Coping.

Tattoos covered her back and shoulders.

They were her protection, she said.

Her fingers gingerly brushed the dragons perched on her shoulder blades.

She liked to think that they watched over her, kept her from becoming an alcoholic like her mother.

Tattoos were her addiction.

Her safety net from addiction.

Her method for coping.

Bananas contain proteins which are also in latex.

Someone with a latex allergy, who is exposed to an allergen after consuming a banana, could go into anaphylactic shock.

The Tattoo Lady’s body was already coping with the latex in her system when she was exposed to an allergen.

It pushed her body into protective mode.

Anaphylactic shock was her body’s method of coping.

The teaching moment was over.

We left the exam room.

Yet, I knew that the moment was not over for the Tattoo Lady.

It was her life.

Coping.

Surviving.

Sure, her life must be like any other with its ups and downs, but ultimately what was she holding on to?

Without the love of a Savior, how else should she live?

Tattoos would be a creative, legit coping mechanism in a world devoid of truth.

It kills me.

There is truth, a simple loving truth.

One man did not cope.

He gave up the fight for His survival to fight for ours.

Now we can be free from our inability to live up to a perfect standard of living.

We can give up the crap in our past because Jesus endured the worst of it all.

The Tattoo Lady is a short history lesson away from understanding the truth.

God, give me the courage to speak.

An Orphaned Mother

Once she managed to elope.

Not far from our building she was spotted by a staff member who whisked her back, but we were troubled and worried still.

The fact that it was our own carelessness that left her in harm’s way struck a dissonant chord in the hearts of all who heard.

And we all heard.

She walked as if in a dream.

Her shaking fingers fumbled with a cheap, beaded necklace.

She was a textbook wanderer, continually looking for a way to elope.

A hesitant shuffle and a small figure did not draw much attention, but everyone immediately noticed if she was missing.

The uniform esotericism of friends and strangers alike caused her to accept every person as friend, though none could truly ever be that for her.

Her undying love for an ever-absent daughter colored her vague comments and preoccupied her feeble mind, until the sweet sorrow of moments lost haunted her eyes.

Those eyes coupled with a voice, never spoken above a soft murmur, captured the hearts of our entire building.

She sat with the Director of Nursing during interviews, and proudly interjected jumbled words now and then.

At any given time, she could be seen trailing the housekeepers or holding hands with the nursing staff.

But still, the haze of her bewilderment blocked any lasting understanding of camaraderie.

So, although she walked with friends, she walked alone.

There was an old, black-and-white portrait tacked above her bed.

In it, her little daughter sat on her lap.

There was no father.

Now her grown daughter lives several states away.

Mother’s Day came and went unnoticed by both; she quietly cried over her absent daughter just as she did most days.

Calendar pages of kittens and puppies littered her desk.

Nineteen stuffed animals covered her bed.

A baby animal poster was taped to her wall.

She smiled when she saw people walking their dogs in the park.

When other residents’ visitors brought babies, all her shy timidity melted into pure, unabashed delight.

She had no grandchildren to crown her in her old age.

Any child could be hers for a moment, however brief.

Back in the day, she was a firefighter.

A parachute jumper.

She used to keep a garden.

Rumors circulated and collided over the months and years.

Hidden beneath the shroud of dementia was a great woman’s history.

As her caretakers, the threads of her history were ours to untangle, to know her like no one else.

It was intriguing to think that fifty years ago she had real-life romances and adventures, betrayals and loyalties, normal days and holidays.

Decades had established her unique styles, habits, and fears.

But then dementia had inhibited those personal characteristics and blinded the one she loved most.

Her daughter could not see past her disjointed mumblings and irrational behaviors.

So, the occasional memory loosed from the bonds of her dementia was permeated with a sense of nostalgia, of something lost.

Let me sorta change the subject for a moment. Let me also make the gross generalization that most people don’t understand why we CNAs like our jobs. They don’t know why we work backbreaking 12 hour shifts enveloped by the smell of feces and urine caring for mentally ill and dying old folks who swear and fight back.

Honestly, sometimes we wonder the same thing.

We don’t like cleaning up poop anymore than you do.

We don’t like fighting to brush a grumpy elderly man’s teeth either.

But we love, love, love our residents.

Again, a bit of honesty, the first week on the job is bad. Um. Check that. It's the absolute worst ever... in the entire history of the universe.

You don’t know what you’re doing, so you bumble around making one mistake after another. The nursing staff is mad at you for getting in the way and slowing them down, the residents are mad at you for completely screwing up their routines, and you’re mad at you for accepting the dumb job offer in the first place. Hundreds of apologies and stains of you-know-what later you’re done with the first week. From there, you gradually fall into a routine and fall more and more in love with your dear residents. You learn to breathe through your nose sometimes as you roll through the tasks at hand.

After that first week, it’s peachy.

No matter how it seems that this resident is a child to be chastised and trained and helped, she. is. not. 

And that is precisely the point. 

We hold her hands to keep her from falling, set out her clothes, style her hair, encourage her to eat, comfort her from nightmares, wipe her tears, compliment her beaded necklaces, bring her our children, let her shaking hands hold our babes, why? We feel the responsibility to give all the residents back their displaced dignity that   was lost to time.

When she was young, this resident had hopes and dreams. She did not picture herself needing two aids to move from bed to wheelchair, wheelchair to bed. Now she mostly does not even know what’s going on around her. But, she still has hopes and dreams, different from when she was young, of course. Her hopes and dreams might seem trivial and short-lived, but they are still her heart’s desire. She might want to see her daughter again, or might want to feel a kitten’s soft fur, or to look at pictures.

Call me a mush-ball, but I like to think that when we hold her hands and make her smile we are helping a few of her little dreams come true. 

It’s the least we can do.

  

An Extraordinary Father.

I was three years old when we moved from the Big Island to O’ahu. My Dad owned a small garage door company, and made it a point to bring one of his kids to work with him whenever he could. Growing up with five siblings and a busy father, I loved any occasion where I had all of Dad’s attention. A day of work with him was just that sort of occasion.

I was four years old. My parents’ shower was still under construction, so Dad used the guest bathroom. The sound of the shower water woke me at 6:30 in the morning. I wrapped my green and pink knit blanket around my shoulders, and stumbled off the top bunk trying not to wake my sister, Grace, sleeping in the bottom bunk. I stepped over the piles of toys and clothes covering our messy floor. I hurried down the hall, past my brothers’ room, my sister’s room, and past the guest bathroom where I could hear Daddy singing. My feet welcomed the scratchy, tan carpet barely covering the living room floor. The ceiling was so low that my six-foot tall Dad sometimes bumped his head on the two oriental fans hanging at each end of the room. I hopped on to the overstuffed purple couch under the fish tank. Though the temperature could not have been lower than 65 degrees outside, I shivered under my little pink and green blanket.

I smiled to myself in anticipation of a day filled with ‘helping’ Dad. Going to work with Dad meant I could push the buttons on the radio in the car, watch Dad magically transform mad customers, and hand Dad tools as he installed a door. Plus, he always gave me a gumball from his stash in the glove box of his white Raynor truck.

It took Dad about fifteen minutes to finish his shower. My excitement wasn’t enough to keep me awake for that long. I fell asleep. When he came out of the bathroom, I woke up with a thrill of excitement. The sight of me waiting on the couch was common enough, but this morning he looked surprised. Hopeful, I asked him if I could go to work with him all day.

My Dad is and was not usually an apologetic person. He apologized when needed, but as far as his children were concerned, he usually just said it like it was. Life was not fair, and he made sure we understood that, in a loving way, of course. Though, this morning when he saw me on the couch, he seemed to melt a little. His shoulders sagged. He compassionately told me he was so sorry, but he had a bunch of confidential meetings and boring paperwork scheduled. I could see he felt badly, so I smiled and said it was ok even though I felt deeply let down. He promised to take me to work with him a different day. Then he put on his watch and grabbed his big, leather day-planner and said goodbye.

I did not cry. I probably would have if my baby brother, Mike, had not started crying just then. The disappointment made a lump in my throat as I dropped my blanket and went to wake up Mom...

This was the first assignment for my psych class (reformatted for bloggage).

You must understand this was one instance out of gazillions that I sat on the couch waiting for my Daddy. And it was very, very rare for him to refuse me. Maybe that's why I remember it so vividly.

I grew up observing and learning from my dear salesman Dad.

He brought me in to formal meetings and out to the warehouse, and I feel absolutely blessed that he let me tag along. Love you, Dad!

The Formation of a Passion

  “Dear Sister,

  So you’ve decided to pursue a career in the medical field. I chose the word ‘career’ for several reasons. First of all, the word ‘job’ implies that you simply do that position to earn an income… The word ‘career’ suggests much more commitment… A ‘job’ tends to have a set definition, whereas a ‘career’ means more of a field of experience and  expertise you will work in…”

   There's a resident who cannot talk cognitively and rarely opens his eyes.

   I have to be extra careful to make him comfy because I never know if he is or not.

   Often he spits his dinner out and is completely limp when I transfer him. 

   The gynecologist reached his hand and forearm into her womb. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the baby out. He immediately tossed her to a blanket draped between Lupita’s arms. The babe gasped and wailed at the shock. Lupita promptly carried her to the next room. While Dr.Wong and the gynecologist removed the placenta and began sewing up her mother, she was cleaned and weighed under a heat light. Behind the glass, Megan and I watched in awe. The baby let out a wail. We smiled, enchanted. Megan peered around Lupita’s back, “Welcome to our world little girlie.”

  “… It is not a safe or secure job… There is no preparation, whether in a clinic or a hospital. There is preparation for  procedures, education preparation for your patients and what they can possibly expect, but not preparation for  your day…”

   At 4 o'clock this morning, I was turning him over and tucking the sheets around him.

   Imagine my surprise when suddenly he mumbled, "Good Morning."

   I jumped, "Good Morning to you!

   In 6 months of routinely caring for him, this was a first.

   Second-guessing my ears, I stared and said, "How are you feeling?"

   He opened his eyes, looked at me then turned to the football game on the tv, "Mgoodm."

    It was amazing to hear his voice.

   I wanted him to keep talking. 

The gynecologist hurried into the operating room’s ‘mudroom’. After he had scrubbed up, he asked us all to bow our heads. He prayed over the surgery first in Spanish then in English. Then we all held our breath and kept praying as he made the incision in her belly. For a while, the only sound was Dr.Wong muttering instrument names to a nurse, Louis. I moved from the foot of the table to the side for a better view. Dr.Wong and the gynecologist deftly cut and cauterized through the layers. The epidermis. Cauterize. Sweat beaded on their foreheads. The fat. Cauterize. Dr.Wong glanced at the clock. The muscles. Cauterize. The stench of burnt blood vessels saturated the air. Maria sat on a doctor chair to the side. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she quietly prayed in Spanish. I sat with her for a few minutes until Mr.Kuhl said quietly, "There's the head." I walked to the foot of the table again, careful not to turn my back to it in the process. I had to stretch my neck to see over the nurses. Sure enough, they had cut down to the water bag. A slimy head was visible. Then, ever so gently, the gynecologist snipped the water bag to reveal a wet, curly head.

  “…Often time is inconsequential as a PA [Physician’s Assistant], Dianne. It’s inconsequential because you simply  don’t HAVE it. Time is working against you, you’ve got none left, or it is worsening your choices as the seconds  pass…”

   For once I knew that he was ok.

   He was not "out of it".

   He was not in a void, mindless coma.

   He could hear me.

   And he could reply.

   "Do you like watching football?”

   "Yup."

   I really grinned now, but I had to finish my rounds.

   "Ok, well, have a good morning!" 

   He closed his eyes, "You too." 

Hands raised to protect them from germs, we backed through the door as the anesthesiologist numbed the woman from her chest down. Aids helped us don our gowns and gloves. Lupita and the nurses prepared the sterile field and set out the instruments using deft, precise movements. Dr. Wong stood by the woman on the table. Maria, Mr.Kuhl, and Megan joined me beyond the sterile field at the foot of the table. The hospital’s gynecologist was late. This was the woman’s first child and we could see the fear in her eyes, the fear of death in a white-tiled room. I tried to smile comfortingly though I was nervous too, “Esta bien.” I wished my Spanish vocabulary was broader than that.

  “…Your choices, wrong or right, will eventually one way or another disappear. If your patient lives they will always  remember and wear your decisions, so doing what is best for them is what is most important…”

   Dancing down the hall, I tried to make sense of his shocking change in consciousness.

   Was it a miracle?

   An incorrect dosage?

   A weird before-death experience? 

Looking in the OR, the sights, smells, and sounds were so foreign to me that I almost retrieved my passport from the break room. White tiles ran up the four, windowless walls. The only thing breaking their flow to the ceiling was a solitary clock silently reminding us of the world outside. I smelled iodine. The smell shrank away from being noticed, and a relentless sound nudged my awareness. At first, I mistook it to be loud. The obstinate consistency with which it sounded made my ears ring. Yet when the Spanish jabber of the frightened woman dissipated the ringing in my ears, I recognized the unblemished sound of nothing. Even with nurses and aids slipping in and out, the heavy silence prevailed. Dr.Wong broke my reverie as he instructed me to scrub up; even though I was not ‘scrubbing in’, he wanted me to practice ‘scrubbing up’ so I could assist in our next hernia surgery. We vigorously scrubbed our arms, palms, between our fingers, and under our nails with iodine until they felt raw. Dr.Wong told me to watch the anesthesiologist during this surgery; he was the best Dr.Wong had worked with.

   “…To figure out what it takes to invest your life into what you’re passionate about while still keeping it your passion  each morning will never be easy…What really is a passion? I could look it up, but instead how about you figure out  what your passion means…”

   When I got to the nurse's station, I pulled his chart and read, "..."

   Well, I can't really say what I read.

   You know.

   HIPAA and all that. 

Slipping into my sterile booties and mask, I hopped over to the germ-free side of the bench. Three nurses wheeled a pregnant woman toward the operating room. I followed.

   Let's just say, my curiosity was satisfied. 

   My dear resident was ok.

   He told me himself.

For my Valentine (a little early)...Love you!

Ricky, here's the same letter again, but know I still mean every word and miss you lots!

February 14, 2011

Dear Ricky,

            You have been my Valentine ever since I could reach the Valentine’s Day mailbox on the dining room table. The thrill of finding my own name scrawled on a bag of skittles or gluey construction paper card in the mailbox is still unmatched. The little boxes of chalky hearts from Mom never lost their charm. The package containing lollipops and letters from Grandma Eldridge arriving, without fail, the day before is just as special today as it was in 1999. As special as all those traditions are, my favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is you.

            Looking back over the 17¼ years, plus 9 months, I have known you, I realize how blessed we are. You and I have the best kind of relationship ever. Brother and sister. Yup, that is fully awesome. We’ve got the love without the romance. Even the Bible acknowledges that a brother is about as close as you can get, except to God (“…there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother…” –Proverbs 18:24). Many times a brother can feel a little too close. You have to fight out who gets the front seat or whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. You have to put up with morning breath and boogers on arm chairs. Then again, with brothers and sisters, you don’t have to pretend you’ve got your act together. You don’t have to guard your words and use your ‘inside voice’… at least, I never have… maybe I should! You don’t have to endure awkward conversations. You don’t have to freak out about what the other is thinking. Why? It doesn’t matter to siblings. We will love each other with a brotherly love come hell and high water, 1000 mile distances and arguments, or girlfriends and marriage. God let our brains develop to maturity in the same home for 15 years; what better bonding experience than that? And what adventures we had!

            I remember climbing up to your ship bunk to ask you to play with me because the day before you promised me you would play with me “tomorrow”. You sleepily told me that it wasn’t tomorrow anymore, it was today. I asked you if it was tomorrow every morning until mom found out. You made a grumpy Mawy when I, Dofus, made you push Jesus in the baby carriage!

            Do you remember looking for treasure in the field behind our house on the Big Island? We’d come home with broken bits of glass, bottle caps, interesting rocks, and anything that caught our fancy. Showing mom our treasures was next best to playing ‘house’ with Grandma E’s little dinosaurs.

            The three kitchen stools in our house were never just seats in the kitchen. They were spaceships and props for tents. Sometimes all of us stood on them wearing sunglasses and cool outfits. Mom gave us hairbrushes for microphones, cranked Michael W. Smith, and, poof! We were super stars.

            When we moved to Oahu there were even more good times. Neighborhood basketball games, football wars, hide-and-seek, lemonade stands, scooter races, bike crashes, army guy forts, rollerblade street-hockey, paper airplanes, and explorations down the creek (with practice flood drills from Bethany). While the neighbor kids were at public school *gasp*, we were doing more important things. From popsicle stick forts to life size boats in the yard, you and I built things together. It was a rough ordeal to scour the garage for every piece of cardboard, but it was worth the trouble when we sailed to the Americas in our ship.

            Rainy days didn’t curb our fun. We’d float Lego guys on bottle caps in the big puddle. When we got uncomfortably wet and cold, mom dried us on the porch and sent us to the showers. Clean and dry, I would sit in the sunroom and watch the rain drizzle down while I listened to you read Redwall. Sometimes we just talked about “Wouldn’t it be cool if…” or about girls and boys or about random stuff. Other times I’d watch you draw scenes with dolphins, helicopters, tanks, and pirates. Once you invented a game where we each drew six tanks on opposite sides of a paper. I can’t really remember, but I think we took turns folding the paper and coloring a small circle. We had to push really hard to make an indentation. Somehow the indentations were bullets from your tanks to mine and if an indentation covered a tank, that tank got erased.

            You have invented games all your life, and I have been your guinea pig all my life. (Lately, I have had to step back to a part-time position due to the hundreds of miles between us. Though, Robert Burleson is an awesome person to fill the other part-time position for you.) The game we played with those toy cars (half the size of a matchbox car), a ruler, and the blocks dad made, was my favorite. When we weren't making games up, we played Chess, Stratego, and random card games. “ZNZSWN” was fun to play with you and Jon. We spent hours playing that video game with continents and armies. I liked to watch you play Age of Empires or Wesnoth. It was even more fun to play the board game, Age of Mythology, in the guest house with Jon and sometimes Ariel. I felt so grown-up when you let me hang out and listen to music with you guys (which was pretty often).

            I could go on and on about all the adventures you and I have had, but that would make a super looong letter! You and I have changed in many ways since the morning you told me it wasn’t tomorrow anymore. But we still like teasing each other, exploring, wearing cool sunglasses and standing on stools, building things, talking, rainy days, music, Redwall, drawing, inventing games, playing games, and each other! I’m glad you’re my brother, Ricky.

            Happy Valentine’s Day!

                      Love,

                            Didi

  

Us Two

By A.A. Milne

Wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,

There’s always Pooh and Me.

Whatever I do, he wants to do,

“Where are you going today?” says Pooh:

“Well, that’s very odd ‘cos I was too.

Let’s go together,” says Pooh, says he.

“Let’s go together.” says Pooh

“What’s twice eleven?” I said to Pooh.

(“Twice what?” said Pooh to Me.)

“I think it ought to be twenty-two.”

“Just what I think myself,” said Pooh.

“It wasn’t an easy sum to do,

But that’s what it is,” said Pooh, said he.

“That’s what it is,” said Pooh.

“Let’s look for dragons,” I said to Pooh.

“Yes, let’s,” said Pooh to Me.

We crossed the river and found a few–

“Yes, those are dragons all right,” said Pooh.

“As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.

That’s what they are,” said Pooh, said he.

“That’s what they are,” said Pooh.

“Let’s frighten the dragons,” I said to Pooh.

“That’s right,” said Pooh to Me.

“I’m not afraid,” I said to Pooh,

And I held his paw and I shouted “Shoo!

Silly old dragons!” –and off they flew.

“I wasn’t afraid,” said Pooh, said he.

“I’m never afraid with you.”

So wherever I am, there’s always Pooh,

There’s always Pooh and Me.

“What would I do?” I said to Pooh,

“If it wasn’t for you,” and Pooh said: “True,

It isn’t much fun for One, but Two

Can stick together,” says Pooh, says he.

“That’s how it is,” says Pooh.

What sort of world is this?

My boss shut the exam room door quietly and looked at me.

            "His dad died recently, I mean really recently, of Carcinoid Cancer.

            And this guy is 24 and has all the symptoms of Carcinoid Cancer."

He set his computer on the counter. I waited as he absent-mindedly typed out his report. It took a few minutes before he looked up again, his normally confident, cheerful face filled with deep sadness.

            “The labs are all positive.
            He doesn’t want to go through what his dad went through...

            He’ll commit suicide.”

Pausing, he looked down and tried to keep his composure.

Then two tears rolled down his cheeks,

            “He’s so young and so smart.

            I wish... I wish he could go into the medical field.”

Anguish washed over me.

For death has come up into our windows;

it has entered our palaces,

cutting off the children from the streets

and the young men from the squares. (Jeremiah 9:21)

That night I dressed in scrubs and clocked in at the nursing home.

I fed a woman pureed birthday cake.

It was her one hundred and second birthday.

I chided and consoled my elderly residents throughout dinner.

One wanted to eat her napkin.

One whimpered because she missed her daughter.

One didn’t know who she was.

One kissed my hand every time I passed.

One shouted obscenities at illusions.

One perpetually hummed a tune.

One demanded the time every five minutes.

Lifting an elderly man from his wheelchair to his bed, I remembered the young man’s hollow cheeks and lifeless gaze as I handed him his invoice.

Such a change from when I had checked him in, when his twinkling eyes and flirtatious comments had impelled me to hurry through height, weight, and vital signs.

What sort of world is this?

Where young men die before proving their intelligence, and old men outlive their wits?

I guess it’s a fallen sort of world.

We just need Jesus… desperately.

He will swallow up death forever;

and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces,

and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth,

for the Lord has spoken. (Isaiah 25:8)

Welcome to reality

In the parking lot, the idea of riding an automatic wheel chair had made me hobble faster toward the entrance; I was so excited to finally ride the previously forbidden chair. 

Halfway to the back of the store my happiness sagged from the weight of my inability.

At full-throttle the chair went 4 miles per hour.

As soon as my thumb rested, the dumb thing immediately stopped.

The people behind joined in the abrupt stop, but, realizing they were breaking the politeness rule about staring, went on their way.

The chair had a safety back up beeper so people wouldn’t get run over; however, it was so high pitched that, whenever I reversed, everyone in the store peaked down my aisle.

After the stares dissolved my glee, all I had left was a puddle of self-consciousness.

I tried to round a corner that wasn’t round.

More stares.

Lovely.
Not.

I agree with Owl City: "Reality is a lovely place, but I wouldn't want to live there."