From the Mouths of Babes

In my line of work I see an abundance of Old Folk as I like to call them. They are our grandparent’s age, they are mostly pleasant, easy to assess, and appreciative of care. They are our bread and butter, what we know and what we are comfortable with. But every so often we get to care for children. Some of these calls make you want to cry, but some you can’t help but laugh. These are a few that come to mind…

A four-year-old girl is sitting buckled up in her car seat in the back seat of a pretty mangled up car, I walk up and she’s crying. I say in my most happy, nonchalant, don’t be afraid voice, “Hi sweetheart, are you hurt?” She replies, “My body isn’t but I think my feelings are.” An assessment showed that she was indeed just fine, but we took her anyways to get checked out. In the back of the ambulance while admiring our array of life saving equipment she asked if we had Dora Band-Aids – we don’t. I asked her where she would put a Band-Aid if she wasn’t hurt – thinking I might get her to admit to an injury we hadn’t caught. She pointed to her chest and said, “I think my feelings are right about here.” At that moment I would have given anything for a Dora Band-Aid.

As we are putting the seatbelts of our gurney around a larger woman her six-year-old daughter announces, “She doesn’t have a baby in her tummy, even though it looks like she does.”

We are taking a 2-week-old to the hospital because of a respiratory infection when his five-year-old big brother confides in me, “Its okay, you don’t have to bring him back, I don’t like him.”

A nine year old is accidently hit in the head by his friend swinging a bat. He has a pretty good gash which he has his hand plastered over.
Me – Could you move your hand so I can see?
Him – No
Me – Why?
Him – The cut is really deep and if I move my hand my brain might fall out.
Me – I’ll be sure to catch it if it does (I am joking, he is VERY serious)
Him as he’s moving his hand away – Get ready its probably pretty heavy.

Its not always life, death, and drama. When we’re lucky its small, cute, and funny.

Just a Trim

That’s what I say every six months when I go to get my hair cut. I know, I only go every six months, but that’s all I can handle of the hair cut routine.

I have had the same hair lady since I was a sophomore in high school. She is sweet and we have seen each other through some major life changes – college, my wedding, her divorce, new homes, new careers, new puppies, and her new husband. She hasn’t charged me more that $35 for a wash, cut, and style since I was sixteen.

When I see her I feel obliged to “chat”. I am not good at chatting. If we were friends sitting around on a comfy couch munchin’ on some goodies then fine. But that’s the thing, we’re really not friends and we only see each other for a mere hour every six months. How do you chat about the last six months of your life with someone you won’t see for another six?

She seems better at it than I am, but go figure its what she does. Sometimes she makes me feel guilty with her above average chatting skills. She remembers details of what we chatted about six months ago and asks detailed questions regarding what she remembers and I, for the life of me, can’t remember a thing.

She may be too good at the chatting thing though, because “just a trim” always ends up to be much more. She seems to get carried away in one story or another and just keeps snipping away. Just when I think she should be finishing up, she starts another story and I lose another inch. I have thought about booking a factious appointment in the slot right after mine in hopes that she gets down to business, resulting in less chatter and me walking out with more of my hair.

Regardless of the endless chatter and excessive snipping, I am stuck with her. I don’t think I can break-up with my hair lady. I have though about finding someone closer to home or just going to the generic Super Cuts where chatting isn’t required, but a feeling of infidelity always comes over me. I wonder if I were to be unhappy with a new person cutting my hair and tried to return to my lady, would she take me back? Would my hair give itself away and could she tell that I had been seeing someone else? That would definitely be awkward, thus making me a more pitiful chatterer.

Well hair lady, I’m good for another six months. Maybe I should write down stuff we talked about today and make notes for “chatting” next time. But really who am I kidding, you’ll chat and snip and I’ll sit there and our routine will continue like it has for the last 12 years.

Can You Say Bargain?

What is it you ask? Thats 20 patterns for $20. That my friends is a savings of $260.00!

Thanks to Jessica and my Mom for telling me about the sale!

Not exactly Mozart

Now don’t get me wrong, I am all for encouraging children’s creativity through music and art, but I want to kill our young neighbor. Or at least maim him bad enough that the horrific sound that is coming from his garage and assaulting my, what used to be a peaceful haven of a house, stops. I think his parents call it “Heavy Metal” but I call it loud as crap and sounds like @#it. My windows shake, my dogs hide, and I curse. Please, when encouraging your little rock star…just say NO to garage bands.

Our Bishop

You have to love my Relief Society president for noticing me ditch out on the Mother’s Day Brunch at church. I sat through the lesson, but when dismissed for the brunch the ladies went right and I turned left.

She confronted me and asked why I wasn’t going to go. In a few short sentences I explained that Mother’s Day really wasn’t my thing and summed up our last 4 years of trying to become parents. She asked me why I hadn’t talked to her about it before and before I could come up with something snappy about my infertility not fitting into most Sunday lessons she answered the question for me.

She told me that I should try adopting and that I would be sure to get pregnant (one of my favorites), then I would end up with two babies and be so busy I would wish for my life pre-parenthood. She also suggested I go visit Sister Soandso who has 6 children under the age of 5 and that would “cure” me from wanting kids so bad. I smiled at her, thanked her for her concern, got in my car and moped all the way home.

My husbands reaction as he drove his sniffling wife home? “I knew we shouldn’t have gone to church today.” I wanted to smack him, but he was right I should have stayed home, or so I thought.

Well dear Relief Society president obviously talked to my Bishop. He asked to meet with me the next week.

The next week rolled around and I find myself in his office. He asked if we had really been trying to have a family for 4 years. When I said yes he just look and me for a while then said, “I am so sorry, I have no idea how hard that must be.” “It must be a struggle to come to church every week and see so many young families and have everything be so family oriented.”

This guy had it going on. He was inspired.

We talked about what we’ve tried, haven’t tried, and might try. But in the end he left me with this…“As hard as those fertility treatments may be or the adoption process might get, keep pursuing parenthood.” “You and Phillip will make great parents and any child you are blessed with will be lucky to have you two as parents.”

That’s why this guy is our Bishop. Because when we have doubts about why we are not parents, thinking that there must be some reason God has not chosen us to parent, here is a man, obviously of God, counseling us otherwise.

Its Official

I’m in….Nursing School here I come!





Here’s to two more years of school, better hours, more pay, and a smaller scope of practice!

Its...bright?

I made this...







I'm not sure how I feel about it. All I can think of is that it's bright. Well, and uneven and full of puckers, but thats not a surprise thats my signature look.

Confessions and Random Thoughts

I had a 47 year old patient die yesterday and we didn’t do our best for her. There’s a 99.9% chance that she would have died no matter what we did, but its that 0.1% that gets me. Sorry to her and her family – she deserved better from us.

I only subscribe to the newspaper to line my bird's cage with. I never read it and I make sure I give him the comics on Sunday.

I like one of my dogs better than the other one, but I try not to show favorites.

I park in “expectant mothers” parking spaces. Mercy on the fool who dares to call me out on it.

I started dating my husband when he was my supervisor at work.

I could save about 40 minutes a day if I didn’t have to shower and do hair and make-up. That is about 4 ½ hours a week, 18 ½ hours a month, and 244 hours or just over 9days a year.

I love my husband for many many reasons, but I love him today because I while cleaning the bathrooms I realized that he has never once left the toilet seat up and he has impeccable aim.

Like I said…random.

My Parrot is a Toddler

For the following reasons:

• He is mostly potty trained but still has the occasional accident.

• He talks, but is kinda hard to understand. I don’t worry because his pronunciation and vocabulary are improving daily.

• It takes some coaxing, and I hate to admit sometimes bribing, to get him to eat his vegetables.

• We have had our share of doctors appointments to treat a runny nose and the sniffles, I have antibiotics in my refrigerator.

• My husband and I discuss on a regular basis what new and cute things he is learning how to do.

• He loves bath time.

• He has a million toys that end up all over, but he still manages to get into things he shouldn’t.

• His silly antics and innocent curiosity keeps me busy but makes me laugh.

Disclaimer: Just because my parrot is like a toddler, doesn’t mean a toddler is like my parrot. I wouldn’t advise trying to place a toddler in a cage, turning on the T.V. for entertainment, and leaving for the afternoon. I also do not condone teaching a child to use the restroom only on the newspaper.

Here’s to Tarzan

I don't scrapbook...

but I made this...













Its a mini-fold out scrapbook. I went to a class with my mother-in-law. Of course I haven't put any pictures in it - probably because I don't scrapbook.

Happy Mother's Day

As much as people would think otherwise, I don’t hate Mother’s Day.

I am surrounded by wonderful mothers that I do believe deserve to be celebrated.

My Mom is one lady that makes Mother’s Day justifiable. She is the type of mom that makes motherhood look easy. She is a down-to-earth, go with the flow, everything is good, type of person and I’m beyond lucky to have been raised by her. She is cares without smothering, she disciplined without being mean, and she encourages without pushing. She mothers with a balance that I could only hope to have. I think it says a lot that I am “grown up” and still miss my mom (she lives 10 hours away) and I kinda like that she misses me too.

My mother-in-law is also a lady that deserves some credit today. She is responsible for rearing the man I married, therefore she is good in my book. Not only did she raise him to be the wonderful guy he is, she did it mostly alone. My husband’s father died when he was 13. In the midst of loosing a husband, she managed to raise him into a pretty amazing man – hats off to her.

To my good friends that are mothers – I really am happy for you. I may be a wee jealous of your little ones, but you guys are amazing women and deserve acknowledgement for the work you do as mother – there really is no more important role.

While I am supportive of Mother’s Day, today I got in over my head. Trying to show my Mother’s Day support, I went to church. I thought, I am strong I can do this, when the reality is I still hate that I am not a Mother, and in a room full of women discussing the blessings of motherhood, I did all I could to keep from bursting into tears. Note to self – Mother’s Day for me is now considered a church free holiday.

Happy Mother’s Day!!!

My Neighbor, My Hero

It’s a typical Friday morning at work and our bells go off. “Respond to an unknown medical alert” our friendly dispatcher squaks over the radio. We roll our eye because as the address comes across the radio we know what is in store for us.

This is Mrs. Oldfolk’s house. She is about 900 years old and does water aerobics every Friday morning. Inevitably one of her 19 cats trips her medical alarm and she is not there to reset it – so our response is in motion.

As the convoy of emergency vehicles approaches her home, a new neighbor who happens to be a firefighter emerges from his garage. We get out and approach her house in less than a hurry. We know that by her back door under the yellow flower pot is a house key. As one of our guys was walking around the house to get the key – the helpful neighbor approached quickly.

Panicked he asks if everything is okay and if we need his help. Maybe he didn’t notice the 5 professionals on scene obviously not overly concerned with the situation, or maybe he thought we are a bunch of uncaring sloths or that its everyone’s first day on the job, regardless we politely thank him for his offer and reassure him that the situation is being handled.

This answer didn’t satisfy the helpful neighbor and we’re not moving fast enough for his liking. He shouts at us that we are not “making entry” fast enough and starts throwing himself against Mrs. Oldfolk’s glass inlaid front door. What he doesn’t realize is that our guy has already gone through the back door and is on his way to let us all in the front door.

Despite our attempts to stop him the helpful neighbor breaks all the glass out of Mrs. Oldfolk’s really expensive looking front door, reaches in, unlocks and opens it – only to be met by our guy on the other side.

It made my day to pick up fluffy #12, scold her for setting off the alarm, reset the alarm, and see the hero of a neighbor standing dumbfounded amongst the broken glass. Hopefully his Department pays him well because I think he owes Mrs. Oldfolk a new door.

That sums up my opinion of the over worshiped firefighter. Most of them mean well and are strong, but when it comes to smarts, well, they mean well and are strong.

An addition to our family

Am I lame, getting old, or both? Its been awhile since I was this excited about something, but this vacuum has made my week. We bought a Kirby cleaning system – yes a system. Long gone are the days when you just buy a vacuum – now you get the system. My carpets have never been cleaner, my furniture has been adequately assaulted, my tile is free of dog hair and dust bunnies, and my curtains better watch out because they’re next. Our sales lady promised me this vacuum would last the rest of my life – so we are trying to bond. I have thought about naming it because “Kirby” seems kinda generic – plus the way it works I’m sure it’s a girl. She’s pretty too – cast iron aluminum with a grey and blue motif. I could go on and on about how she converts to a carpet shampooer, a hand vac, and comes with 15 attachments, but you would have to know her to love her like I do. Well “Kirby” welcome to the family!

Body Threats

One of the adventures that accompanies fertility treatments is weight gain. When I started my first IVF my doctor was rambling side effects of the treatment to me,...fatigue…mood swings…hot flashes…cramping…bla bla bla…20-30 lb weight gain… Ok he had my attention. He explained that this weight gain was due to the ridiculous amounts of hormones and steroids I would be injecting into my bottom. I like to think that he was telling me the truth but deep down I know that its probably because ice cream and baked good make way better comfort foods than veggies and lean meats. Bless his heart for letting us girls blame the meds.

I was more than willing to go along with the weight gain because there was a chance that I would have a little bundle of joy or two to show for it. Turns out I got the weight and nothing else to show for months of injecting those evil little vials into my now bigger bottom.

When we stopped the fertility treatments I had two things to fix – my crushed spirits and my bigger figure. I wasn’t sure what to do about the first, but I figured I could start on the second and lose the weight. As soon as I felt like I wasn’t going to collapse dead on the treadmill my feelings began to change.

The hatred I had toward my broken, unable to reproduce, body began to change. Everyday that I was able to exercise I was relieved that my body responded. Finally my body was doing something I wanted it to do. It was a feeling of control that I had lost a long time ago. In my screwy head I have this conversation with myself while at the gym-

Me: Well body, if you don’t want to cooperate and procreate than you can run.
My Body: I’m tired, my legs hurt, and I’m out of breath….
Me: Screw you! You’ve been in control long enough and you suck at it!

So when you see some chick running on the treadmill arguing with herself, let her be and don’t judge too harshly. That’s probably me trying take back possession of my broken, unable to reproduce, not-as-fat-as-it-used-to-be body.

These tunes seem to drown out my body's protest – a list of my favorite gym jams:
Ol’ Red, Blake Sheldon – Ticks, Brad Paisley – Firecracker, Josh Turner – Big Green Tractor, Jason Aldean – Size Matters, Joe Nichols – Country Man, Luke Bryan – Rockstar, Nickleback – Sideways, Dierks Bentley – Believers, Joe Nichols – Holler Back, Lost Trailers – Life is a Highway, Rascal Flatts – Nothin’ to Lose, Josh Turner

Heroes & Miracles

I work as a paramedic, I see some crazy stuff, but I am not some sap that believes that I work amongst heroes and witness miracles. Both those words kinda make me cringe. First of all we are trained in what we do. We go to work like most people who are lucky enough to be employed and do what we are hired to do. No one I work with comes to work for the sole purpose of helping others, saving lives, or changing the world. We come for the paycheck, the benefits, and the retirement. Therefore not heroes. As far as miracles – usually its just a quick medical intervention that prevents further demise. That’s kinda our forte – get there quick and fix the problem before someone dies. So on the rare occasion that we are really able to make a difference we think of it more like a good day at work than a miracle.

All that being said, a hero's work produced a miracle at work this last week….

Mark, a paramedic, yelled out to his wife on Friday morning that something was wrong. She got to his side as he collapsed and stopped breathing. She sent her young daughter to get a neighbor, set her one year-old son down, called 911 and performed CPR on her husband.

The paramedics arrived and were obviously horrified to realize that it was a co-worker and friend lying in front of them clinically dead. They did their thing (pretty flawlessly) and were eventually able to get his heart beating again.

The news spread like wildfire “Mark was transported in full arrest” (what we call someone who doesn’t have a heartbeat and isn’t breathing.) There was an understanding that it was only a matter of time before we would hear the news that he had died.

News came…they were able to stabilize him for the moment, but his prognosis was grim.

The next day, Saturday, he woke up. He recognized his mom and wife and wasn’t happy about being on a ventilator. Later that day he was taken off the ventilator.

He had a pacemaker/defibrillator put in on Monday and was discharged from the hospital on Tuesday.

He cleaned his pool and walked his daughter to school on Wednesday.

Less than 0.1% of people survive being “dead”. Those that do survive spend months in the hospital and in rehabilitation centers and often do not fully recover.

It is a miracle that Mark can continue to be a husband to his wife and a father to his children and hopefully soon a paramedic to the people of Ventura County. His wife is a hero for her quick thinking and appropriate actions in a time of unimaginable stress, chaos, and fear.

Welcome back Mark!

Afterthought – I would love to say to him “Hey Mark, what did you do over the weekend?” And have him reply “Not much, just died and came back.” – That’s kind of sick paramedic humor. I also wonder if he saw some kind of light or had any crazy experiences on “the other side”. I always wonder what our dead patients can see. Are they watching us work on them...creepy! Maybe someday I’ll ask.