Solar Rehab

11 Days...

Spring break has finally arrived.  I am having a hard time with calling it "spring" break, however.  It's a winter break, if you ask me.  After all, it's still February.  It was 15 degrees this morning as I drove to Carmichaels to do my community service project with Val.  The slush, salt and a road treatment that looked like grated coal left my poor Jeep assaulted and nasty.  It used to be silver; it is now a very dull and unhappy dark gray.  It deserves a good run through one of those nifty drive-thru car washes (hey,  if you see me in the back yard with a garden hose and soap bucket in February, you'll know Hades has officially frozen over...).

Despite the fact that winter's folly continues, I have this "spring" break, and boy, do I need it.  I pulled a 12-hour shift at the hospital on Monday, took (and passed!) a pharmacology ATI exam on Tuesday, had a parent-teacher conference on Tuesday night, had class all day Wednesday, and I just got back from the aforementioned community service project.  For the next 11 days, there are no deadlines, no exams, no rapid responses on the oncology unit.

In the meantime, a bit of reflection (and anticipation) is in order...

 

Dunns River Falls, Jamaica.... See you again soon!

Sunday Afternoon in Winter Hell

I know I've said it before... but I'm going to say it again -- I hate winter.  I loathe it with every ounce of my cellular existence.  I happen to live in an area where January and February are ruthless bitches of winter's folly.  Today happens to be a perfect example of why I bemoan the season.

The electricity just, not five seconds ago, managed to zap out.  Again.  This is the third time since this morning.  The lines aren't dealing well with the 60 mile per hour wind gusts that have battered them for the last 8 hours.  I am desperately attempting to finish a lengthy powerpoint presentation that's due Tuesday.  No electricity, no project.  Thank goodness for the small generator that I have attached to my computer.  I've dealt with the hurricane-force wind problem many times before, hence the technological insight.

I think the wind is what I despise the most.  It's destructive, noisy, and lowers the chill in the air to negative numbers.  It'll cut you in two, I swear to God.  It'll drag tears from your eyes and leave your ears completely numb.  Forget the hat or earmuffs -- the wind will yank those off you, too... right after it punches you in the face, blinds you with your own hair, and takes your breath away.

It's as clear as it's ever been -- I am destined to get the hell outta here. 

The relentless wind just stole the electricity again.

Bitches.  I am in winter hell.

Auld Lang Syne

2007 has not been easy, but it has been more than memorable.  I have finished another year of nursing school, four clinical rotations, and several dozen textbooks.  I've managed to maintain magna cum laude status regardless of the chaos that is my normal life.  Being a widowed mother of two is no easy task, I assure you.  July of 2008 will see the 5th anniversary of Mark's death; I have changed so entirely since then.  For the best, I think (I hope).  Still, the path that leads to strength is not a journey to be taken barefoot.  I am mother and father, breadwinner, cook, counselor, maid, chauffeur, and referee.  I often forget what silence sounds like.  My car has not been what I would call clean for several years.  And I don't care.  I'm too tired to care most of the time.  And when I'm not, I have better things to do than sweat the small stuff...

I have learned to take most things in stride, really.  I have no false perceptions about my flaws and limitations at this point.  I am a procrastinator and a daydreamer.  Although I recently turned 34, I feel no different than I did when I was 17.  Maturity really doesn't change your personality.  Neither does loss, gain, grief or joy.  They may change your attitude, but not you.  Then again, I have learned that attitude is almost everything, so... Perhaps I'm just the odd one out.  Despite everything, however, I still feel like a kid.  For the most part, I see that as a blessing.

I am not a kid, though.  I am beginning to see the slightest traces of laugh lines around my eyes these days; those are a sure sign that time is going to win... eventually.  That's fine, too.  There's not much I would change about my life, honestly.  Sure, it's difficult at times.  I've learned to handle it.  Still, I'd like to have a normal life one day in the not too distant future.   I'd like to have a husband and good kids and eventually, grandkids.  Won't it be a hoot?  I'll be somebody's grandmother and still feel like a 17 year-old.  I'll be the coolest grandma ever; wait and see...

Until then, I have 2008 to conquer.  I think the coming year will bring change, good and bad.  I think it will bring adventure.  I think it will see me passing boards and getting a killer job as an onc nurse.  Thanks to the seemingly horrific lessons of fate and life itself (and a helluva tough marine), I am ready.  At last.

Cheers... and Happy New Year.

Sol Sistere

...sol (sun), sistere (stand still).  Winter solstice.  Midwinter.  Meán Geimhridh. It is the longest night of the year.  It's easy to view Winter as a blustery revenant that forces mother nature into a seasonal coma, but it is actually considered the rebirth of nature in most cultures.  It is quite a poetic notion.  And even a bit romantic, really.  If you can manage to stay warm. 

Happy solstice.  May the long night renew us all...

Sacrifice

My life as a whole has, for the most part, been happy.  I was a content, dreamy child.  I have always felt compassion and affection toward people in general.  This is a characteristic of my spirit that I am grateful for; it has led me down a path of humanitarianism and giving, in my career and in life in general.   There are times, however, when I feel the burden of this gift hanging over my head.  I have always been a caretaker.  I've been a calm, neutral presence in the midst of familial chaos and tragedy. When the proverbial shit hits the fan, I am the one who is usually called upon to either take care of it or make everyone feel better about it.  And I always do.  I feel obliged to do so.

Sacrifice is often a double-edged sword, I've learned.  It has taught me humility and granted me a few pearls of wisdom for future reference.  It has also made me a crutch of sorts, one that is leaned upon far too conveniently by some.  I cannot help but wonder if I am being taken advantage of at times, especially when I am drained of every ounce of energy and emotion I have left in me.  This crutch is ready to snap. 

A discernful dream I had last night has made me realize these things.  In this dream, I wanted something so badly that I could literally feel the tactile sensation of it underneath my cloak of unconsciousness.  Yet, as in waking life, taking what I wanted would ultimately hurt someone else.  Even in dreams I am faced with those sacrificial choices.  Do I take what I want so badly and be happy, although my happiness may ultimately hurt another?  Do I let my own desires slip away only to appease and keep peace?  When is enough.... enough?  What do you do when someone seems to depend on you and you alone for their contentment?  I am not willing to entertain that brand of responsibility. 

We are responsible for our own happiness.  I know this for certain.  I am, as I have always been, a true humanitarian.   And I will always be. But I will not be a crutch.  The weight of everyone else's needs is simply too much to bear alone. 

Provoking Destiny

At long last, the seemingly endless parade of another semester has come to an anesthetic end.  I'm finding it difficult to feel the sweet sense of release that I've anticipated; perhaps that eluding pathos will find me at the end of next semester.  It will, after all, be the last.  I have nearly a month off for Christmas break.  The first snow of the season graced my neck of the woods a few nights ago; it was gone within a few unseasonably warm days. 

I am attempting to get into the "spirit" of the season against my ostensible lack of holiday semblance.   I just don't feel it this year, and I'm not sure why not.  Perhaps it's the grave predicament my father is in.  Perhaps it's the dire solitude that I have a love/hate relationship with.  Perhaps it's the weather.  More than likely, it's a medley of all of the above. 

I need an escape.  I need a change of scenery and sound.  My senses seem to crave something novel and unexplored.  Fresh blood, so to speak.  Cryptic thoughts course through my veins at times like these.  It is such thoughts that provoke destiny, I believe.  I desire the long lost taste of the arcane.  The undiscovered continent.  I long to know for certain that distance is a mere technicality...

December's Advice

November has retreated into a gelid oblivion, and I can't say that I'm going to miss her.  In fact, I'm glad she's gone.  My time has been mostly consumed by research projects, presentations, mandatory busy work, and more research projects.  And the kids, of course.  And their friends (which I'll mention later).  I'm an optimistic work in progress, so the only grand news to report is that, finally, December has settled in for a long winter's nap.  I can smell the twelfth muse in the air.  The return of December means that this long, vicious semester is almost over. 

Thanksgiving break was relaxing (although short); I had a little more than a week to catch my breath and take a trip home to see the family for the holiday.  My dad hasn't made an improvement, unfortunately, and we really don't expect him to.  We visited him on Thanksgiving day; he recognizes us, but he knows nothing about us beyond our names.  He doesn't realize that he's terminally ill; he seems rather apathetic about the entire thing.  He watches TV and eats ice cream all day.  As with all dementia related conditions, the process is usually harder on the family of the person with the disease. 

More recently... My daughter had a friend stay over last night.  Most of the kids that frequent my house are good kids, and this friend of my daughter's is no exception.  There's only one problem: I can't afford to feed her.  This kid comes to my house and literally eats everything in sight.  I'm not sure if it's because she can't eat that way at home, or if it's just her usual eating habits.  Last night, she managed to scoff down three huge pieces of chicken parmigiana that I'd made, two bowls of spaghetti, several ginger ales, a few yogurt cups, and a piece of pie.  The grand finale happened to be two entire boxes of mint oreos (the empty boxes of which she attempted to hide under my daughter's bed).  That's the thing with this girl; she knows that she stuffs herself; she attempts to conceal the evidence.  I was livid.  This 11 year-old girl ate four times as much as me and my own kids combined.  The real kicker of this scenario is that the girl happens to be a type I diabetic.  It's no wonder that she wakes up some mornings with a blood sugar over 450.  I informed Savannah that we're going to have to limit her friend's visits.  As I said, I simply can't afford to feed her. 

December's first day is bright but frigid;  perhaps the symbolism is an omen of what's to come.  Perhaps not.  I often think too deeply into things; I always have.  Although it may seem eccentric, these symbolic observations have often come to pass.  I suppose time will tell; it always does.  There's always a lot going on this time of year.  Good things, usually.  I'll more than likely be heading home again for the Christmas holiday.  My birthday is on the 27th, so perhaps I'll spend it home, as well.   I informed my brother that I expect a birthday party this year.  Because my birthday is so close to Christmas, I've never had a "real" party.  I suppose that's how it goes when you're competing with Jesus for a bit of birthday fun. 

There's more than three weeks to get through before then, however.  I have always put up our Christmas tree and decorated the house on December 1st.  I admit that it sort of snuck up on me this year.  It's almost a pleasant surprise, really.  I suppose that would be my advice for the season... Don't plan too much; let the season itself make the rules.  Don't envision the unattainable perfect holiday; it only leads to disappointment.  Just go with it.  Drink your egg nog (or your spiked punch!) and remember what's important to you.  I have discovered that memories will never let you down.  And always, as much as possible, give.  I don't mean gifts and the like.  Give freely of yourself.  Your spirit.  Take graciously and in moderation.  And always, as much as humanly possible, be kind.

Even to the incredibly rude and obnoxious holiday mall salespeople, bad drivers, and kids that eat you out of house and home...

Gallagher...

In the early 80s, Gallagher was a big deal.  My family and I watched all of his Showtime comedy specials when I was growing up; I have fond memories of sitting in my parents' living room as a child and watching this guy smash watermelons (and whatever else he could find) with his homemade sledge-o-matic sledgehammer.   

This past Saturday night, Gallagher came to town; Tim bought tickets for 6 people back in September.  Val came along, too.  Zach was (is) grounded, so he didn't come along.  I took Savannah with us to the show; she loved it.  Gallagher is still a living comic legend.  He is 61 years-old and managed to put on a 3 hour show.  Savannah volunteered to go on stage, and Gallagher gave her the royal, ruthless treatment.  I filmed a bit of it, but my horrific movie-making skills will have to be overlooked.  Besides, I was laughing my lungs out at the time...  In the clip, Gallagher is talking about all the "weird" names women have these days...

Early Nights and Bufferin Cocktails

Daylight Saving Time ended Sunday.  I don't mind it so much in the Fall; it only means an hour more to sleep in the morning and the return of darkness a little sooner in the evenings.  Or so it seems...  When the alarm clock screamed at 4:30 this morning, the extra hour seemed to make a difference.  It is now barely past eight in the evening, however, and it feels so much later.  It's odd how 60 minutes can make such a difference.

What bothers me most is that I'll be making up for this gained hour in the Spring; we'll have to give that hour back, you know.  And then that alarm clock will be screaming at what feels like 3:30 AM.  I dread that like a toothache.

In the meantime, November has brought rain and much cooler temperatures, which is a bad combination for achy joints, stiff muscles, and tired heads.  Chilly humidity is what arthritis loves best. Ask any baby boomer (or nurse!) about that one; ol' Arthur is a dirty bastard in the colder months.  I personally see this dilemma as just another reason to move closer to the equator in the not too distant future... For now, however, I'll mix my Bufferin cocktails and thank every willow tree on the planet for good ol' aspirin. 

My mother drove up for a quick visit this past weekend; it was a short but good visit.  I suppose I'll be heading south to Virginia to spend some of the Thanksgiving break with the family.  I hate the fact that my dad is so ill; it makes every visit home almost melancholy.  The approaching holiday season only makes the melancholy even more distinct.  Perhaps it's a bit selfish, but I try not to dwell on it most of the time.  Besides, there is nothing I can do.  Not a thing.  I can't even support my dad through the last months of his life -- he doesn't remember who I am.

Enough about that...

I think the Bufferin is kicking in.  God, I despise winter.  I always have.  The forecast calls for snow tomorrow night.  Although Arthur (the ol' dirty bastard) doesn't visit me personally, I see him in the grimacing faces of patients and family members alike.  I suppose I'll endure winter though, and make the best of it.  You know what's worse than dreading three months of winter?

Knowing that, according to the season, it's still Fall...

Trick or Treat?

I'd hoped for treats, but they weren't in the cards.  Tricks?  My existence as a whole has felt like one big trick recently.  Why should Halloween be an exception?

I heard Thriller on the radio on the way to class this morning; I'd hoped it was a sign of a good day, an omen from the radio gods that Halloween would be, as it always has been, a fun and delightful treat.  As I've said already, no treats were in the cards.  I'd been in class for about 45 minutes when it happened.  I was sitting there listening to the Doc talk about perinatal drug abuse, FAS, and all those horrid things.  I was taking notes.  I was feeling just fine.  Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to rapidly rise.  My head began to swim.  I felt short of breath.  My heart began to pound in my chest. I actually took my pulse; 120 beats per minute classifies as tachycardia, indeed.  My lips, hands, and feet got suddenly cold...and then just as suddenly, they went numb.  My entire body started to vibrate.  My innards were screaming run, run, RUN.  I knew that if I didn't get out of that classroom, my unconscious body would be doing the funky chicken on the floor and I'd be transported by good ol' EMS to Southwest Regional.  What did I do?  I ran.  I went outside in the cold of a Halloween morn and paced the streets of the campus.

I am no stranger to panic attacks... This was the same sort of scenario that sent me to the ER in the middle of the night two summers ago.  My grandmother, aunt, and mother all have general anxiety disorder with panic attacks.  I suppose I inherited it, as well.  I deal with it fine most of the time; I never go anywhere without my beautiful bottle of alprazolam and something to wash it down with.  Most people have no idea that I suffer with such a problem.  I prefer it that way; most people simply don't understand how anxiety disorders and panic attacks work.  I went back to class during our ten minute break; several of the girls asked what was wrong.  I told them.  They wanted to know what had caused the panic attack.  That's the thing; the attacks don't need a reason to happen.  They just do.  Most people don't understand that.  I have literally been awakened from a dead sleep with a panic attack staring me in the face. 

Thank God for Xanax; it's the only thing that works for me and allows me to sleep at all on some nights.

For once, I'm glad Halloween is coming to a close.  My kids didn't do the trick-or-treat thing this year; I suppose they're too cool for such kiddie things these days.  My body feels exhausted and assaulted.  Tonight I will pray for peace of mind and no dreams. November is peeking around the corner; I'll have about 10 days off for Thanksgiving break in two weeks time.  Perhaps I'll get my due treats then. 

We'll see what the cards say...