poke a sea anenome and you'll feel better

 I wrote this a few days ago. It's not a very polished entry...but if you like thoughts that act like jumping beans, you might like it. :)

             

        I’m on the coast of Cambria, and today I simply had to poke a sea anemone.

            After a rather exhausting, whirlwind shopping trip for interview clothes in Santa Barbara’s Nordstrom (ending the day with a flowy white blouse, slim black slacks, and a pair of cylinder heel pumps), I realized I had to go to a local café in order to use my laptop and do tedious nursing license transfer things.

            Well, my grandpa handed me the keys to his amazing Infinity SUV (aka, a-spacious-living-room-on-wheels) and I headed to a local shop. I was able to do what I needed to do, sipping my latte as I worked out necessary red tape items.

           

            Afterwards, I was just going to drive home. And then I looked to my right.

            There, as it has been this whole week, was the sprawling, blue, sparkling ocean. Just sitting there. A huge, vast mystery of beauty and wonder, stretching out in front of me like moving glass. For years, it has filled me with a sense of awe, sending those feelings of warmth and tinglyness through my soul that I never could really put words around.

            I had to go down and see it. Right now.

            I mean, I had sort of anticipated this desire. I brought a spare pair of capris with me (I had been wearing those huge billowy hippie pants that Holland gave me, but they would drag in the sand) and pulled a Mr. Bean after I had parked the car in a rather remote spot. This meant I quickly changed my pants while sitting in the driver’s seat, hoping no officer would decide, at that moment, to come knock on my window.

            All cleared, the dregs of my coffee in hand, I purposefully walked the boardwalk. I passed by many a casual walker, most of them middle aged or older couples. At one point, I passed a man leaning over the balcony, singing in a deep baritone to himself. I couldn’t catch the words, but I stopped for a moment, just beyond him, so that I could listen. I thought of complimenting him on his voice, but stopped myself. Sometimes moments like that are private, hidden times. I had the same experience myself only two days  before. I was filled with the urge to sing as I looked out at the sea, and I did! Over the waves, I don’t think I was heard by the other people nearly fifty yards away, but I couldn’t bear the thought of them actually hearing me.

            Leaving him be, I continued my trek until I came to a certain place I remembered from a few years before. Surprisingly, I was the only one there. Most people would stop at the top of the stairs, read the plaques about tide pools, then move on, without actually stopping to look at the tide pools.

            They don’t know what they’re missing.

            Here is what must be done in order to fully appreciate a tide pool:

1.     You must find a proper “poking” stick. This will be necessary for prodding at things in the tide pools that you would rather not touch with your hands.

2.     You must look for tide pools like you would for treasure. Each tide pool is different and may hold some new creature that wasn’t in the last tide pool. Make sure you look at several, and not just satisfy yourself with one. There are too many wonderful things to see.

3.     Wear the right shoes. Tide pools are, out of necessity, on or by rocks. Wearing a good pair of strappy sandals that can withstand some dirt and water are best.

4.     Be shameless. Exploring tide pools is appropriate for any age. So what if you’re ten or sixty nine? It’s not worth missing out on for the sake of “dignity”

    These rules in mind, I found several lovely tide pools. At first, my findings didn’t take me far. I found a few small crab carcasses and some sea snails. Down at a deep tide pool just beyond my reach was an orange sea star the size of my hand.

            And then I turned and my eyes lighted on a pale yellow bunch of sea anemones, clinging to a bit of rock.

           

            “Anemones!” I cried (it felt good to say it aloud).

            Picking my way down over the pocked grey rock, I squatted down and reached the end of my stick into the water.

            “Poke!” I said in a high pitched voice when I touched the middle of a rather large anemone. With a satisfied startle, its wavy petal-like phalanges closed in on itself, like a puckered mouth.

            I did the same to its surrounding friends, uttering different sounds each time. “Ding!” “Boink!” and “Poke!” were the main ones I used. It just felt right.

                        All of them closed, I withdrew my stick, waiting for their little wormy fingers to undo themselves again, opening like little flowers. Little did they know that the coast was not yet clear! Many of them received more than one poke. I just couldn’t help myself.

            I then came across one tide pool with a small orange starfish in it. It was about five inches in total diameter. All points clung to the rock, save one. It curled inwardly, like it was sticky paper come loose. Using this as a “poking point,” I managed to poke it away from its perch until it floated, top side down, in the water. I stared at its little itty bitty arms on its underside, also examining the little hole of a mouth it had in its center.

           

            I had the sudden urge to touch it.

            Again using my stick (see how necessary it is?) I put it back on its feet and, hesitantly, I picked it up. It felt rough on my fingers, like sand paper. It creeped me out and thrilled me at the same time. This little guy was ALIVE!! And yet not vicious. He couldn’t bite me or anything. Slowly, I put him back where he had been before. He looked prettier there.

            After this, I spent most of my time poking at scuttling hermit crabs and chiseling tiny clams from their sucker cling to the rocks, watching with infantile delight as they would tumble from their perch into the bottom of the pool. Then I would watch it for a few seconds to see if it would make an attempt to get back on. None of them did. Probably because they don’t have legs. But hey, what do I know of sea life? Oh! I also spotted a magenta sea urchin, but its prickly spikes held no temptation for me. Don’t they have paralytic poison?

            Knowing that my grandparents would begin to worry, I headed back to the steps. But not before inspecting the exotic array of broken drift wood and sea weed that littered the ridge. The drift wood bleached white, I fancied myself standing on a pile of bones, bleached from the sun. It was a rather pirate-y thought, and I relished it with a smile on my face.

            Before I made my trek back up, I did swipe a rather impressive piece of driftwood. I think it may come in handy for draping jewelry over. If not, at least I would be able to use it to defend myself, in case some bum wanted to accost me (there had been a hitchhiker and his dog on the rode earlier…I dare him come and face my stick!)

            As I walked back to the car, I felt satisfied. I had poked the anemones. And that was what I wanted to do ever since I got hooked on it, nearly four years ago.

            If you ever, ever have a chance to poke a sea anemone, I highly recommend it. It’s therapeutic, it’s satisfying, and there is nothing else quite like it.

The Dreamy Children's Escapade

 (Please refer to * at the bottom of the page.)

A year ago, I was preparing to start my internship at St. Louis Children's Hospital…and it’s all very surreal. Part of me feels like that was another life, or perhaps a vivid dream. And yet I'm reminded of a myriad of different moments as I review my neat and tidy my resume. (Yes, I am entering the adult world now! EEK!)

            I see Kaitlyn's* profile come up on Facebook, and I just stare at it. Here was this young woman, my nurse preceptor*, who was so important to my life for those ten weeks. I remember all of her quirks, the tone of her voice, the way she used her words. The slow blinking of the eyes, the gesture of her square hands when she was making a point. That funny little smile when I fumbled through an explanation. That jiggling of her leg as she reviewed my charting, chewing her lower lip. The way she always crossed her arms. Her freckles. The tears in her eyes when a patient almost died.

            She was such a significant part of my life for that short while. I took every word of hers very seriously. I was her shadow. She was my boss. And yet…now, we never talk. She goes on, working on that unit, that place that was like a second home to me for ten weeks.

            The beep of the alarms. A single squawk for a call light. A double sqawk and a flashing light for an alarm going off (usually a pulse oximeter). The shrill chirp of the code button (which I accidentally hit a few times, causing everyone to come running and me to look sheepish.) The blue and purple motif. The white bubbles on the windows. A photo of a yellow duck splashing in a pond, another photo of a frog jumping in the water. The sea-life quilt on the wall. The peeling unit sign someone had colored and taped to a door. Passing by the PICU, messenger bag on one shoulder, my lunch in the other, my blue nametag bouncing off my brightly-colored scrub top. A swipe of the tag, enter into the nurse’s station, passing by the doc’s in the library, talking on phones or chit chatting. Passing by the desk, snatching some latest bit of gossip, the tail end of a story, an urgent call about a patient. Everyone looks tired, ready to go home. I put my stuff into the empty cabinet, usually reserved for patient items, but since I'm temporary, it's okay. I grab a nurse’s sheet, I take a place at a computer (a few minutes early to get a head start, just like Kaitlyn recommended).

            After gathering info (trach cuff Bivona 4.0, Gbutton, size 14, trach catheter 8 cm, 11 cm deep, allergic to vancomycin…blah blah blah), Rachel is beckoning me to listen to report. And thus the shift begins.

            “Who should we see first?” Kaitlyn quizzes me.

            I look at my list. ABC’s* are priority, but we have some heavy meds due soon.

            And so to the med room, to the patient room, a quick listen, a quick assessment, a quick set-up. Go, go, go. Get it all done. Do it right. Get it done on time. A thousand details, a thousand noises, a thousand distractions. Stay focused, move quickly, but be safe.

            It’s such a whirlwind. At least it was up there on that floor. On my toes all the time. Little sounds that make me jump. By the end of the ten weeks, it only took a fraction of a second to send me running (or rather, walking quickly, because running usually means a code), to a patient’s room at that vacuum, suction-ny sound of a vent tube popped off.

            All of these things. And even now they begin to recede into the background. So very consuming, so very important at the time. And now, totally disconnected. Everything reduced to a few sentences on a resume. I tell you I worked with G-buttons, but every time I do, the faces of those children pass through my mind. Late night feedings, watching peaceful faces, but with labored breathing, struggling even in their sleep. Murmured words as I gently check the site, slight stirring when my cold fingers touch their warm skin.

            “It’s okay, sweetie,” I whisper. “I’m just looking.”           

            And for a moment, I stand there and marvel and worry.

            All of that in a flash as I tell you, simply, that I’ve worked with G-buttons.

           

            It’s so strange. So very strange. None of it really mattered. It did, but it didn’t. It changed me, but it was all so internal.

            Now, seeing Kaitlyn's profile on my chat list on Facebook, it amazes me. A remembrance of my other life. That temporary life. That short-lived, jam-packed, stimulation-filled experience. A few impressive sentences on a resume. A small point of conversation. A fleeting memory every once in a while.

            And yet how different I am.

            I gained guts. I gained moxy. I gained a fearlessness that comes with having to perpetually do things that scare me, every single day.

            Lab draws? Never done those. Don’t they involve blood?

            Suction a trach? OMG. That module freaked the crap outta me.

            IV medication set up? I think I might cry.

            Update a physician? They never taught us that in nursing school…

            Sterile dressing change? But what if I contaminate something and they DIE?

            Straight cath female? Where’s that hole anyway…

            Straight cath male? One hole? I can do that.

            Admit a patient? Er…what if I accidentally tell them that their stay is free?

            Discharge a patient? What if I forget to have them sign something?

            Answer that call light? Who knows what I’m gonna find when I walk in there…

            Go to a huge temple monstrosity of a hospital? What if I get lost? What if no one likes me? What if I fail? What if I can’t DO this?!

            All of these things and more, I can check them off my list of achievements.

            And all summed into a few measly sentences on a resume as I turn to face my new and tender future, girding myself up for a new adventure.

           

            

*Her name has been changed for the purpose of this blog entry...I'm absolutely terrified of HIPAA

*A nurse preceptor (for those who don't know) is a nurse who is assigned to basically oversee an nurse intern or graduate nurse. I was her shadow for ten weeks.

*ABC's is an acronym for "Airway, Breathing, Circulation." This is basically a list of priorities that need to be addressed in any medical situation.

           

First Pedicure from a Vietnamese Woman

A poem I wrote last week. As you can tell by this, I find pedicures kinda awkward, ha! 

First Pedicure from a Vietnamese Woman

 A lonely glazed donut hardens

on the cracked sacrificial plate

painted with pink flowers.

The little Buddha leans back and smiles, looks away, as if to say,

“No, really, my diet starts today.”

Crumbling incense sticks are his barricade,

charred remains of whispered supplications,

his hoard of scorched intercession,

dues paid to the watchman of the shop.

I feel his burning stare from his dollhouse shrine,

as I too recline, in my sumptuous vomit-colored cushions.

And you, my beautifier, kneel at my feet.

My assistant of ablutions,

My provider of painted keratin,

what stories of gun point, panting breath, and stifling galleys

do you lock away behind your almond eyes?

What horrors did you touch so that you could be here,

to massage my ugly toes?

Sticky tabloids sit untouched by my side,

as interesting to me as dead fish,

frivolous nonsense that means nothing.

Who cares what Justin Bieber has to say,

when I know your heart starves for the embrace

of the child left behind in your homeland?

Buddha shifts in his seat hungrily.

The hour of prayer is getting closer,

as you wash the feet of the dream

you risked your life to taste.

Strong to the Finish

 I wrote this poem a few weeks ago for my creative writing class. But I also wrote it...because I needed to.

Strong to the Finish

“Olive….Popeye…Bluto.”

Pale petal lips whisper the names

to the humid darkness.

The flickering flash of those black and white caricatures,

glimmers across glossy diamond-blue eyes,

fixed like sunken pebbles into ghost-pale gaunt flesh.

Slumped in the strong, sad arms of her weary mother,

I am utterly helpless, and I feel a fool,

my head puffed up with fancy medical words

that cannot begin to wrap their starched tongue around

such sacred and tender sorrow,

that oozes a guttering flame of desperate hope,

boldfaced and delicate in the face of

such monstrous, frigid, ruthless judgment:

“less than three percent survival rate.”

And at that moment,

all I wish for is a can of magical green stuff

that a certain sailor carries in his back pocket,

to push through that slinky IV tube,

like an emerald river of strength;

to pulse a puff of spring

into a dying body made of winter.

All we want is life! And a little poetry in it...

  This creative writing class has challenged me to write poetry...something that I consider one of my weaknesses. I find it difficult, mostly because I don't feel that I can be that clever in just a few poignant words. I wrote this one, however, just about that feeling.

I Can’t Write Poetry

“Write from your heart!”

Are you kidding?

Writing from within

Is like prying cold, dead fingers

From a last dying wish.

With sickening suspense,

Tongue stuck out

With tense tunnel vision,

I cut the barbed wires

Where I had thought

There had been heart strings.

My soul is more guarded than I thought.

“Try and reach deeeeep down.”

Have you ever tried

To finagle your fingers

Down your throat,

Groping in the dark?

While I snatch at my heart,

That precious thing,

My uvula is tickled instead.

And I vomit.

Creeping on Hans (cough*Francis*cough)

It all started when I saw the black pea coat. The guy was dressed like a Euro, and he was carrying a small black book. As Holland and I took pictures in front of the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art, I noticed him sitting and scribbling something in the book. A writer? An artist?

Our interests piqued, Holland made a covert glance over his shoulder as we passed by. 

“He’s sketching!” she mouthed to me, pointing at the book.

We walked up the steps and took more pictures, but we would pause and look at him, wondering if perhaps he was disturbed by our girlish squeals of hilarity as we posed in front of the museum’s metal doors. He was sitting several flights down from us on the outdoor steps, still absorbed in artsy-ness.

 I then had the grand idea that I should pose with him in the view of the camera lens. There was something delicious about the sneakiness of it all, and I just had to try!

And so, unbeknownst to him, I struck several dramatic “be-still-my-beating-heart” poses behind his back, putting every ounce of gooey drama I could. Holland was just as good. We would snap a picture, then run up and laugh silently, catching our breath as quietly as we could manage. 

And then, it happened.

Perhaps he heard us, or perhaps he just knew he was the subject of our photos, but he turned around and did a double take.

Holland froze.

 “You guys want a picture together?” he asked with a smile, rising from his seat on the step.

Holland burst into giggles, but I, feeling rather abashed, took the lead role of “mature one.”  I mean, we didn’t really need a picture of us two together. We had some already. 

But what was I going say? “Oh no, actually, we were just taking pictures of your hunched, pea-coated back…”

So instead I said, as innocently as I could muster, “Yeah, could you?” 

I walked up and handed him the camera. His hand was holding the sketchbook open in one hand. It was opened to a yellow page, and in black pen, I saw a sketch of the sprawling museum lawn.

“I like it,” I said, tapping the page.

“Thanks…”

I stepped back quickly. So, an artist then.

“You guys taking fashion shots are something?” he asked with a wide smile. The smile, I noticed, was rather goofy. And he had a gap in his teeth, similar to Holland’s. The wisp of an Eastern European accent wove its way into his words. His shaggy light brown hair curled over his ears. His shoes were definitely not of this country. Brown leather, with the coolest designs on the sides.

“Yeah, sort of,” I said casually. Holland was still collapsing into flushed giggles behind me.

“What sort of composition would you like?”

Definitely an artist.

“Um…” I look behind me, and I felt like a real dork when I blurted out the words, “Pillars.”

“Pillars?”

“Yeah, if you could get the museum in the background, we weren’t getting it very well when it was just us…”

Which was a whole lot of rubbish. Our stand-back pics were great ones of both us and the museum. It was just a lame excuse for him to take our picture and for to escape looking like an idiot.

I stood beside Holland. She put an awkward arm around me.

“I love you,” she said. Mostly, I think, out of needing something to say.

He took two pictures of us. Taking the camera away, I studied them carefully. The pillars were indeed a main part of the picture. Holland had composed herself for two seconds, long enough for her to look like she had swallowed an avocado pit. I stood smiling as goofily as he had. Probably because inside, I was as full of giggles as Holland. 

He looked at us expectantly, but my only thought was to leave. We had been found out. Him talking to us had never been part of the plan.

“We should get Abigail from the airport now,” I said airily, not looking at him, beginning to walk away. Perhaps looking a tad disappointed, he sat down on his step again, picking up his sketchbook again.

I don’t think I even said thanks.

Holland and I scurried away as fast as we could. She pressed her mouth into her scarf.

“I can’t believe that!” she gasped when she came up for air. “You kept your cool.”

“Just barely,” I hissed. “You were freaking out!”

We had a good, out-loud laugh as we approached my car. I half-hoped he could hear us.

“I wonder what his name was,” I mused. “I should have asked him. I mean, we still could. But that would be weird.”

“We should have asked him, man!”

“Well maybe he’s an awesome Bible-reading guy who is thinking the same thing about you that you are about him!”

“No,” I returned. “He’s probably thinking, ‘Crazy hippie girls…’ I still wonder what his name was! Maybe I should have asked him.”

“Probably something like Raphael, or Emanuzika,” Holland said, rolling her r’s as she stepped toward the passenger side.

“Or maybe…Hans.” I nodded my head. “I think he was German. We’ll call him Hans.”

“Hans?” Holland screwed up her face as we got into the car. “That sounds Mexican. Maybe it was…Francis.”

“Mexican? Francis?” I admonished. “Hans is a classic German name. And Francis is too girlie. No way.”

“Well, he’ll be Hans for you, and Francis for me,” Holland decided.

And so it was thus. Hans, wherever you are, I apologize for sneaking pictures. But truly, that was some of the best fun I have ever had.

When you are a famous artist someday, I will write on your blog, and I will say, “Hey there…remember us? We wanted pillars in the background. We were the fashion-shot girls…”

There is life in the blood

Today was my first day to give blood.

It just seemed like the right thing to do, the nurse-y thing to do. In the past, I have always either a) been too freaked and avoided it altogether, b) been sick, or c) made an excuse as to why I couldn't do it. (You will notice that two of the above reasons have to do with chickening out).


Well, I decided that today was where the chickening stopped. I had made an appointment, and I was gearing myself up for the experience. I had just done a nursing module last week that involved sticking needles into each other's arms, including my own, so this wouldn't be so bad, right? I'm a nurse (ahem...almost one), doggone it! It was time to toughen up!

I walked in and signed my name on the line, shaking my head. No, I hadn't given blood before. I took the reading materials and sat downwhere they told me to. "The Lion King" was playing in the corner, and Simba was singing how he couldn't wait to be king, but I was dutifully reading the guidelines for blood giving. HIV? Nope. Illegal drugs? No way. Out of the country in past three months? I was I had, but no...


After being prepped by a nice young man who was obviously trained in making people feel comfortable, I took yet again another seat to wait. The circle of blue chairs stretched out before me, and I noticed that they resembled those pool chairs made of rubber that always stick to your thighs when you stand up. "The Lion King" was still playing, and I hummed "Hakuna Matada" softly to myself as I watched one girl pass out. Quickly adjusting the chair so that her feet were propped up, I watched as several of the technicians buzzed around her, asking how she was doing, bringing  a cold compress, quickly taking the needle out.

Not a very reassuring thing to see right before you're going to give.

Finally, it was my turn. Like a victim on an altar, I lay myself on the blue pool chair, exposing my arm, looking so pale and fragile, big blue veins staring up at me pitifully, to the lady who was going to drain me of my fluids.

"Look over there," she directed. I obeyed, and sucked in my breath quickly at the sharp sting. The pain quickly abated, however, and I turned my head in time to see the wondrous sight of a thick needle sticking out of my arm, looking like a small silver spear. When I was all taped up, and instructed to squeeze the grubby heart-shaped ball in my hand, I was still compelled to stare.

It was over the next few moments that the loveliness of giving blood began to dawn upon me. I watched with rapt fascination as a beautiful dark mauve liquid began to pour from that small needle to the waiting bag below. The warmth of the blood in the tube taped on my arm was somehow comforting, and I wondered at this life-sustaining fluid that flows inside the dark recesses of my body, each cell glimpsing pieces of my innermost parts that I will never see, exchanging microscopic elements without fail, each moment, so that I can move, live, speak, learn, see.

I could not help but wonder into whose body my blood would go into next. Into who's veins and arteries will my blood flow? Will my blood be the bag that is chosen to be someone's last chance at living?

There is something scarily intimate about the gesture, as I fling out a portion of my life source to some unknown face. I do it in good faith, however, and send it henceforth with my blessing, counting down the days to when I can give a part of myself again.

"...the life of every creature is in its blood," I thought, watching that thick, lovely-colored liquid flow steadily from me. "There is life in the blood. There is life."