I’m one of those annoying people with millions of song lyrics stuck in their head at all times. My music taste, like most of my tastes, is pretty eclectic and this is a fun party trick. Except when it’s not and so I’ve resolved myself to the fact that my mind is always ready to drop a memory down on me like some sick club beat. The word pie will bring one of two songs to mind. It could be the song Cherry Pie by hairband Warrant and if you know you know. The year was 1990, my freshman year of high school and this is one of those time periods I prefer not to revisit.
Speaking of freshman year of high school, I’m currently in Maryland visiting the wild and free ponies who inhabit a tiny island here, something I haven’t done in years. Speaking of wild and weird things I don’t do enough, I also stopped by my parent’s house in Delaware which is on the way. So now I’m sitting in a living room that frankly looks like Cracker Barrel wondering what to do with Mother Debbie’s insane collection of family memorabilia. I hope no one misinterprets this statement and finds it offensive. I actually love an occasional dose of Cracker Barrel, even if it does pain me, a sometimes foodie, to admit it. Oh and I feel the same way about my mother and have released all the shame I could release.
There is no doubt that if Nanny Shirley were here, she’d say look at the pot calling the kettle black. Well Nanny rules and the truth hurts. The only way for me to justify the insane amount of family memorabilia collecting dust in my basement is the fact that I have three children compared to my mother’s two.
If Nanny Shirley could rise from the dead to smack me with her flyswatter she would. Can you even imagine if I was your daughter?
Don’t answer that.
The best advice is no advice at all, but I would like to point out something for all the gentlemen who love to spoil their darling daughters. Perhaps you should read some of my ahem, wilder pieces and reconsider where you choose to set those bars. Keep in mind those bars you’re setting can always be raised or lowered depending on how mad your wild at heart daughter feels like making her mother on any given day. My personal rebellious teenage phase ended when I reached the age of 45, give or take a year and again I’m not sorry/you’re welcome. Also this bratty declaration of mine is cryptic on purpose. Just remember daddy’s that you’re all hu-man not super-man and your best intentions might come back to haunt you. So even though I am perfectly capable of managing complex equipment like ventilators and continuous dialysis machines in an Intensive Care Unit, my father will be pumping my gas before I leave the state of Delaware tomorrow.
All jokes aside, and I’m not joking, I’m very lucky to have my parents. Somehow they’ve been married since 1972 and Debbie and I have been fighting since I came along and wrecked their 1975 New Year’s Eve plans. Maybe that’s why they always ditched me and left me with Nanny Shirley on my birthday. Fortunately my job showed me that not all children are as lucky as I am. Listen I know that not every child has parents who are alive (and allegedly well) who care as much about their children the way my parents have always cared about me. Frankly some years are better than others and my parents have mercifully had their share of years. Some of their worst, were the years we lost my grandmother Saint Alice. It’s my book and the woman was a saint, my father only 35 years old when we lost her. I was 13 and even now I am always grateful for the years.
I’m sure my parents thought my little publication was cute when it started and now that it’s gaining some momentum, Debbie Dearest is concerned read: obsessed with worry. She fears, she always does, readers will think she’s a bad mother. In reality she’s a pretty damn good mother. On his best day, my father is ambivalent, doesn’t care what I do, as long as it doesn’t affect my mother too much.
This brings me straight to my point. This seems like a nice place to disclose my intentions for this upcoming September series. If you’re new to the train wreck, welcome aboard. A few months ago I stated there is absolute intention in every written word of mine, and the spoken ones too. Thanks Universe I learned this lesson the hard way back in 2020.
Debbie Dearest maybe suffers a slight case of regret. Probably wishes she didn’t tell me I was just like my father, the man she loved to hate for most of the 1990’s. Don’t worry we screamed it out the other night and afterwards my father took us out for an ice cream cone. While we were at the Dairy Queen an older couple rolled up in a sweet and classic Mustang, one of my absolute favorite cars. The woman in the passenger seat sat tall with the spine of a lady and her teased hair still resembled a beehive. I could instantly picture both of these cute couples in a completely different era. Then in my head I started to hum the words to In the Still of the Night, and outloud guessed the year the car was made. My father corrected me for being off by a year and we laughed at my ability to do this. See I’m not a girly girl at all, I just look like one. I love American muscle cars the most because we spent a large portion of my childhood attending car shows up and down the Eastern seaboard. My father used to race his 1984 Monte Carlo SS, and taught me how to drive when I was 12. Talk about freedom, he also had me on the back of a motorcycle when I was about 8 years old. Different times for sure.
As a family we only do what my father wants to do, trust me it’s easier, and so I’ve also stopped to visit every U.S battleground in my path. Oh by the way, don’t get your feminist panties in a bunch, it’s easier because my mother refuses to do anything without my father. That’s her choice and if we want to spend time together as a family that’s how we come together and accomplish the goal.
Although I have a few ideas, I won’t make assumptions here about what the reader thinks this publication is about. Surprise it certainly wasn’t ever about the men, my love of men, or my own DD’s. Remember now things aren’t always what they seem.
As a general rule, nurses don’t diagnose or treat illness or disease. This mostly means it would be out of my scope of practice to do so and I am well aware of my role and responsibilities in the hospital setting. That’s why I always say I’d rather stay in my bubble where my purpose is driven and also very clear. However nurses do report all those symptoms they clearly see, to the licensed independent provider; then among many other things, it’s the nurses who form a holistic plan of care.
By the way this concept is also hundreds of years old.
A common goal(s) is formed for each individual patient. That goal is shared, we work as a team and frequently communicate to reassess, evaluate whether or not we’re all on the same page. Together we work backwards from the set goal to do what’s best for the patient. In an ideal world we have a solid idea of what’s best and it’s our responsibility to help the patient make the decision that’s best for them. In an ideal world, the patient is able and willing to be part of the plan.
This is a good place to remind everyone that we do not live in an ideal world.
Here is my problem. It’s disclosed in an abbreviated format that is easily understood, but usually only by those soldiers I love so much. The ones my mother always taught me to thank and although she is blissfully unaware of how I express my gratitude, I have never once been sorry for this.
Problem:
America truly loves it’s nurses. Thank you. I truly appreciate the support.
However my problem is that too many of the grateful are blissfully unaware that this love and support comes from their own places of deep trauma or their love is expressed in a way that’s a little deviant. However I am aware of this and it’s not ever a judgement. I’m saying that meeting a nurse on an online dating app then asking her to wear her white fishnets to dinner for you, is a quick way to get blocked. I like this a lot actually, it helps me weed out the men who have no respect for me. I’ve already explained enough how much fun I can be, and my wicked sense of humor is quite obvious. Therefore I always consider any loss to be my gain. I may be open to whatever, but always know what I’m looking for, know to look for the signs that are always there and keep my eye on the goal.
By the way, The Nurse sees you, all of you in some of the darkest moments of your life, stripped bare and left naked, afraid and alone in a hospital room. I do see how much you love and hurt and don’t always know how to express it. This is a problem I share with the masses. The easiest part of my job is witnessing the trauma. Truly I have no idea why the sight of blood or the smell of singed flesh doesn’t bother me in the slightest, or why my job is far from light and love, but I still love it. I don’t question my gifts anymore.
The most challenging aspect for me is always leaving the bubble and functioning in a world that doesn’t understand me at all. This comes with the territory and has severely impacted all of my most important relationships.
Like most problems, this one is multi-faceted and systemic in nature:
Let’s begin with the two most pressing issues and take it from there:
I don’t need your support to keep doing what is a calling for me.
I want you to understand what you’re thanking me for.
Intervention:
I’m here to set my record straight and do something I want to do, it’s always all about me. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’m happy you’re here.
For reference read my first piece again. Now understand that whatever the hell happened in 2020 was not unlike what happens every day across American hospitals. That is the problem.
This (hopefully) once in a lifetime event served to highlight on a grand scale what is the magnitude of personal sacrifice made by Registered Nurses, especially the Critical-Care Nurses like me, and the essential personnel of the world in general.
We are actual people and we are not the problem. Full stop.
Evaluation:
To Be Determined. Personally I enjoy moments of silence from time to time, know to rest and take breaks, even though I can’t utter the big Q word out loud.
P.S. I can’t wait for school to start! It’s gonna be 🔥
Sweet and funny Kristin, love how you so cleverly weave all aspects of yourself into your present moments, and how you are able to keep your humour in those family moments when we allow our child-adult buttons to be pushed by our parents… and the grace to let things slide by … just a joy to read the authenticity of voice. Thank you 🙏 . Nanny Shirley and the fly swat 🤣. It was the wooden spoon in my household 🤣🤣🤣
I’m going back to the first and read it again. I want to be in the right mind frame for this. I’m looking forward to it. I probably understand you a little better than most with family and plenty of acquaintances who are nurses. Yet, I think you are special and unique as to how you deal with things and your dedication to the profession is unmatched to anyone I know who does it.