grumble.

I've been working hard to drag myself out of a trip to the sucking thought-spiral of despair for the past couple weeks. I had been feeling sad and lonely, and sort of on the verge of tears - the kid wouldn't go to sleep, I was being a raving angry shrew anytime we were together, and then teared up when he told me he wanted to go spend the night with his dad. That's the first time he's said that, and though I knew it would happen at some point, I just figured that point would be in five years when I wouldn't let him go bungee jumping or something. All my free time had been taken up with writing essays about how super super great of a student and a human being I am so that nameless bureaucrats would award me some money, which other nameless bureaucrats in the Fin Aid office would then process in such a way that I couldn't get my hands on and pay my cell phone bill, which somehow was doubled this month because of usage charges since I was out of class for three weeks and everyday was a holiday!

And then my clinical instructor wrote "Very interesting! Let's discuss!" on the top of my write-up for Psych, and I cried on her when we had our midterm conference. I figured she meant interesting like "I'm speechless with how poorly you have completed this assignment! Let's talk about how you can get some points for this by re-doing it entirely! You actually have no empathy and should consider a new professional track immediately. " I cried, and stammered that it seemed like she was telling me that I didn't listen to my patient, and of course I listened to my patient, I had just written 500 words about how I want to be a nurse because my inherent capacity for empathy and attentive listening that I will provide my patients from traditionally underserved groups.
She suggested that I seek counseling, because as I had shared with the group, these patients and their PTSD and alcohol abuse issues were obviously close to some emotional issues I hadn't yet resolved with my own father. She didn't say anything that I hadn't said in post-conference to the whole group, honestly - she just linked all that I had said to the fact that "I was moved to tears by feedback on my first paper" and said that "my reaction suggested that I have a bit more anxiety about this rotation than I thought I did". She was calm and compassionate. My reaction to her suggestion that I seek counseling, when I had, in fact, sought counseling in the past, and was currently medicating my way through a bout of depression/anxiety, was to instantly feel like I am much crazier than I thought, and that I had embarrassed myself in revealing what it was like to grow up with a father who had PTSD.

In fact, it turns out she wrote that on everyone's paper, because it was the first time any of us had done an IPR (interpersonal recording - patient said, nurse said, was nurse therapeutic, how is patient's diagnosis exhibited?).

What I'm really proud of is how I handled it. Not initially, of course. For three days or so, I mucked around in a shallow pond of self-doubt and pity. I had imaginary conversations with her, and started arguments with my ex-husband about the cell phone bill and our custody arrangement. I told the story of our conversation to any friend that would listen, and filled in any boring places with sarcasm and dramatic analogies. I felt betrayed by this professor, who I had for a class my first semester and for whom I had much respect.

But then, I went for a long walk in the woods on the cross country trail near my house. I took my mp3 player and listened to the Non-Violent Communication files I have saved. I realized how far removed from reality and the present moment I had become lately. I sweated and swang my arms and stomped along the hills of the trail. I ate an entire huge slice of chocolate cake and checked out two discs of Scrubs to watch back to back. I made notecards for the house to remind me to say "I feel --------- because I -------." instead of "You made me really mad!" and "It's none of my business what anyone else thinks of me." and last but not least, "You can't MAKE anyone do anything. You can only make them regret it." And I decided that I had shared my experiences appropriately at the time, and that my embarrassment was about exposing my tears and emotions to my instructor. And that my sense of betrayal was based on an assumption that because I already had a level of comfort with her, that she wouldn't push me at all during this rotation, when I explained that there was some real potential to get sad while talking to veterans that reminded me a lot of my dead father.

I also remembered that each semester so far has had its own teary day. Remember when I burst into tears because of I couldn't inject saline into the hotdog! How much fun was that?! I realized that I thought that the Wellbutrin was going to protect me from emotional outbursts - and decided that I had experienced the emotional equivalent of breakthrough bleedings. I'm actually grateful to know that I can still have super sad experiences while taking the meds; it would be scary to think of never experiencing strong emotions again.

And that when one, who shall nameless, walks around looking for things to mock and deride, then she will get really really good at mocking and derision. And one who is really really good at mocking and derision will be tempted, nay, compelled to occasionally mock and deride herself.

And then I was not an asshole to the kid for one whole afternoon, and made oatmeal cookies with him, which he pronounced "surprisingly delicious".

All is well.

dude. so much to say.

worked all weekend last weekend. skipped class this morning because I stayed up all night watching a disk of House. had a mini-crisis (almost entirely self-created) last week because I hadn't done an assignment that was worth 50 points of a 1000 point class average. At the same time, it was a 6-8 page care plan for a stroke patient - you know, integral skills to have for the field! The stuff that I'll be doing non-stop from here on out in nursing school! eep. Eighteen mini-panic attacks later, I turned it in, not even late, and complete with all five journal articles, cited in APA format. This time the payoff for resolving the drama that I created wasn't so good, didn't really feel worth it. fuckit.

Finally went to Campus Health to put my cloudy, smelly urine in a cup and find out if it's a uti without the pain and burning (i've been symptomatic for about a year now, and have only recently had health insurance and easy access to a clinic to see someone. Can we say functional limitations in healthcare?) Starting cipro today and I even managed to advocate for a follow-up urine sample to be ordered to ease my mind that it is resolved with the drugs.

Signed a lease on a passive solar apartment yesterday - wow oh wow it is cool! big windows, brick floors, W/D, and no pet rent. exactly what I wanted, although not on the side of town I was hoping for.
May is looking a little crazy-making - finals the first week, a much belated birthday party for the kid the second week. The semester starts (with my first clinical rotation!!!) and later that afternoon, I'm leaving for a four day retreat in the mountains in the third week, and then I'll get to pack and move before June 1. sigh. I really don't understand how I've been able to pay a security deposit before the summer fin aid dispersement.

found out this weekend that one of the cool kids from work is going to join the Army for six years. I teared up, and then handed him my address like I was in the third grade and had just found out my family was moving to Georgia. I was embarrassed, and sent this email today. Still a little embarrassing, but it feels resolved now.
Hey R!
I saw you on campus the other day, and realized I could look up your email through the campus directory. I wanted to apologize for throwing a little tantrum the other night. It was such a shock to realize that I wouldn't see you again at work (and since that's the only place I see you of course, then it's not likely that we'll meet again). I was a little surprised at how upset I was, and didn't really know what to say (or what was appropriate to share without being creepy and weird, you know?).
It's odd to think about the loss of a close acquaintance - you are someone that I'm always happy to see, and who I really enjoy talking with. I like the way that you are sarcastic, but not often nasty (probably since I think that I tip that balance too often toward just being rude, as opposed to funny or clever). You manage irony without being an asshole - which is a rare gift, it seems. I think that you're crazy smart and genuinely a sweet person. You remind me of my kid in a way (and I know that's weird to say - and possibly to hear) and that's most of the reason that I was upset to hear you are going into the Army. I don't know anyone personally who is serving in the military right now - and so I'm privileged to be (sarcastically) academic and removed from the whole situation.
My dad was in the Marines, mostly before I was born, and I know that it was important to him to enlist, and to serve his time. I also know that he was a unspeakably different person after having served than he would have been without the experience of service in Vietnam, and I usually think of the loss of innocence, the gain of the burden of seeing horrible things. I don't really have a concept of the other more positive pieces that he spoke about regarding his service - the discipline, the feeling of being a part of something that made a difference, the actual 'service' part of serving the country. I had this irrational hope that time could be just frozen, that we could just talk when I happen to work with you, and talk about how ridiculous the world (and the restaurant) is... The thought of you being at the whim of the nutbags running this country's military takes my breath away, truly. At the same time, I want to say that I support your decision, since I know that you've thought it through carefully, and I feel like you have the strength to handle the experience. Other than having a kid, I've never done something like this that so immediately and profoundly affects my life.
I would be proud if my son grew up to be like you.
I wish you all the best. I'd be happy if we kept in touch - it would be good to know how you are doing.

with love, kati

Yep, it's officially reiterated - I'm a geek.

Shhh, that doesn't hurt!

At the park yesterday, I was trying to study Patho while the kid was playing on the big slide. I wasn't having much success. There seems to be a cloud around this particular park - I can't relax and let the kid play here. I'm always watching the other kids, sitting on my hands, and biting my tongue to keep from yelling at kids that aren't mine to stop jumping on their little brother's head. Why I brought my notebook and that ginormous textbook I can't figure out.

This dad puts his daughter up on the swing. She's less than 6. The dad already put the under 2 yo in the baby swing and she's happy and safe. The dad pushes the swing, the girl slips out and lands flat on her back on the ground. Wham. Silence, and then a gasp and crying. Now, in my head, I'm rooting for the dad. Get down, I urge, down on your knees in the dirt right this second. He complies to a certain extent, crouching, but still looking around him, not at the baby, but for witnesses. Dude, I think, it's cool, I saw it and I've done it before. Everyone who has pushed a kid in a swing has had at least one time that they weren't ready, or you pushed too hard on the first push. Get down on the dirt and pick her up in a big hug. Now.

He ignores me, and starts talking. Uh-oh, I think, he's shaking off the signs from the catcher. Bad move, skippy. He says, Shhhhh, now. Hush, honey. You're okay, it's okay. Okay, so I get the motivation to reassure. Fine. But the hushing? At approximately 3.2 seconds post-traumatic, scary thwumk on the hard ground? Get real. That is a- not going to happen, and b- ridiculous of you to suggest.
They are about 10 feet from me for this whole encounter, and I am unfortunately blatantly staring while he continued to argue with her about the severity of her injuries and hugged her too hard (which made her cry harder and yell at him to get offa her). At one point, he started saying I'm sorry that you fell and hurt yourself. I'm so so sorry that happened. Hedging, dude. Weasel-y. Bad call.
I really don't get this impulse to blow off kids. You can't win by saying to a kid yelling that it hurts, that no, it doesn't. Um. Yes, it does. No, it doesn't. You might mean that it shouldn't, or that it's inconveinent for you to be yelling about right now, or that I don't have it in me to muster the sympathy that I should be showing you, or that I think you are a big fat baby whiner. But as the person not experiencing the pain, trauma, or discomfort, you cannot say that it does not hurt.

True, this girl made some noises like she was dying. Like she was about to fucking expire. Like Scarlett OHara when Ashley left her and the Yankees came to Tara. In my opinion, she made those noises because she doesn't feel like her dad is listening. She has learned in five short years that she has to ratchet up the drama in order to get him to engage, even though he engages poorly when he finally shows up.

The girl screeches, with raggedy breaths, I want to go home. The dad says, Well, how about this, honey, why don't we - and the girl screams it again. The dad gets annoyed. Dude, you're using too many words. I know that you're thinking out loud. I do that, too, all the time, and I know that it's annoying to many around me, including my kid. There are times when you are better off shutting your mouth and thinking. Anything you say that is not, Okay, baby, let's go get our stuff and go on home - pointless, like that Far Side cartoon about what dogs hear. blah blah blah. So your thinking time needs to be devoted to any reason why we cannot go home right now, and that reason needs to be limited to they are exterminating our house with dangerous chemicals that will affect our neurologic functions.

Turns out that the reason the dad was hedging on the pack-it-up-and-roll-out idea was that he wanted her to get back on the horse. He thinks (I saw it above his head in a big balloon) that if he lets her go home crying because of this fall, that she will always be scared of swings and this will be a weakness for the rest of her life. Been there, too, man. I totally understand. But stop it. First of all, at no point in this process have you, the adult, the one who did NOT just get hurt and scared, not once yet have you shut the fuck up and just hugged the kid. Try it, please. You have demanded that she be quiet, repeatedly commanded her to take a deep breath and calm down, and told her that it's not a lot of blood and she shouldn't be scared. Stop. Take a deep breath of your own. Sit with her. Listen to what she's saying. Look at her eyes. Let her know that what she's saying, what's happening for her is important to you. Hold your own agenda for a second - of not looking like an asshole that just pushed your kid off the swing, of making sure she doesn't develop a lifelong swing phobia, whatever.

I kept wondering if she would respond to me if I went over with water for her to wash her fingers. I kept imagining that I would do all the right things, and like the Dog Whisperer, she would instantly quiet and calm. I think that I did not go over because I didn't want to know that this movie was totally fiction.

What I did do was pack up my own books and kid after the second time he came tumbling out of the slide crying. Apparently, their clog-up-the-slide-halfway-down game had gone awry and he got a foot in the ribs. Okay, I said, matter-of-fact, Time to go. Of course, I muttered 'just like I told you it would be if you kept playing that dumb-ass game with that big kid who was jumping on his brother's head'.

It really makes me wonder what other parents think of me on the playground.

Paper Bag Bookcovers

The sum total of my academic work this weekend was reviewing my flashcards once, deciding that half of them are silly, printing out the stuff for my Skills lab on Monday, and covering my hard-backed textbooks in paper bags, ala eighth grade. By far, the most satisfying was the book covers.

I remembered how to make the little pocket to slide the book's cover into. I was tempted to get out my kid's crayons and draw the names of the courses on the books in bubble letters. And I was quite disappointed when I realized that at least half of my books are soft-backed, and can't be covered in paper bags at all. (or at least, it would be dumb to do so, and probly DEcrease the life of the book.)

One of the reasons I did this is that I had a flashback to the room in the house where I grew up, with at least one whole floor to ceiling book shelf full of my dad's engineering and math textbooks and reference books. I always wondered why he had so many, since I couldn't remember seeing him pull one down and look at it. But as first one, then another professor said during their first lecture that one of the ways to succeed in this program is to buy the books and keep them, I realized that he had them because they were the books of His Field. They represented the choice of careers that he had made (and stuck with - interesting to a thirty-something pursuing her first bachelors' degree). They represented his accomplishments during college. Not insignificantly, they represented a monetary investment. I paid $729 for the books for this term. I've taken 15 hour semesters at the community college, I've had big bills at the bookstore, this was not a total surprise. But the idea that I won't be selling these books back as soon as I walk out of the final exam is a new one. I've always used Pell Grant money to buy books at the bookstore before - and apparently, that's not the way it works here. I got my fin. aid check and then paid out of my checking account for the books. It's the biggest transaction my little debit card has seen in many months. I couldn't help thinking of the sum in terms of months of rent, phone bills, tanks of gas.

But it's really cool to think about beginning to build the collection of books that I'll have in my office one day. They may be completely obsolete in five years. Many of them are full of maddening backwards language and ridiculous doublespeak - referring to people with "yellow skin" in a chapter on cultural sensitivity, using male pronouns throughout with no note at the beginning about why the authors chose exclusive language, including blithering pop-psychology as factual evidence for the importance of non-verbal communication skills. But they are my reference texts. They represent my entrance into a Field of Study. and they remind me of the things that my dad had to give up to earn his college degrees for his chosen profession.