Insomnia has it's advantages.

Since my recently acquired sleeping pills only work for about six hours, I have been awake since 4am-ish, but at least I can finally post. It's strange; we are happier with our surroundings than we have been in years, perhaps ever, but my drive to write is only just returning.

Maybe I should start with a recap of the past few months in short. New jobs for both Longitude and I, back on unemployment for me, horrible nursing home experience (as an employee, not a patient), adventures with Paxil, baby to daycare, baby in pool, baby not a baby anymore, lots of walks, enjoying Portland and our suburban life, ACTUALLY MEETING FRIENDS, attempting social outings, chasing new opportunities, and being at peace.

I can't believe how happy I am in this place. It's like all of the stars aligned for us for once. This last ditch effort before moving back home has become one of the best decisions we've ever made. I have a few posts in the recesses of my mind, and some interesting and/or enjoyable events coming up.

We've Reviewed Your Resume...

and would like to speak with you. Please contact me at your earliest convenience. 

-Hi, thanks for calling. I'm looking for a nurse with Occupational Health experience. Do you have specific Occupational Health experience?

-Ah, no. I thought you said you reviewed my resume. The job posting said Occupational Health experience preferred, not required.

-I should probably change that. Thank you for your interest.

I hate nurse recruiters. I still don't have a job, but only 19 days left in our lease. :)

Out of My Discomfort Zone

As I type this, I am awaiting a phone call from a potential employer. I am being seriously considered for a full-time hospice position in a town about 30 miles away. What shall I hope for? I’m not sure I can commit to a new job, a daily commute, or a new town. Conversely, can I turn down a job that would help steer my career in the direction I’ve always been curious about?  Although I no longer consider myself Catholic, or traditionally religious for that matter, I still have a sense that tells me to “let go and let god”. Or let fate, destiny, karma, or something larger than myself intervene. This job found me; does that mean I have an obligation to it, like the abandoned kitten on my doorstep earlier this summer, parched?

Longitude and I would not be together now if we hadn’t just relaxed, let go of expectation, and waited for our relationship to play out. In the beginning, it was sex and talking to the wee hours of the morning. Our separate daily lives slowly merged until moving in together was an evolution, not a choice. Neither one of us struggled with commitment, because we didn’t have to. We only promised to love each other fairly, and always be willing to give our relationship the chance it deserves, the chance we gave it over six years ago.

Why is it then, that I now feel the need to play out every potential consequence of every decision, instead of just letting life happen? Has age taken away this ability? Or having a child? We have not headed back to Illinois because things didn’t fall into place, yet. I have made peace with that, and I suppose I will make peace with whatever the outcome this day will bring. I just wish I were at peace now, in the waiting, like before.

Reaping what we sow?

Standing over the crumpled, nearly lifeless body, I mourn. Dark purple face a stain against the white sterile tile background. Neck wrenched: a ghastly site. 

I met Charlene only hours beforehand. Her body fails her, speech was never mastered. Her brain began drowning shortly after birth. Her fifty second year of life finds her almost completely paralyzed. I had spent 20 minutes of the morning letting a can of baby formula-like syrup drain through the tube to her stomach.

Not an hour later: I need the nurse, STAT!

Charlene is fine. Nothing to show for falling out of bed but a bruise over her left eye. She smiles. Perhaps her severe brain damage has blessed her with a failed memory, as well.

Each Nurse's Aide has fifteen or so residents to care for. Most of them require help to meet every human need. This is not legal. Chronic understaffing has caused one death and countless severe falls in the "Nursing Home" I've been assigned to in just a few weeks' time. I believe this place should be renamed: "Survival of the Fittest Home for America's Most Vulnerable". "The Place where We, Patriotic Americans, Leave Our Loved Ones to Suffer Until They Die".

I am a great Nurse. But I am responsible for thirty five residents and for filling out stacks of paperwork. I only have eight hours to be with them.

Pre-election, I heard another Nurse say that maybe Americans are getting what they deserve. I ask why, and he describes the facility's policy for drugs that are no longer needed. After a resident's discharge or death, there are scores of pills unused, sealed, untouched. They are put into piles, until two nurses have the time to do what's appropriately titled a "waste". The piles of prescription and over the counter drugs are dumped into the toilet, and with the occasional flush, thousands of dollars of medication ends up in our water. The RN signs his name and writes "wasted" on the inventory card. Just one card full of sealed pills contains a brand name drug that I happen to take. I know that they are $6 a pill, $3 with so-called good insurance. I know that this is the policy of at least two large facilities in this area, and would venture to guess there are thousands more, nationwide, using this practice.

When we treat our elderly and our resources with such insolence, can we expect one leader to pull us out of crises? I'm starting to believe that we don't deserve to be saved. I do not mourn an unknown woman, fallen to the floor. I mourn the core of my country, and the dignity of humanity.

Should I refine my search? Oregon? Illinois? Another country? Another planet?

Mark Doty, metaphor, and shameless imitation

After I read this post, I decided that if I were standing in an airport in Illinois, waiting to get on a flight to Oregon, I would say the bird wants to go home. But, I think, if I were in Oregon waiting to fly to the Midwest, I would say the same thing. What have I done to myself? I now have two places I will always consider home. I may also say the bird wants to get out and build a nest, if she ever makes her way to the other side of the glass.

**********

Before falling asleep last night, Longitude asked me why I was having a sad day. I said that I feel like I’m floundering. We then had a long discussion about it, using a fish-out-of-water metaphor. I feel like I’m a fish flopping on a sidewalk, a few feet away from a murky creek of runoff water in a residential neighborhood. I’m hoping that I will flop my way to the creek, which leads to a nicer creek, which leads to a river where it’s easier to breathe, which leads to the wide ocean. I don’t know how to get to the ocean, or even where it is, so as soon as I find water I’ll just swim downstream.

A few months ago, I had talked to a nurse recruiter about a hospice nurse job. After talking with him, the one I was applying for did not seem to be a good fit. He described another one that sounded perfect, but was sorry to say that they only get openings for it once or twice a year. I never expected to hear from him again. Last night, he sent an email saying that he would like for me to apply before they put an ad in the paper. I’m calling him today. Swimming downstream.

Too Lazy to Bottlefeed

It’s been over three months, I’m back to work full-time, and I’m still breastfeeding the Dinosaur. One of the downfalls of being a nurse is you learn all of the benefits of breastfeeding, and the dangers of formula feeding. Enfamil might as well be poison according to healthcare professionals. This knowledge lead to guilt, which lead me to the decision to at least give it a try. My original goal was to make it six months and see what happened after that.

I actually don’t think that bonding had anything to do with breastfeeding. Truth be told, I really didn’t like her much more than I like anyone else’s kid for at least a month. It wasn’t until three months that I got to the point where I can’t get enough of her and think everything she does is cute. I bet I would still love her even if I were sticking a bottle in her mouth every four hours.

Yet, I’m still doing it. My pump broke right as I returned to work. I figured that would be the beginning of the end. Transition to formula, only nurse at night for convenience, and be done completely in a month. After a few bottles of formula, I am totally recommitted. We are spending over $300 on a state of the art pump with rechargeable battery. Ava has been transported to my place of employment once during an eight-hour shift to get us by until it arrives. Two ounces of the formula feedings end up coming back out the top of the baby, and the other two ounces come out the bottom, rivaling the smell of the explosive cat diarrhea incident of ’07.

Nighttime feedings are so easy I hardly even remember them. One of us brings her to bed and place her somewhere in the vicinity of my nipple, and some time later I wake up with a full and sleeping baby next to me and return it to the cage. When we go places, there’s no packing of bottles and wondering where we will warm the formula, how long it can go unrefrigerated, or how much we might need. I don’t understand why people say that formula feeders are too lazy to breastfeed. Those women must be made of steel!

From Trauma Shears to Bandage Scissors

I am about to start the second week of my new job. I have renamed the yellow handled shears that have “PMMC ER” engraved on the side. I am officially no longer a trauma nurse. I do nothing but pass out drugs (mostly crushed in applesauce) and change dressings on month-old wounds that will never heal.

 Six months ago, I would never have considered a job which is only that. Not a career-building, educational occupation. A job. I hate that the cliché “Having a baby changes everything” holds true, even for me. I only have to work eight-hour shifts, and can disappear to my car or the bathroom to pump milk without having to answer to anyone. By taking an Emergency Department job fresh out of school, I sort of skipped over the basic entry-level job that every nurse needs on their resume. The only good thing about this new position is that it fills this requirement.

 I may not be learning something new daily, but I do get to have mindless conversations with the residents while I’m working, which actually keeps me quite entertained. I can often be found crushing an MS Contin, calcium pill, and dose of Neurontin together and stirring the powder into a protein shake with thickener. I spend 80% of my time at work standing in front of the med cart. The residents, no matter how confused, have discovered that the nurses are a captive audience, so they roll right up to the cart, park, and stay until a CNA rolls them to their room.

 

Typical conversation:

 

Demented Resident: I need to go upstairs and go to bed right now.

RN (me): If we went upstairs, we’d be on the roof. There’s only one story.

DR: That’s fine. I could look for my car from the roof. It’s been missing for a long time.

RN: What kind of car do you have? I could help you look.

DR: It’s a ’69 Plymouth.

RN: Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. (Begins crushing an Ativan into applesauce)

 

CNA: (heard in background, talking to a visitor) Head down this hall and make a left at the fish tank.

DR: I’d like to go fishing. Can you take me to the ship?

RN: It hasn’t docked yet.

DR: Okay. Will you put my books in my stateroom when it does?

RN: Sure. I have a bite of applesauce for you.

 I really can’t complain. I’m making an obscene amount of money for less than half of the responsibility I had in the ER. As long as I keep my sanity, maybe some day I’ll go back to being a contributing member of society.