Author: sundaydutro

Burgeoning author.

Dangerous Woman

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She always thought “dangerous woman” had something to do with the height of their heels or the fit of their clothing. She always thought “dangerous woman” had something to do with the state of their mental or moral health. So she always stayed away from “dangerous women” and eyed them heavily when she was with her man.

Until one day she was caught unawares by a dead battery and no one to call for help. The day a “dangerous woman” offered to let her borrow her phone. The dangerous woman wasn’t eyeing her. The dangerous woman wasn’t judging her. Cause that’s what it was, judging, not eyeing. And that was the day it all changed.

Angela and the dangerous woman, Deannie, became friends. Deannie introduced Angela to other dangerous women: Stacie, Halie, Connie.

“You’re all ie’s,” Angela mentioned once when they were all together.

After some giggles and the kind of laughter that turned several male heads, Deannie explained, “We’re all not ie’s. I’m DeAnn. That’s Stacy, with a y. That’s Haley with a y. That’s Constance. She’s actually the only one of us that’s even close to a true ie.”

“So, why all the ie’s then?” Angela asked.

“Cause ie’s have more fun, honey,” said Connie with a sly smile, a wiggle of her eyebrows, and a shimmy of her tits.

All the ladies cracked up, drawing another round of stares from the men in the room.

“We’ll turn you into an Angie yet!” Deannie cried, inciting another round of laughter and head turning.

Later, at home with her now husband, Angela thought about what the ladies had said. Clearly they were aware of the eyeing they received both from men and women. Aware and choosing to step into it. But why? Why choose to be a dangerous woman?

…

That Saturday night at her company holiday party, Angela was trying desperately not to yawn. “I just need to make it through the gift exchange and I can slip back home to my jammies,” she thought to herself as the plates were cleared and people drained what was left of the cheap wine from their glasses.

The boss stood up and gave his obligatory speech, painful as always, followed by the polite clapping and “ohs” and “ahs” of employees working for a paycheck. And then it was time for the gift exchange. Angela was near the end, a distinctly advantageous position usually, although at an employee gift exchange it was highly unlikely there’d be anything she actually wanted…except maybe what she’d brought. “Who would know if I opened my own gift,” she wondered.

And then it happened. The sweetest woman in the world, old Meredith from accounting, opened a present that was very clearly unacceptable. First, it didn’t meet the monetary requirement that had been set. Not even close. Second, it didn’t meet the company party whitewashing that was unstated but well understood. Third, it was downright juvenile, and these were all supposedly adults here. And of all the people to open it, it was kindly, elderly, quiet, Meredith.

“What is it?” people in the back were asking.

No one close enough to see what she’d unwrapped could say it out loud. Meredith’s face turned the brightest shade of red Angela had ever seen. A hush fell over the party as word finally spread and everyone realized what had happened.

The boss, finally being notified of the gaff, stood up, coughed and loudly asked, “where are we now? Eight? Who’s number eight?”

The party continued. People would have their number called and would open a present. There wasn’t any stealing. There was nothing here anyone wanted, not even the people who brought the gift to begin with. And next thing you knew it was Angela’s turn.

She stood up, walked towards the gift table to take something, and then turned toward Meredith. “I’m going to steal,” Angela heard herself saying. And she saw herself take the vibrator out from the bag Meredith had hurriedly shoved it back into, and say “my husband and I broke our last one.” Laughing the laugh of her friends and smiling the smile of her friends, Angela walked back to her seat.

The room exploded into laughter and after things calmed down a bit, Meredith picked a different gift and the game continued until all the gifts had been opened. The party finished winding down, everyone said their goodbye’s and see-you-on-Monday’s, and that was that.

…

Later, at home with her husband, Angela told him the story and after they’d both had a good laugh they decided what the hell….

Laying in bed with her husband snoring beside her Angela realized a dangerous woman has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with clothes, sanity, or compunction. A truly dangerous woman is one who has everything. She can’t be coerced because there’s nothing you have that she wants. She can’t be frightened because there’s nothing you have that she needs. A dangerous woman is one with nothing to hide; and it turns out, Angela was one dangerous woman.

…

Monday morning Meredith stopped by Angela’s desk. “I just wanted to thank you for…the other night,” she stammered, cheeks turning pink.

“Oh, Meredith, it was nothing. You’re welcome.”

“No, no, Angela, really, I couldn’t possibly have gone home with…” Meredith trailed off.

“Honey, it really was my pleasure. And call me Angie, my friends do.”

~~~That’s an hour~~~

Silence VII

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This is part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

Well now, after the doc took that call and I was free to heave a breath and move on with my work the darndest thing happened. The medics called that they were on their way with a family of three, car wreck. But get this, the family’s name is Easton! What are the odds? There’s no way it’s the same Easton as the old man we got in a drug fog coma in room 102, can’t be, God would never be so cruel. I mean, my God is a vengeful God to be sure, but He’d never lay all that on one man.

I tell you what, those two boys came through here quick as you like looking just like their mama who came through here just as quick. I didn’t hardly have a chance to consider whether those boys looked like old man Easton in 102, we were just so busy. The mama had a pulse that went all across the board, strong when she came in then all but disappeared a few minutes later. Medic said they almost lost her three or four times on the way over. And while those boys would be just fine once the trauma wore off, you never really knew what could be going on internally.

I wasn’t about to tell doc we needed him, not when I knew who he was talking to on the phone, but I also couldn’t not tell him. So I sent Curdish. He’s our weakest link on the unit and I wouldn’t feel a bit bad if he was reassigned. YOu wouldn’t know we were waiting for the doc with all the activity: lines being put in or swabbed and swapped from the medics, machines being turned on and adjusted and readjusted, and the whole time of course you’re trying to keep the kids calm. They’re in shock but not so shocked that they don’t have a thousand and one questions, most of them about where their mama is.

I don’t have any kids of my own. Never felt the need. Their okay, the future and all that, but they also need constant attention. Like a puppy. Only worse. Kids talk back. I’ve never had a puppy, never wanted a kid, and came this close to having a cat before deciding even that would just be too much. Still, I’m pretty good with kids in a nontraditional sort of way. They like my no-bones attitude, I guess. Most people talk down to kids, why? Talk to em like you’d talk to anyone else, only maybe explain a word here and there that they may not know. Easy.

By the time doctor Voss returned to the floor we had the kids settled and sharing a room (usually against the rules on our floor, but I knew the doc would bend em for this), and the mama…well, I just couldn’t tell. It doesn’t happen often this kind of thing where you can’t tell if the patient realizes their still alive or not. Some patients get the whiff of escape from the corporeal and that’s all it takes. They’re flatlined within twenty-four hours. Other patients are taking all your skill and energy and time and smarts to keep alive but you just can’t get em through and their gone, too, only not willingly.

This woman…I dunno. It’s like she she was already regretting all the things she was leaving behind not realizing she didn’t have to. Like she truly doesn’t understand that she’s still alive if she wants to be.

I could tell the call with Easton had shook the doctor a bit more than he’d expected and I wondered how it went. I could also tell the doc was impressed with how I’d handled the incoming Easton’s. He seemed a little surprised that I’d let the boys stay together, but surprised in a “that’s what I would have done” kinda way. Yeah, well, don’t I know it. I’m good at my job, that little dalliance in the break room not withstanding. Seems the doc remembered my worth.

I followed the doc into the mama’s room to await instruction and see where things were going to go. He grabbed her charts and walked up to the head of her bed. Reading and occasionally looking down at her, he finally asked, “is she stable now?”

“Seems to be for now, but medics almost lost her a few times. It’s not their machinery either. We’ve been having a hard time keeping her here. I haven’t notified her emergency contact yet as I wanted to hear from you first but the medic said he found one on her cell …”

“Did he call it?” the doc interrupted.

“He said he did and…”

The doc had dropped the paperwork on the bed and taken off at what we call a “hospital run” for his office. It just means he was going faster than a walk but slower than a jog; fast enough to get there but slow enough not to draw unwanted attention. It was all the answer I needed. This poor family.

In the silence of her room, as silent as it can be with all the beeping and whooshing and droning of iridescent lights, I stopped for a moment to pray for her and her family. In the silence of my prayer I could have sworn I heard her ask me to turn the television off. But when I looked up she hadn’t moved.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Miscarriage

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TRIGGER WARNING: graphic and personal writing about miscarriage follows

When you’ve already told your husband, your son, your family and friends. When you’ve already begun to imagine how another child will affect the day-to-day workings of your life: two car seats, baby-wearing and a stroller or a double stroller, will they share a bedroom…will they share anything? When your first pregnancy was a beautiful and perfect miracle, a second pregnancy feels just as beautiful and miraculous. There’s absolutely no difference. It doesn’t matter how many times you pee on a stick hoping it will be positive, each and every time it’s positive there is a thrill, there is elation, there is pure joy.

We had gone for our twelve week ultrasound. I had been feeling like shit for a couple weeks at this point and figured I was carrying a girl this time since it was all so different than the first go round. We had gone for the ultrasound convinced I was having a girl and all was still hearts and flowers and rainbows and unicorns. The poor ultrasound technician. To have to search and search for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. To have to tell us. To have to measure what was there and estimate when the baby had stopped living. To have to tell us that we could go to a hospital for a D&C or we could “let nature take it’s course.”

I’d had a baby at home. I had used a midwife. I was (and still am) all about letting nature take it’s course. So we went home. Turns out we didn’t have long to wait.

When you’re sitting on a toilet at 10pm hoping you don’t wake your husband and son as blood and bits of flesh come dripping agonizingly slowly out of you there is everything including anger, sadness, emptiness, shock, grief…but there is no more baby.

Did you know that you still give birth? People hear the term miscarriage and have absolutely no idea. You still give birth. I had given birth to a perfectly formed seven pound baby with absolutely zero drugs of any kind and it was rough. I gave birth to a twelve week partially formed fetus the size of a lime and it was rough. Granted the lime didn’t take 27 hours and didn’t cause me to require 13 stitches, but it was no picnic.

I had no idea to expect that. I was completely unprepared. I was so dehydrated because I couldn’t get off the toilet to go get a glass of water. Instead I had to lean over as close as I could to the sink without leaving the toilet and drink from my hand. Now, I could very well have woken my husband at any point in this, don’t get me wrong (in fact, when he later found out that I’d had the miscarriage without telling him, he couldn’t believe I hadn’t told him what was going on, that I hadn’t asked for help). But I just couldn’t make him suffer through it; it was bad enough that I had to.

I couldn’t imagine my husband leaning up against the bathroom counter for hours while I cried and tried to quietly pass this little lime. I couldn’t imagine my husband sitting on the bathroom floor crying while I was crying. I couldn’t imagine having to share his pain when my pain was already too much to bear. I selfishly didn’t wake him because I needed to be alone for the experience. I don’t know if he’s forgiven me, I’ve never thought to ask him. If I’m sick with a cold or a flu I don’t want anyone to take care of me. I want to be left alone so I can focus on sleeping and getting better. The miscarriage was the same for me. I needed to focus on me.

I sat on a toilet for eight hours, flushing repeatedly, before the contractions became more scattered and the blood and tissue coming out of me finally slowed. I was just as exhausted as if I’d given birth. Only I had none of the happy endorphins pumping through me, none of the babies first cries to relieve me, none of the joy to make it worth it. I cleaned up as best as I could, although I was physically and emotionally exhausted, put an enormous pad in my underwear, and I went to sleep in my sons bed (he was asleep with my husband in our bed).

I woke up after about an hour and needed to return to the toilet for about twenty minutes or so. I put in a fresh gigantic pad, cleaned up and flushed again. I went and drank an enormous glass of water. I went back to bed. That was the first miscarriage.

The second miscarriage was pretty much the same but instead of eight hours for the birth, it was “only” four. I was able to go to bed for a couple hours around midnight. Then up around 2am and back to bed. Then again around 4am.

For both miscarriages I was up again around 6am or 7am and back on the toilet. By then it was all pretty much done. Almost like a heavy flow day on your period. Almost. That’s how my husband found me both times. The first time, he came to the door naked and yawning and looking like my entire world and asked if it was starting. I’d never seen him look so surprised or so sad as when I told him it was ending. “Why didn’t you wake me?” How could I?

The first time, I remember being grateful I had a book in the bathroom when it started. I was reading a young adult fantasy book, totally not the genre of stuff I usually read, and it was amazing. It was fantastic. Between the book and googling miscarriage on my phone and reading everything I could find, I got through the night. Through the “event.”

So when the second miscarriage occurred I was prepared.

If you are reading this because you’ve been told you’ve had a miscarriage, please know you are not alone. Miscarriages are unbelievably common. Most women have had them. Most women do not even know they have had them. Most women miscarry before they think to check if they’re pregnant. Whether you know you are pregnant or not, a miscarriage is not your fault, just like having a baby with Down’s, it’s all genetics.

I was extremely lucky to find several women in my circle who, once I disclosed publicly that there would not actually be another baby after all, contacted me to discuss their miscarriages. “You had a miscarriage? How come you never told me?” I asked each and every one of them. Their answers all boiled down to things like: “It happened before I knew you,” “No one wants to talk about miscarriage, people only want to talk about pregnancy,” and “It’s just too sad.” The one that hit me the hardest was a woman in her seventies who said “I haven’t told anyone before now.” This woman had a miscarriage in her twenties and was now in her seventies and had never told anyone. Can you imagine carrying all that pain on your own for fifty years? And why? There’s nothing shameful about a miscarriage. Give yourself permission to talk about it. Give yourself permission to grieve.

Everyone needs to talk about miscarriage. Everyone needs to know that it is common. Everyone needs to know there are people they can turn to who have been where they’re going. Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on or a person to ask for advice. There are tons of resources to help you heal from a miscarriage both physically and emotionally. I’m not going to go into that here. I’m also not going to tell you to get a colander because, frankly, I couldn’t handle doing that so I don’t expect you to (although the scientist in me kind of wishes I had done the colander thing once). What I will do is say you need a checklist if you have the time and ability to prepare, so here it is:

The Miscarriage Checklist

  • water – you will need lots of water so you don’t get dehydrated; treat this like a birth without the happy ending
  • phone – you may want to call your healthcare professional or friend or family member and you probably won’t want to get up to do so. Also, access to the internet so you can google your questions as they come or read about other peoples experience so you’re not scared and also to ground you (believe me, the whole experience can be very surreal)
  • book – something to read to help take yourself away when the experience gets too overwhelming
  • toilet – some people want to save everything and bury it or take it to their doctor to be sure everything came out, more power to you. Remember, this is extremely messy, like the very worst period you’ve ever had times a hundred. I vote toilet
  • toilet paper – see above = messy. Baby wipes are nice because they’re soft, but you don’t want those in your toilet and you probably don’t want them piling up in your trashcan either, but that’s your call
  • enormous pads – you will use many of these for many days. I was not able to use my Diva Cup after either miscarriage because I was too sore internally and my flow was too heavy for the first several days for me to use my Thinx

Finally, please know that while parts of this post may seem a little irreverent and a little tongue-and-cheek, the truth is I was completely destroyed by my miscarriages. They completely changed my personality, and not for the better. It wasn’t until after I finally had a full-term, healthy pregnancy and delivery that I began to heal. I am not in any way trying to make light of what’s an extremely painful experience. And as such, I want you to know that if you are miscarrying I am here for you. You can message me and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Going through the miscarriage alone is not something I recommend, but going through the aftermath is something absolutely no one should ever do alone. Ever.

Your body will heal from this. Your mind and your heart will need help. Please be sure to ask for it.

Irreplaceable

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She probably should have stuck it out, it was only four years after all, but it was just so exhausting. The reading and writing were wonderful, but the classes and the discussion groups and the mindless testing, were just too much. After a year and a half she decided to skip college and do something “else.” Problem was she had no idea what.

It wasn’t a problem for long. She knew a fellow student who was going to Spain for a year abroad. After kicking herself for not thinking of this option before dropping out, she decided to use the next eight months to work her ass off and earn the money to go abroad, too. Only not Spain. She had nothing against Spain, how could you: great food, great people, beaches, a language she already mostly spoke. But it just didn’t call to her. Italy. Italy called to her in a soft and subtle siren song she was eager to obey.

The next eight months were spent mostly waitressing and walking dogs with the occasional bartending shift thrown in. Anytime a job opportunity came her way she said yes, assuming it didn’t conflict with another job she’d already said yes to. She didn’t even check to make sure she was leaving enough time to sleep, she just said yes. And consequently there were days where she went without sleep. She learned to take power naps, which sounded horrible, so she called them ninja naps and felt much cooler. She discovered she could breeze through three full working days and nights with only 6 hours of sleep all garnered via ninja nap between jobs or while on break.

She bought the things she’d need as she saved up the money for them. Purchasing one thing and then saving up to purchase the next. She probably could have saved it all and then made all her purchases at once, but where was the reward in that? Or the excitement? First: an airline ticket, one way departing on exactly the eight month mark. Second: a backpack, one of those ridiculously big hiker packs. Third: hiking clothes that would be easy to wash and dry and wear without looking sloppy. Fourth: a good pair of hiking shoes, not boots. And then she just saved.

She’d take whatever she’d saved to the bank whenever she had some free time and change everything into twenty dollar bills. Then she’d stack the twenties into piles of five, then shove the five into an envelope and seal it. She labeled each envelope with a number 1, 2, 3, 4…she wanted to know exactly how much she had as she knew there’d be expenses for lodging, food, wine, museum entrance fees, and who knew what else.

The week before she was supposed to leave she advertised for a garage sale the coming weekend. She began labeling her meager belongings for sale. Surprisingly, her roommate bought the majority of her things: two-shelf bookcase, her favorite books (the hardest things to part with and the things for which she developed a mantra “replaceable”), the majority of her clothes and dishes. The rest she sold cheap the day before she left: a metal bedframe with mattress and boxspring, the few books and clothes and dishes her roommate hadn’t wanted.

Thanks to a notice she’d put up online she was able to get a free ride to the airport, the only catch being that she’d arrive a good five hours before her flight left. That was fine with her, she’d catch up on some sleep. She spent her last three hours before catching her ride stuffing that ridiculous backpack with the scant belongings she’d be taking with her, including a four-year-old guide to Italy she’d bought for a quarter at her local library book store (how outdated could a guidebook be when it was for a country built about a hundred years after Christ).

She thought about leaving a note for her roommate when the time came to leave, but decided against it. Better to send her a postcard when she arrived. She hoisted the unbelievably heavy pack on her back, set the lock on the door after double checking she’d left her house key on the kitchen table, and headed off.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Silence VI

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This is part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

This was not happening again. I’d already dealt with my father’s death once. I remember being a little kid, my aunt trying to make me understand that my dad was dead. I just didn’t get it. I kept asking if he’d be back in time for the fair that summer, or for dinner that night, or for my first day of school. She had to keep telling me over and over that dead meant gone forever, not an hour or a day or a year but for always. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I remember when I was older though and I finally did get it. I remember realizing he’d never be there for my ball games or my graduations or my wedding. I remember grieving the loss of a man I never knew. It felt kind of phony. How can you be sad about the death of someone you never knew?

I remember really grieving after my first son was born. Here I was a brand new father and I had no idea what I was doing. How was I going to be a dad when I had no idea what a dad was? I spent those first two years watching every parent-child interaction I saw with a stealthy intensity I wasn’t aware I had. I saw relationships I was envious of: had my dad been like that with me before he died? I saw relationships I was afraid of: had my daddy yelled at me like that before he died? I tried to forget all the bad stuff I heard and saw and focus only on the good stuff.

Then somewhere along the line my good buddy, Ted told me the best damn advice I have ever heard about parenting: “Be the parent you wish you had.” Well, hell, I could do that. And I did. Until that marriage went to hell and then I had to move in order to keep a job I needed and saw less and less of my kid. Bout tore me up. I never thought I’d be the type to give up my kid, but by the time I was able to fight for him he didn’t much want to be fought for and that was that.

The point is, my damn daddy had never been around that I could remember, and certainly not ever when I wanted or needed him, but now here he was fresh out the grave and at my local hospital? He had some kinda nerve asking for me.

“I’m here,” I finally said.

“Oh. Good. Thought I’d lost you. As I said, you’ll need to come in so we can discuss how to proceed.”

“I’m sorry doctor Voss but I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to proceed with the man you have in your hospital. You might just as well,” and here I was interrupted by my call waiting. Damn these phones and their features! I would have ignored it, too, except I saw it was my wife. Since I could count on one hand the number of times she had actually picked up a phone and called me and every one of them had been an emergency, I knew I needed to answer it. “You’ll have to hold on there a minute, Voss. I got an emergency call on the other line,” and I switched over.

“Glory, what’s wrong?” I asked.

“Hello, sir, you’re the emergency contact in a cell phone we’ve just found at the scene of an accident. We just want you to know we’re taking the victims to Clark County Hospital and should arrive in the next ten minutes.”

“Accident? Is everyone okay? My wife? My boys?”

“I can’t tell you anything more, sir. I’m only authorized to look for and call an emergency contact. You’ll need to speak with the hospital to learn more. You’ll want to ask for Doctor Voss’ unit.”

The line went dead and I heard the phone beep at me about switching back to the other line. The other line! Voss!

“Listen here, Voss, that was someone sayin’ they’re bringing my family to your hospital and I need to speak to you about it. What’s going on? Is my wife okay? My boys? What happened?”

There was no answer.

“Voss!” I shouted.

Silence. And then my phone did that boop boop boop noise it does meaning I’d lost the call.

~~~That’s an hour~~~

Silence V

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This is part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

“Ma’am, can you hear me? What’s your name, ma’am?”

The voice was so far away. Why was everything dark? She must have fallen asleep under the weighted blanket cause she couldn’t feel her body. Why couldn’t she open her eyes?

“Unresponsive. I’ve got a pulse.”

It was that same voice. Ugh, did she fall asleep in front of the television again? Must have. Geez, it’s been ages since she’s done that.

“I’m gonna notify Voss we’re heading his way. Find a cell phone yet?”

“Got it! Under the driver’s side seat. Musta flown off the dash. Aaaaaand, yes, an emergency contact.”

What the heck was she watching? Maybe it was something Paul was watching? Whatever it was she was glad she couldn’t see it. Probably one of those medical dramas with blood everywhere and people being cut up in an operating room. How was that entertaining?

She felt a breeze on her face and heard metal and the sounds of something rolling.

“We’re all loaded up. Make the call from the road.”

There was the sound of doors being slammed, a siren coming from somewhere close, and then that voice again.

“Hello, sir, you’re the emergency contact in a cell phone we’ve just found at the scene of an accident. We just want you to know we’re taking the victims to Clark County Hospital and should arrive in the next ten minutes.”

There was road noise and that siren still wailing away.

“I can’t tell you anything more, sir. I’m only authorized to look for and call an emergency contact. You’ll need to speak with the hospital to learn more. You’ll want to ask for Doctor Voss’ unit.”

More road noise. More siren. Seriously, why couldn’t she open her eyes?

There was an exhalation of breath followed by some mumbling. She could just make out what sounded like “gonna be okay,” before everything went quiet again. Completely quiet. A unique kind of silence she’d never quite experienced before…no, wait, it was familiar. Newly familiar. Luxurious and terrifying.

She woke to prayer. What the hell? She still couldn’t open her eyes or move her body. She’d never felt so tired in her life. What in the world was Paul watching? He must have fallen asleep too, she realized, because he wouldn’t be watching any evangelical stuff on purpose. She tried to say something like, “turn the TV off,” but wasn’t sure if it actually came out or not.

Ah, silence. He must have heard her and turned it off. Maybe he’d carry her to bed or come snuggle up with her. Something was running. The fridge? The dishwasher? She couldn’t quite place it. A rhythmic mechanical noise. Familiar. Otherwise, it was quiet. Not that thick syrupy kind of silence she’d been experiencing lately, that dangerous kind of silence. This was more of a sounds-of-the-night-as-you-fall-asleep-quiet. Lovely. Heavenly. The perfect kind of silence.

~~~This is not an hour, but the end of this piece.~~~

Silence IV

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This is part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

I like to think I have the best team. All incoming nurses and interns vie for a position on my unit. I work my team hard but fair, and never ask them to put in more than I’m putting in. As such I’ve never had the energy to vet who I bring on. If I have to let someone go or someone actually quits, I have an immediate replacement. I never bother to screen them. If they think they’re good enough for my unit I give them a try. If they prove they aren’t I ask that they be transferred and someone else is placed with me. Easy.

And because it’s so easy and because my team is the best it’s been a very long time since I’ve had to let anyone go or lost anyone. So to say I was surprised by the gross lack of respect and sheer selfishness I saw on display in the break room tonight would be putting it lightly. It was especially surprising coming from miss Ditmire. I suppose there was something to that, seeing as how she could never stop talking. In fact, the only time I’d heard her quiet was for all of five minutes when she didn’t know I was there…which is probably why she wasn’t talking.

It was a few months back, when my insomnia was flaring up. I’d been unable to sleep at home and after accidentally waking my husband, who promised he’d start work on the addition to hold my exercise equipment that very day if I would just please go back to bed or leave before I woke the kids, I’d come back to the hospital to get an early start on the day. It was a relief really since my insomnia that night had more to do with a young patient than my usual unexplained bouts of sleeplessness. The girl was so young, just like my Janey before we adopted her, when she first came to foster with us. She had this look of nonchalance…no, more like she was unaffected, but really she was scared. So scared. I just had to make sure this little girl wasn’t scared, too.

After checking on her, she was sleeping peacefully among all the wires and tubes and beeping machines, I stopped by the nurses station to review my charts and there she was: nurse Ditmire. Silent. Sitting completely quiet in one chair with her feet up on the other eating what appeared to be a cupcake. I’ve never been so surprised. Until today. So while nurse Ditmire could talk a blue streak, I’d never before thought her cruel until that moment.

I’d all but decided to ask for her transfer later today when I was walking by the station and saw her give me a look. Her eyebrows shot up and she said “Easton” and I knew. Of course I wouldn’t make her handle that call. No one should have to handle those calls, but especially not a woman who’d just shown her complete lack of compassion. I motioned I’d take the call and hustled to my office. Taking a deep breath I clicked the button with the blinking red light.

“Mr. Easton? Dr. Voss. I’m going to need you to verify your identity by answering a couple of questions before we can proceed. Please tell me your fathers full name.”

“My fa,” there was the sound of a throat being cleared,” my father was Joesuf Paul Easton. With an f, not a ph.”

“Was?” I asked.

“I was told he died when I was young. Is there something…”

“And your mothers full name, please?” I interrupted.

“I, uh, I’m not entirely sure. I wasn’t raised by my parents. Only know my fathers name because of my aunt who raised me.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Easton, due to the nature of the situation I am going to take it on faith that you are the correct contact. Your father, Joe-s-u-f,” and here he spelled it out to be clear, “Paul Easton is here in the hospital now. His sister, Marlena Paula Easton, is his first emergency contact and we’ve been unable to reach her. You, his son, are his second emergency contact. I’m going to need you to come in as soon as possible to tell us how to proceed.”

It was silent on the other end. I didn’t hear the phone line disconnect, or the phone being dropped, or an intake of breath. There was nothing to indicate Mr. Easton was on the other end. Nothing at all. Just silence.

“Mr. Easton?” I asked.

But there was only silence.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Chicken Tortilla Soup

Chicken Tortilla Soup

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When my first child was born it was the very best thing that ever happened to me and also the single most horrific thing that ever happened to me. The first four to six months were positively awful. I can’t even find a way to sugar coat it. I would try to tell you how bad it was but I really don’t think anyone would believe me. It’s hard now, looking back, to believe it myself. Saying my son had “colic” immediately makes it seem minor and normal and people kind of roll their eyes and say “oh yeah, we had that, too.” But they don’t have the PTSD look in their eyes when they say it, so I know they don’t really know.

At any rate, we had this miracle baby who never slept and never napped. He’d go from one crying jag to twenty minutes of being passed out from said jag onto the next crying jag. He literally never stopped sucking on my breasts, although maybe sometimes during that twenty minutes of passing out the nipple would pop out of his mouth and I’d get a second of relief in which to throw some vinegar on it, dry it off, throw some coconut oil on it, and get it stuffed back into my bra before he woke up screaming and I had to transfer him to the other breast.

None of that is normal. None of that is colic. And if any of you are suffering through this sort of situation please get yourself immediately to an IBCLC (International Board Certified Lactation Consultant). Immediately. Go now. This will still be here for you to read later.

So there we were, not sleeping, barely eating, spending a combined 46 hours a day (we’d each take one hour off each day to go sleep…sometimes shower, but usually sleep) trying to keep this miracle alive and quiet and bingewatching Netflix because doing literally anything else would have driven us insane, when this goddess offered to bring us food.

I barely knew this woman but knew she had a fabulous smile, kind eyes, and amazing kids. And here she was offering to bring us food. Home cooked food. By her. It was incredible. The offer was incredible. The food was out of this world. It is still to this day the very best chicken tortilla soup I have ever had. And she made it for us. Then she delivered it. She even offered to leave it at the door so as not to disturb us. But at this point I didn’t care who came in as long as they took care of my baby daddy and I so we could take care of this creature that clearly hated us for bringing him to life.

She arrived with the food and her kids and they were a literal breath of fresh air. They probably only stayed for twenty minutes but it felt like an hour of heaven. I don’t think the baby cried once the whole time they were here. It was the very best gift ever plus fabulous food!

That woman contributed to a blog recently and I just found out about it. The story is lovely and a perfect example of who this family is and if you read the blog you’ll understand why I turned to my baby daddy that day after they’d left and said, “that’s the mom I want to be and the kids I want to have.”

Check out her blog here. Enjoy.

Photo courtesy of Blair Lonergan, The Seasoned Mom. Want to make the soup from the photo? Check out the recipe on Blair’s blog here. (Bonus: it’s a slow cooker recipe *swoon*)

Trouble

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It wasn’t anyone else’s job to tell her the truth. She wasn’t sure anyone else even knew. As far as she knew, everyone thought she was the life of the party. A party girl. A good time girl. Trouble.

Part of that image was her own doing. She’d been told a rumor by a friend that word was she had gotten into some major trouble in the city and her folks had shipped her out to the mountains to get her life in order. Cause what kind of trouble could she possibly get up to in a small mountain town. Ha! As soon as she heard the rumor she decided to have some fun with it. She painted her nails black. She flooded her social media with posts about drinking at the local, sunbathing naked in her backyard, and partying til last call.

She wasn’t lying. She did those things. Happily did those things. But that wasn’t her and never had been. If anything her life before was a bit of a bore, if you don’t include her college years, which she didn’t. College was four years of making up for missing out on the partying she never did in high school. It was four years of being lonely, confused, and going completely fucking wild because there finally wasn’t anyone telling her she couldn’t. But everyone did that…didn’t they? So it didn’t count.

And after college life became boring. Predictable. Mundane.

She got the job. She got the boyfriend. She got the house. She got white picket fence. She got the 2.3 dogs, because seriously who even has children anymore? Who can afford to? And even if you could, who wants to give up their freedom? Their ability to be selfish? Not her.

And that was her life.

Until one day, her parents bought a place in the mountains. A beautiful place they could retire to in a couple of years. Ten acres, no neighbors, a horse property, with four seasons, and honest to goodness snow in the winter. It was a dream. They needed a caretaker. She offered to do it. Immediately. Begged to do it.

So here she was: Trouble.

It was hilarious. Until it wasn’t. It was fun. Until the rumors got out of hand. Suddenly she was sleeping with peoples husbands. Suddenly she was into drugs. The rumors were out of control. And they would be horrifying if they were true.

She did the first thing she could think to do to solve it: she took a boyfriend. The first single guy she’d met who made it clear he wasn’t afraid of her. The first single guy she’d met who was tall and hopefully intimidating enough to put an end to the rumors. And it worked. She didn’t hear another rumor again for nearly a year.

By then she’d broken up with that guy and fallen in with another. By then that second guy had ended too. And since a week had gone by without her hitching her star to someone else’s sky, the rumors began again. Only now her phone was ringing with fearful wives. Damned if she was gonna jump in with any old soul to calm the waters though. No way no how. She’d learned it did nothing but cause her to leap before she looked.

Ignoring the rumors and trying to ignore the phone calls she went back to her life as best she could. Her life. Her real life. The life of animals to care for: chickens, ducks, geese, and goats. Books to read: the myriad tomes that had filled her living space for a year gathering dust. Bingeworthy shows to watch: shows with dragons and zombies. Volunteering to continue: raising money for the local school. A new job to start: her dream job at a book store.

Slowly her life began to slow back to that boring, predictable, mundane only this time around it was pretty near perfect. Pretty near, if it weren’t so lonely. A dog is a great companion during the day, but at night the dog could only participate in a monologue. The dog couldn’t pick a clan or a character to root for. The dog couldn’t interrupt her reading to bring her a cup of tea.

She had hired a man to re-do her bathroom once and she called him again to do some work in her barn. And then some work around the grounds. And then some more work to the house. He was there every morning telling his workers what they were to work on that day and then again every afternoon to check their work and their progress. He’d always give her a run down after the workers had knocked off for the day. And the rundowns slowly took longer and longer to finish each day.

She’d occasionally borrow a tool from him: a drill or a pitchfork. Something she should own, did own, but that broke and hadn’t been replaced yet. She’d borrow his and then return it, if she hadn’t broken it. Like the pitchfork. How do you break a pitchfork? She managed it. He insisted the damn thing had been old and worthless long before she ever got her hands on it and it was no big deal. But she felt terrible. Offered to buy him a beer at the local to make up for it.

Next thing they knew they were hanging out at the local together every night. But there was nothing going on. Not yet. Lots of long looks and intimate conversation masked in loud laughter and gatherings with other friends.

~~~That’s an hour~~~

Silence III

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This is part of a series. Refer to the Blog Index if you wish to read them in order.

Mr. Easton. Of course I knew who Mr. Easton was. We’d all been waiting for him to call back for what felt like forever but was probably less than ten minutes. Still, as soon as he said his name I blanched. I never was a good poker player, can’t hide my emotions at all. It can be hard being a nurse without that ability to just become a wall when your shift starts, but I’m good at my job even so. Still, I sure was glad there was a phone line between us and not a desk.

The doc was walking towards me so I looked at him, raised my eyebrows and said “Mr. Easton,” and rifled some papers, pretending like I had to look for this guys info but really just waiting to see if the doc wanted me to handle the call or not. Boy howdy, I was not looking forward to handling that call. None of us were. We’d all done a rock-paper-scissors when we got the call that the ambulance was coming in. I’d won and had just taken a deep breath to let out a sigh of relief when the doc came in to tell us the ambulance was here and to knock it off, he knew what we were up to. He said he’d handle calling Mr. Easton himself. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so ashamed as I was that minute.

When he told us a few minutes ago that he’d had to leave a message and to expect Mr. Easton to call in sometime today, why I thought to myself, “Virginia, here’s your chance to make up for that despicable display.” I was eager and almost hopeful to be the one to take the call. Until I heard his voice. Suddenly he was a real person who didn’t know terrible news and I was going to have to tell him. A man I’d never met. Over the phone. It just wasn’t right.

But the doc nodded his head and pointed toward his office; he was going to field the call. Hallelujah and thank you Jesus, cause I would have done it, and I would have done a fine job, but woo wee was I glad I didn’t have to. I put that Mr. Easton on hold so fast I was about as worried as I’d hung up on him on accident. But no, there it was, the blinking red light that told me he was still there waiting. Poor man.

A few minutes ago this place had been hopping, I mean really something to see. Sounds of sneakers scuffing the floors as they ran with gurneys, people speaking all kinds of medical jargon kinda like you see on television but without the chaos, tubes getting run here and there and machines being turned on. All the beeps and clinks and the shuffle of efficiency. I loved my job.

My favorite part was when I had graveyard shift, although we don’t call it that here…bit morbid for a place that’s supposed to be healing people. Still that late night to early morning shift when patients are sleeping, doctors are at home, and it’s just me and maybe a couple other nurses and a janitor. That twenty minutes or so between bed checks and chart updates when I’m wolfing down some sugary thing I got out of the machine down the hall (those chocolate cakes are the perfect jolt I need to get me through that three to four a.m. bit, but unfortunately they haven’t stocked the machine yet this week and the chocolate cakes are out and I’ve had to make due the last two nights with those snowball things. Yuck. Still, the only other choice is pretzels right now and what the heck am I supposed to do with pretzels at three o’clock in the morning?).

Everything is so quiet. Well, compared to the daytime anyway. At three in the morning, as I’m eating my chocolate cakes, it’s just me chewing and sipping on stale breakroom coffee. There’s the beeping of machines coming from every room, just about, but still and all…it’s almost quiet. It’s a silence I’m not used to and the closest to silence I can stand. I mean normally during the day I’m talking a mile a minute and my coworkers are everywhere and the patients are pushing those buttons needing pain meds, needing to pee, needing nothing but a bit of company rolled up in a request for water. But at three…silence.

~~~That’s one hour~~~