>Some Things Just Never Go Away….

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It may have been precipitated by sharing war stories with Sylvia, in between plays, at our sons’ football game. I hadn’t seen her since she graduated, and it was interesting hearing her take on things, especially since she ended up on a cardiac floor, where I, too, spent my first year in nursing. It was amazing to hear how little had really changed in the last, twenty-plus, years.

She finds the work less than stimulating, and the politics, driven by a matriarchal dominated hierarchy, maddening. I suggested a change of venue, as it had taken me almost ten years to find my niche in maternal-child medicine. She countered, by sharing that she had told her husband she didn’t know how much longer she could help make ends meet by emptying bedpans, to the accompaniment of a whining baby-boomer showing no compassion for the octogenarian occupying the neighboring bed. Many of her patients are there for open-heart surgery, and she cares for them before, and after.

“The older ones are quiet and appreciative. It’s the younger ones; you know, the forty-year-olds, who whine all the time.”

“The kick is up,,,,, and, it’s good!”

As I listened, I envisioned the floor I had worked on, so long ago.

Most graduate nurses drew the night shift. The lighting was soft, and respectful, against rust carpeting that covered every available surface, in an effort to muffle the sound of crash carts rolling, and the inevitable herd of rubber soled feet running towards the door of a patient “in trouble”.

Our environment called for lowered, softly feminine voices, which I always imagined offered extra comfort to a predominantly male population.

The patient load has not changed. Like my friend Sylvia, I usually cared for four or five every night. But, I remember one, in particular.

He was young. I suppose Sylvia would have thought of him as a complainer. I remember him as large; large and dark, almost bear-like. I can’t remember his reason for being there, but I’ll never forget his presence.

Working nights, if you are lucky, you see your patients only twice; once at rounds, when you begin your shift, and next, as you turn your wards over to an older crew, who have earned the right to sleep at night.

I entered his room on the third night of his stay. He lay, as always, hulking, and wide-awake, on a bed made tiny by his mass. As I padded inside, he turned; reaching for the chair his wife must have occupied only hours ago.

“Hey…” Gravel garbled his unused voice, as I rounded the opposite side of the bed.

I stopped, and bent forward to find his brown-bearded face in the swath of light provided by the door, left ajar for this purpose.

“Yes?”, I whispered.

“Take this.”, he offered.

Laboriously, he maneuvered his bulk in my direction. I struggled to make out a mass of fabric swinging from his outstretched hand. Taking it without speaking, I moved towards the door, and light.

Folds of Carolina-blue knit fell about my hands, as I struggled to shape the mass into a form I could recognize. Not until I saw the tiny, green, alligator emblem, did I understand what I held.

I turned, startled, away from the light to face him sitting amongst a web of tubes and wires.

“No!” My whisper was strident. “No, I couldn’t!” And, as I turned, my hands, without direction, began to fold the valued garment, reverently, in preparation for placement back in the chair. It was 1980, and Izod was king…

“But, you’re always so cold! I want you to have it!” The energy it took to whisper the words seemed to have sapped him, as he sunk back against the pillows, where his distended abdomen rose and fell, rapidly. One meaty hand rose to brush his curly, dark mane off his brow; and he sighed.

I stood in the cylinder of light for several seconds, feeling the expensive weight of the sweater in my hands, before I turned, and, observing his frustration, made the decision.

It was easily four sizes too big. Stretched to it’s full capacity, it encircled me, more than once. And I gave thanks, repeatedly, for ribbing on the end of the sleeves that kept the voluminous knit above my hands, and out of my way, as I entered data on patients that came after him.

Today, as I left the office, Don met me, circling cubicles in an effort to assure himself that all our computers were detached from the main-frame.

“You might want to check the ultrasound computer!”, I called as I turned the corner.

Realizing my blunder, I stopped, and turned to see him looking at me, quizzically.

“I guess some things just never go away!”, I said with a laugh and a wave, as I hefted my bags onto my shoulder, and headed for the door.

My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

Lilly’s litany played as a round, sung in a sing-song voice, inside her head. And where was Lilly now? Lilly was where she always was, in the center of a large crowd of costumed admirers, or sharing gossip behind Jackie O’s white, kid gloves with a friend who had done a pretty good job of impersonating Amy Winehouse, complete with beehive.

Hoping not to appear desperate, she surreptitiously scanned the colorful crowd for her friend’s baby-blue, pillbox hat. There were at least ten Barack Obamas in the mix. Peyton Manning was shooting darts with Pink, and several members of the Fantastic Four had challenged The Justice League to an inebriated limbo contest that threatened to knock an appropriately oblivious Paris Hilton right off her five inch stilettos, and into a bowl of guacamole. Just as she caught sight her friend, Captain Jack Black blocked her vision momentarily in a flurry of ruffles and satin, and as she withdrew her sensible pumps as far under the chair as she could get them, she felt cold moisture begin to spread on her polyester covered leg.

“Dammit!”, she cried before she could stop herself ,as she jumped from her chair while self-consciously pulling down the jacket of Hillary’s sensible pant suit. Jack turned and studied her for a moment before laughing in true pirate style, and maneuvering Lindsey Lohan away from the mess. Looking down, she could see the stain was spreading, and judging by the color, pirates fancied imports. Lilly was, now, nowhere to be seen.

She started out into the crowd in the direction of the bathroom and cold water to stymie the stain. She kept her head down, in hopes no one would notice her, while knowing she really needn’t bother. She had been invisible from the moment she entered the room. Despite what she had judged to be a clever costume choice, no one had connected her drab blonde hairstyle and polyester pantsuit with a former presidential candidate. The few interested looks turned her way were questioning, at best.

“Hey!”, a voice she recognized cried out, just before she slammed into Michael Phelps’ gold-medal bedecked chest. Thickly applied pancake makeup smeared against bare skin as she lost her footing and fell further into the voice.

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

She knew he was saying something in an effort to make her feel better, but she couldn’t make out the words over the sound of her sobs. She felt his arms around her shoulders, and became aware that they were walking, but horror at the thought of many hundreds of pairs of creatively made-up eyes staring at her, in disgust, buoyed the flood of tears, forcing her to keep her head buried in Phelps’ side.

A blast of cold air told her they had left the party, and as she looked up, her hands went immediately to her face, in a fruitless effort to repair the damage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed T.J. jumping up and down in place, in an effort to conjure some warmth against the chill of night air.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“No! It’s ok! I’ve got an exam tomorrow, anyway. Get in the car!” He didn’t ask questions. He made statements and gave orders. He was used to getting what he wanted. Her feet moved before she made a decision, and as he clicked the locks open, her hand was on the door latch.

She slid, silent, into the passenger’s seat without uncrossing her arms. Two doors slammed as the engine roared to life, and T.J. carelessly threw Michael’s medals into the backseat. Settling himself against leather, he placed both hands on the steering wheel, and leaned in her direction.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

She looked at his shadowy features, and wondered how she came to be there. Had he ever spoken to her before? Well, maybe…when they were toddlers, when their mothers’ scheduling of play-dates placed them together on the playground while they, the mothers, sat closely, exchanging stories of women who were not there.

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

One long arm stretched between the bucket seats, as T.J. maneuvered the car into reverse. She squirmed at the thought of that arm around her shoulders. Had it been? Had everyone seen? What had they thought? Had SHE seen?

The car lurched forward against loudly crunching gravel, as T.J. barely missed grazing the halogen head-lights of an oncoming pickup truck. Lowering his window, he stopped, and hung his head out to meet the other driver.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

More laughter accompanied his “See ya, bro!”, as T.J. good naturedly slapped his friend’s hand, again, before withdrawing it to turn up the dial on the stereo, as the car lurched forward again, sending up a wake of randomly shaped gravel.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

There were lights, lots of them, in varying colors, and noises she knew only from television crime dramas; the crackle of two-way radios, passing traffic, sirens, voices giving orders, and moans, incoherent moans in a familiar-sounding voice.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

>My Halloween Dream Date with Michael Phelps

>
Carson groaned silently, as yet another unobservant party-goer stepped on her toes, while he, and one of at least twelve would-be Playboy bunnies in attendance, searched for salacious privacy.

Inwardly she snarled, “This corner is taken, buddy!”

Outwardly she expelled the breath she had been holding in anticipation of having her foot stomped upon, again, and gave them a weak smile before she shrank back against the wall.

“Oh, come on, Carson, it’ll be fun!”

“Owwww!”, he howled, and she realized that the heel of her shoe must have grazed a toe just before becoming entangled in his flip-flop.

Two hands came up under the armpits of her misshapen suit jacket, lifting her off of his feet and, placing her, unceremoniously, back onto the floor in front of him.

“What gives, Carson?”, T.J.’s handsome face lost nothing to anger.

“I…I’m sorry, T.J. I didn’t see you.”, was all she could manage before the tears came to remove the rest of her hard work.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” Continuing dry sobs placed unneeded breaths between her words.

“No, it’s ok…Uh…I’ve got a jacket in the car…Come on!”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her, stumbling, through the gravel parking lot. She stood, silent, as he aimed his key fob, before removing his sweats from the trunk

Walking to the far side of the car, he turned his back before pulling them on and then turned with a single clap of his hands, presenting her with “Property of University of Georgia Football”.

“Ok! So you want to go home!” It was said as a statement.

“Um, I…” she started, as she crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out across the parking lot at nothing in particular, wishing she could disappear.

“Alright, Carson. I’ve had a little to drink. You know that right? I mean, I’m not drunk, but, I’m ok, you know? I’m feeling ok.”

Did he ever cross her path in high school? Did football players have anything in common with accounting majors?

“Yeah…yeah, ok.”, was all she managed, as she smoothed Hillary’s jacket and wedged both unmanicured hands between her thighs.

“Hey, bro, you leavin’ already?”, T.J.’s voice mixed with laughter as he thrust his arm towards his friend’s already outstretched palm.

“Who’s that?”, Jerry and his companion, Sarah Palin, craned their necks to see inside the lower car.

“Jerry’s a good guy, you know?”, he yelled, as they turned onto the two-lane blacktop that would take her home.

“Hey! I’ve got an ID!” The voice, excited and unfamiliar, was accompanied by the sound of clanking medals…

Intangible Losses

A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.

At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.

When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.

And, she suckled them.

She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.

She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.

And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.

As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.

Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,

in separate incidents,

years apart.

And, I was there…

I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.

Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”

As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.

She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.

More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.

Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.

And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.

Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.

A friend absorbs it.

>Intangible Losses

A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.

At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.

When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.

And, she suckled them.

She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.

She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.

And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.

As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.

Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,

in separate incidents,

years apart.

And, I was there…

As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.

She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.

More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.

Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.

And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.

Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.

A friend absorbs it.

Have always loved this song from Smashing Pumpkins. Never watched the video, until today.

For those of you who were there…this will take you back…

>Have always loved this song from Smashing Pumpkins. Never watched the video, until today.

For those of you who were there…this will take you back…

A Feminist’s Viewpoint on Palin

I’ve tried.

I’ve tried long, and hard.

When Hillary announced her candidacy, I tried.

I love Bill. And, I love him with full knowledge that the stage was already set for most of the gains he afforded us. I love him anyway.

I love him because he cared.

And, I love him because he tried.

And, I love him because he projected an image that most of the world could love along with me.

I love him because he is me.

So…Hillary announces.

I should say, at the forefront, that her handling of Bill’s promiscuity left me with a bad taste in my mouth. President or not, a philanderer is a philanderer, and should be handled as such.

That said, as Hillary announced, I realized the historic repercussions of her candidacy. A woman was running for President of the United States of America! The simple fact that she could do so, was testament to all those who came before her. It was historic! It was histrionic! It was catastrophic!

She was shrill. She was lame. And, most obviously, her husband could not bring himself to support her. Said simply, watching her upset me.

Turn now to our third (Lest you forget Geraldine!) female candidate, Sarah Palin.

I watched her acceptance speech, and as I watched, I became entranced. I listened, as did most Americans, to her tough talk, and her folksy phrases, and I smiled. The day after, I sang her praises to my Republican colleagues, and they smiled, knowingly, smugly.

And, then I read.

I read about the “Bridge to Nowhere”, and the funds that where allocated, elsewhere. I read about her daughter’s pregnancy, fed by Sarah’s unrealistic no-tolerance policy, and the young father, whose future, and theirs,will most certainly, be determined by his decision to forego education for income.

I watched interviews, in which she invoked kitchen window views, in an effort to explain foreign trade policies, and, yet, was unable to name the title of a book or a magazine.

I listened as she tried to tie an opponent to subversive activities which took place when he was eight years old, and as she promised to correct record deficits in a matter of days.

But, here’s what will surprise you…

As damning as all of the above is to a candidate’s ability to serve, it is her absence as a mother that disturbs me, most of all.

At the age of forty-four, Sarah Palin, Governor of Alaska, and staunch anti-abortion advocate, chose to have a baby with known genetic defects.

Now, a little over a year later, she has shirked her responsibility to that child, and the others born before him, for the sake of ambition.

Any, and all, scientific studies support the idea that parental involvement makes the difference for children with disabilities. Sarah Palin is shirking that, and in my opinion, her God-given responsibility to all of her children. Because disabilities, however severe, do not affect only the children carrying them, they affect us all.

She is female.

She is attractive.

She is a gifted speaker.

She is also a wife, and a mother; and those contracts were cemented many years ago….

As she struggles to answer the most inane questions, I am embarrassed; not just for her, but for us all!

This is the face we will put forward to the rest of the world! Sure, we can rely on good looks. But, for how long?

My father, a proud independent, accused me of being jealous. He pointed out her rise; Hockey Mom, PTA Mom, Governor of Alaska, Vice-President.He likened her experience to mine.

I’m a football Mom. I’m a PTA board member. But, I can promise you, before I run for a higher elected office, I will prepare. You will have your answers. I will not rely upon my stilettos, designer glasses, and form-fitting suits to win you. I will study, and not just for an upcoming debate…

Before I accept your nomination for vice-president, I will be sure that I have a handle on the issues; domestic and foreign.

But, first, and foremost, I will make sure that the contracts I have executed before…before…when I was nothing but a Hockey Mom, or a PTA Mom…Those contracts will be fulfilled, because, by doing that, and just that, I can be the best example I can be, and I will give back, and somebody will pay attention, and we will matter….

>A Feminist’s Viewpoint on Palin

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I’ve tried.