-last appointment she took me by myself into an exam room to get my IV started because I had become a difficult stick and another nurse had tried and failed to find a good vein, making me cry for the first time during a treatment. For five minutes she worked to get a vein in my hand, both of us in silence. After she finally was in and taped me up, she threw her head back in a huge belly laugh of relief. When I looked closer, she was had tears in her eyes.
She hugged me.
"Oh, kiddo," she said. "I need a beer after that one."
"Me, too," I said. And for a few minutes we cried together. I appreciated that moment of humanity from her more than she may ever know.
From our school nurse, who patiently showed me how to give myself a shot when I needed to do that during treatment and who hunts me down every fall to give me a flu shot because she knows my immune system is blown, to the hospice nurse who showed up minutes after my father died and sat with until daylight helping us find peace, to the nurses who have cared for my mother-in-law as if she were their own mother: thank you for what you do.
She is, however, still with us. I don't know how things are going to end, and Jason is just dealing with it the only way any of us knows how: day by day.
As I so frequently am when someone I love is in a medical crisis, I was struck by the nurses. So today's edition of the "In Praise Of" segment honors those men and women who run the show in a hospital.
I've seen some bad nurses (and after Ainsley's birth, had one attend to me) but more often than not the nurses I've seen in action have been angels walking on earth.
When Jason and I were allowed back to see his mom, one of the nurses from the last unit she was in was with her.
"I love you," she said, patting her patient's hand. "How could I not? You're so easy to love." And then she turned away and wiped away tears.
I've always heard that nurses and doctors don't let themselves get too attached to their patients, because if they did, every day would be a day of mourning and they could never make the tough decisions. Maybe I've watched too much ER and Scrubs, but I think sometimes a personal touch from a medical professional goes a long way. Sometimes it helps to know that that person with your life in their hands is a human being.
Jason's mom's nurses care about her and love her and I know she feels that.
All of my chemo nurses were good, but I had one who was great. Her name was Fran, and she was there for that very first round when I was still high from the Ativan I was given to relax me through a bone marrow biopsy. Even though I was beyond annoying, asking her over and over again if I got my anti-nausea meds because I was too dopey to have any short-term memory, she laughed with me instead of at me. She always tried to grab my chart when I came in so that she could administer my meds. On my next-to-last appointment she took me by myself into an exam room to get my IV started because I had become a difficult stick and another nurse had tried and failed to find a good vein, making me cry for the first time during a treatment. For five minutes she worked to get a vein in my hand, both of us in silence. After she finally was in and taped me up, she threw her head back in a huge belly laugh of relief. When I looked closer, she was had tears in her eyes.
She hugged me.
"Oh, kiddo," she said. "I need a beer after that one."
"Me, too," I said. And for a few minutes we cried together. I appreciated that moment of humanity from her more than she may ever know.
From our school nurse, who patiently showed me how to give myself a shot when I needed to do that during treatment and who hunts me down every fall to give me a flu shot because she knows my immune system is blown, to the hospice nurse who showed up minutes after my father died and sat with until daylight helping us find peace, to the nurses who have cared for my mother-in-law as if she were their own mother: thank you for what you do.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Hey, Y'all! Breakfast Is On the Floor!
I want a Mother's Day do-over.
It started off great. There wasn't a cloud in the morning sky as I put my family's favorite breakfast casserole in the oven. Jason brewed a pot of my favorite coffee, and gave me his gift, which is exactly what I wanted: a navy squall jacket with the Northwestern crab boat logo on it in honor of my favorite vessel on my favorite Discovery Channel show, The Deadliest Catch. All was right with the world.
And then I made the biggest cooking error I've ever made: I tried to lift the 13 x 9 Pyrex casserole pan filled with sausage, cheese, eggs, and Crescent Roll dough (settle down; we don't eat this every day) out of the oven with just one hand.
You know where this is going, right? After about two seconds, I did, too, but was just as powerless as you are to stop it.
Because I am a moron and didn't have a mitt on my other hand, I couldn't just reach out and steady it. When the whole pan started to tip, and my wrist could no longer hold its weight, I just had to watch it all happen and get my bare feet out of the way.
The whole concoction, which with baking time had occupied a full hour of my morning, went Splat! on the floor. And the inside of the oven door.
But I gotta give props to the geniuses who developed Pyrex, because even though one side of the dish pounded my tile floor, it didn't break. So, there's that.
The casserole, alas, could not be saved. I had done a bang-up job greasing the pan, so it all slid right out onto the very unsanitary place where my feet spend most of their time.
That didn't stop Jason from considering it.
"Hey, remember that episode of Friends where they fight over the cheesecake and it ends up getting dropped on the floor in the hallway and they just go get forks and eat the top part? We could do that..."
Um, no.
So after me cleaning eggs and gooey cheese off of my oven door and the floor, Ainsley had Pop Tarts. Jason sipped coffee. I just swallowed anger and self-loathing, which are as bitter and unsatisfying as you might expect.
Later I tried to salvage the day by taking Ainsley to a Mommy-and-Me lunch at Chipotle. As we were standing in line, Ainsley tugged on my hand.
"I'm tired," she said.
There's a certain look my kid gets when she's sick. One eyelid droops and all color drains from her face. She gets a hang-dog posture that says, I give. You win, virus. Ainsley won't ever complain about a sore throat or a stomach ache, because she thinks to do so means a strep test. And if there is anything in this world that will get my kid to fight and scream like she's in mortal peril, it's the sight of a long cotton swab in the hands of a pediatric nurse.
She had this look, and she had a hot forehead. A nice Mother's Day meal was just not in our cards. Which ended up being just as well around 8pm, when Ainsley started perking up just as I had to run to the bathroom to be sick.
I've been saying I need a do-over.
Except for this:
At the peak of me realizing I had picked up some kind of bug, and feeling really sorry for myself, all three of us curled up in the living room in front of The Amazing Race season finale. Ainsley was cuddly and sweet as she watched her favorite (and only, thank goodness) reality show with us. I looked at my little family, who despite being a tad under the weather, is happy, healthy, and whole.
At that moment, I told myself to shut the heck up about a ruined breakfast, a fevered lunch, and a mild invasion of harmless viruses. So I didn't get a nice Mother's Day breakfast, so Ainsley had a fever, so my stomach felt the way it usually only does after a turn on the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was still an awesome Mother's Day, because my little brood got to spend it together. I ended the day counting my blessings instead of having another serving of self-pity.
And really, there's not much that an evening spent watching worthy reality-show contestants racing to win a million dollars won't fix.
Happy belated Mother's Day to all of you moms who read the blog. I would say I hope yours was better than mine, but mine turned out okay in the end, spilt milk (and eggs) and all.
It started off great. There wasn't a cloud in the morning sky as I put my family's favorite breakfast casserole in the oven. Jason brewed a pot of my favorite coffee, and gave me his gift, which is exactly what I wanted: a navy squall jacket with the Northwestern crab boat logo on it in honor of my favorite vessel on my favorite Discovery Channel show, The Deadliest Catch. All was right with the world.
And then I made the biggest cooking error I've ever made: I tried to lift the 13 x 9 Pyrex casserole pan filled with sausage, cheese, eggs, and Crescent Roll dough (settle down; we don't eat this every day) out of the oven with just one hand.
You know where this is going, right? After about two seconds, I did, too, but was just as powerless as you are to stop it.
Because I am a moron and didn't have a mitt on my other hand, I couldn't just reach out and steady it. When the whole pan started to tip, and my wrist could no longer hold its weight, I just had to watch it all happen and get my bare feet out of the way.
The whole concoction, which with baking time had occupied a full hour of my morning, went Splat! on the floor. And the inside of the oven door.
But I gotta give props to the geniuses who developed Pyrex, because even though one side of the dish pounded my tile floor, it didn't break. So, there's that.
The casserole, alas, could not be saved. I had done a bang-up job greasing the pan, so it all slid right out onto the very unsanitary place where my feet spend most of their time.
That didn't stop Jason from considering it.
"Hey, remember that episode of Friends where they fight over the cheesecake and it ends up getting dropped on the floor in the hallway and they just go get forks and eat the top part? We could do that..."
Um, no.
So after me cleaning eggs and gooey cheese off of my oven door and the floor, Ainsley had Pop Tarts. Jason sipped coffee. I just swallowed anger and self-loathing, which are as bitter and unsatisfying as you might expect.
Later I tried to salvage the day by taking Ainsley to a Mommy-and-Me lunch at Chipotle. As we were standing in line, Ainsley tugged on my hand.
"I'm tired," she said.
There's a certain look my kid gets when she's sick. One eyelid droops and all color drains from her face. She gets a hang-dog posture that says, I give. You win, virus. Ainsley won't ever complain about a sore throat or a stomach ache, because she thinks to do so means a strep test. And if there is anything in this world that will get my kid to fight and scream like she's in mortal peril, it's the sight of a long cotton swab in the hands of a pediatric nurse.
She had this look, and she had a hot forehead. A nice Mother's Day meal was just not in our cards. Which ended up being just as well around 8pm, when Ainsley started perking up just as I had to run to the bathroom to be sick.
I've been saying I need a do-over.
Except for this:
At the peak of me realizing I had picked up some kind of bug, and feeling really sorry for myself, all three of us curled up in the living room in front of The Amazing Race season finale. Ainsley was cuddly and sweet as she watched her favorite (and only, thank goodness) reality show with us. I looked at my little family, who despite being a tad under the weather, is happy, healthy, and whole.
At that moment, I told myself to shut the heck up about a ruined breakfast, a fevered lunch, and a mild invasion of harmless viruses. So I didn't get a nice Mother's Day breakfast, so Ainsley had a fever, so my stomach felt the way it usually only does after a turn on the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was still an awesome Mother's Day, because my little brood got to spend it together. I ended the day counting my blessings instead of having another serving of self-pity.
And really, there's not much that an evening spent watching worthy reality-show contestants racing to win a million dollars won't fix.
Happy belated Mother's Day to all of you moms who read the blog. I would say I hope yours was better than mine, but mine turned out okay in the end, spilt milk (and eggs) and all.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Out of the Pencil of Ains: Mother's Day Edition
Yesterday Ainsley proudly brought home the Mother's Day gifts her class had made this week. I now have a new paperweight consisting of a Yankee Candle candle-jar top with a wad of modelling clay in the bottom, holding a spray of felt and bead flowers.
I love my paperweight, but I love the note that came with it more.
It was typed onto a little yellow slip of paper, and I am guessing the kids wrote it down and gave it to the teacher who neatly typed and edited the kids' writing. I bet it's the highlight of her year.
Ainsley's "card' went like this:
My Mother
My mother is sweet and kind. She gives me things I like. Sometimes she even gives me candy. She's the best mother I ever had.
Take that, Ainsley's other mothers! I'm the best! Woo-hoo!
And stop laughing--sometimes I am sweet and kind.
I love my paperweight, but I love the note that came with it more.
It was typed onto a little yellow slip of paper, and I am guessing the kids wrote it down and gave it to the teacher who neatly typed and edited the kids' writing. I bet it's the highlight of her year.
Ainsley's "card' went like this:
My Mother
My mother is sweet and kind. She gives me things I like. Sometimes she even gives me candy. She's the best mother I ever had.
Take that, Ainsley's other mothers! I'm the best! Woo-hoo!
And stop laughing--sometimes I am sweet and kind.
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