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."

Enema thoughts and encounters

In my last post, I mentioned a piece of paper I had found with an interesting experience I had scribbled onto it. Tonight, I thought it appropriate to post, since it was sort of an inspiration for this blog in the first place!

This story describes me as a first semester junior nursing student taking part of a module, which was a set-up where nursing students reviewed certain nursing skills individually with a senior nursing student. This module...was the enema module. Before I did this module, I don't think I really knew what an enema was.

Now I know. And so, for your enjoyment:

"When she lifted the towel that so modestly draped the model, my first thought was simply, 'Wow.'

It was a perfectly shaped pair of buttocks. They were conveniently parted, a handy anus staring up at me like a dark eye. The buttocks were even nicely tilted upward at a lovely diagonal angle as if to say, 'Here I am. Enema me.'

'Is that a model made especially for enemas?' I asked, genuinely curious.

The senior nursing student nodded. 'Yep. They made it just for that. But,' she lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows knowingly. 'Inserting them is not as easy as this.' She turned back to the model. 'Especially if they are particularly obese,' she muttered.

The mental image of me struggling to keep a large derriere at bay suddenly flashed through my mind. Interesting.

Taking the end of the long plastic tube connected to an empty fluid bag, she rolled it in a small puddle of slippery liquid soap on a paper towel and handed it to me.

Tentatively, I stuck the tube into the gaping black hole, feeling it slip in quite easily.

'Do you know how far to put it in?' she quizzed me.

"Three to four inches,' I recited from my textbook, still slowly sliding. I didn't think I had put it in that far yet.

Suddenly, I seemed to have hit some resistance. The tube wouldn't advance any further.

'Surely that wasn't three to four inches!' I thought, pushing the tube harder. It still didn't budge.

Putting my hand on the plastic butt to stabilize more pushing, I shoved the tube forcefully, but to no avail.

I looked up at the senior apologetically. 'I wouldn't really do this to a real patient,' I felt I had to explain.

'I think you got it in there,' she said, taking the tube from my fingers. 'You have to go just past the sphincter.' She drew it out a little, then handed it to me. 'Try and feel the give of the sphincter.'

Pondering the strangeness of the word 'sphincter,' I drew the tube in and out a few times, this time somehow able to feel when I pushed past it. I realized that three to four inches was smaller than I thought, and that I had probably put the tube waaaaaay up into the rectum that first time.

Again, the image of me actually doing this to a human seemed far fetched, and I wondered if I had gone into the right profession after all. Sticking tubes up people's butts? Who does that?

I guess nurses do. And that's why, my friends, we practice first on non-feeling, mute, conveniently-angled plastic models first. So when you are in the hospital, unable to poo, and the nurse comes in with her tube and such, remember to test her accordingly: 'So, how far does that thing go up, exactly?'"

*Note: I have not yet, in my limited experience, given an enema yet. I rather hope to avoid it entirely, but...I think that hope is a vain hope.





 

And thus, I begin.

Well.

I never thought I would be doing this. Blogging, posting thoughts for the world to see, opening my innermost guts and letting them spew forth into cyberspace!


*Ahem* While I suppose that isn't quite the accurate picture of how I shall be blogging, I do believe that this space, this little piece of wordy territory, shall be an interesting outlet. After going through some old school papers the other day, I came across a page I had scribbled on, describing the process of learning how to give an enema. It was one of those mildly hilarious, gently ludicrous moments that one simply stops in the midst of and thinks, "Wow. If I had visited myself five years ago and told myself I was doing this, my five-years-ago-self would shake her head in disbelief."

And so, I do believe this is the place do dump my snippets. Little things, little stories, the amusing things of life's walk.

I hope you like them.