because sometimes trauma is funny

It's been a big month for traumas. Dog bites. ATV crashes. Motor vehicle collisions, which we used to call motor vehicle accidents, until someone somewhere deduced that if we refer to them as collisions, it will somehow make mankind in general be more cautious while driving and our numbers will go down.

One of our trauma nurse practitioners told me yesterday that we have the third busiest pediatric trauma center in the country. I believe it. When our trauma patients are brought to the ER, they're assigned a name like Bob Trauma. We've had so many Bob and Julie and Ted Traumas hanging out that the cafeteria workers thought they were all sibling or cousins.

I was helping another nurse clean a cervical collar on a four-year-old the other day. A cervical collar is that thing you see on someone's neck when they've had an injury. When you're hospitalized, one nurse has to clean your neck and check for skin breakdown every 12 hours while another nurse holds your neck completely still in c-spine to prevent further injury. Doing all of this on a four-year-old who has just had a big, scary accident takes some finesse.

If you've never been surrounded by pediatric nurses, you should know that they never stop talking. Ever. We narrate all of our actions so that the tiny people we're taking care of don't get scared. Sometimes it works. Most times, it doesn't.

So I'm standing over a four-year-old, trying to pull a brace off of his sore neck without scaring or hurting him. And I am grilling him like an FBI agent.

"What's your name? How old are you? How long was your hair before they buzzed it all off? Are you doing okay?"

He's four. He doesn't go to preschool. He likes that he gets to stay home with his mom. His birthday is in June.

"So are you going to have a birthday party?"
"No."
"Are you going to go anywhere with your mom?"
"No."
"Well, are you at least going to eat some birthday cake?"
"I can't have birthday cake! I got hit by a car!"

When I was in nursing school, one of our instructors told us that most nurses get divorced. She said that this was because we like to fix everything. We love lost causes. We fight until the end. And that's true. Every part of what she said was absolutely true.

We lost a patient yesterday. She wasn't just any patient. She was a baby. And worse, a baby that, as a team, we had taken care of for the past five months. She was a very sick little girl. We watched her more closely than the rest of our patients because we knew how quickly her health could deteriorate. She coded at change of shift. And we couldn't bring her back.

We are experts at fighting off death. For us, it is literally a science. Actually, it's an algorithm. We follow the steps. We start compressions, we give breaths, we give meds. We are experts at fighting off death, but sometimes we lose.

We work with very sick children and many times, they will not live to the age of eighteen. We have the hard conversations about time and quality of life. We prepare our patients' families for the inevitable. But as nurses, we believe that if we watch closely enough, we can keep these kids safe.

We are the gatekeepers. We are the guardian angels. We are the ones who call the doctors at three in the morning to tell them that a kid "just doesn't look right" and that they need to be transferred.

We forget that our patients decide when to keep fighting and when they've had enough.

When that sweet baby girl went to be with Jesus, the residents took it the hardest. They are young in their careers. They are arrogant, as they should be. The foundation of their practice is the belief that they know everything and that they make the correct decisions to keep people alive and well. They are wholly unaccustomed to failure. They sat in the team room and cried for most of the day.

We gave our condolences to the family. Her mother said that every day that she spent with her daughter was a blessing.

The nurses cried. In our field, it is acceptable to shed a few tears with the family. But after that, you have to hold them back. You are allowed to cry in a closed room, where your grief cannot affect the rest of your work. You are required to fight back tears until the end of your shift and then cry on your drive home. You find ways to cope. Have a drink. Take a bath. Eat all the carbs you want. Take a sleeping pill. Call in sick for a day or two.

We give ourselves some time to grieve, although it's never long enough. And then we open the door and we get back to work, because the rest of our patients still need us.

on choosing to have a good day

Hey, it's been a while. This post is dedicated to Laila, who runs one of my favorite blogs and is one of my favorite people.

So I'm back to living in Phoenix, still doing the pediatric nursing thing. I did a sprint triathlon, and then a half marathon. I'm still spending my free time with Russell and our Wonder Dog. And the new love of my life is hot yoga.

Hot yoga is one of those things that I said I would never do (like running a half marathon and eating fish, both of which I have done). Yes, it is so hot that your entire body sweats so profusely that you need a towel on your yoga mat so that you don't slide off of it. Yes, sometimes I need to lay down on my sweaty yoga mat because I am seriously concerned that I am going to throw up. But it makes me feel good and happy and more sore than I've ever been in my life. My favorite instructor looks like Eric Nies, raps through our flow, and played a James Taylor song during the practice today. I am SOLD.

So I went to yoga today and afterwards, I was feeling great. Russell and I went to the mall to get my computer fixed. We walked around and bought some cookies. We drove all around Phoenix and Scottsdale on a day that was so warm and beautiful that it might just be illegal to have such a day in February. We had burritos for dinner. And all day long, I kept thinking that it had been such an amazing day and I was surprised how nice everyone had been.

And it hit me. You get what you put into life and you find good in the world when you're looking for it.

I have to be honest. Most days, I am not happy. I work on a floor with really sick kids and understandably, their parents are not in the best of moods. I am on my feet for 12+ hours a day. It is not rare for me to have shifts where I don't get a chance to eat or go to the bathroom. I do it all with a smile on my face and by the time I get to my car at the end of the night, I am drained. I come home mean. I cry a lot. I have a hard time being thankful.

But if I took more time to be mindful of the world around me, I could find a lot of things to appreciate. I work with brilliant people with big hearts who second guess every detail because they are saving lives all day long. I have a family who loves and supports me. I live in a society where I can support myself. I am young and healthy enough to push my body to its limits in a yoga class or out on a run. I am rich enough to not have to worry about where my next meal will come from or where I will sleep at night.

I woke up this morning. And because of all these things, I don't deserve to have a bad attitude today.

As off the grid as I can manage

I've had a nice little zen retreat in my everyday life, thanks to TMobile's stupidity. Russell J & I decided to get fancy new phones. So we switched to TMobile from Sprint. Our phones get here today. Our service, however, was switched on Thursday. I've been cell-phoneless (and all-phoneless) for five days. I'm partying like it's 2003.

(Apologetic Girlfriend Note: He has been begging me for months to get these phones. I kept ignoring him, thinking that he was just being gadget-obsessed. I was wrong. This phone is really cool. I may never go back to having an obsolete phone.)

Thank you, TMobile, for freeing me from the tyranny of other's peoples' Facebook posts and Twitter mentions. It's SO NICE to be present, on vacation in Phoenix, able to move about my day without having to know that somewhere in the world, a distant cousin is fighting with her mom.

I am in Phoenix for another two days. I love it. If the Wonder Dog weren't still in Houston, I would never, ever leave.

Boyfriend & I have been putting in a lot of time of the gym. I had this crazy brilliant idea to sign up for a triathlon because they give you mimosas and cupcakes at the finish line. So we're both in training for triathlons, like active people. He went to a yoga class with me, which was one of the harder classes I've been to recently. Whoops. I ran 3 miles yesterday and am finally feeling like I'm almost kind of a runner.

And we tried to swim.

I'm going to drown. In the lazy river. At a resort hotel.

I haven't swam laps in, oh, probably 15 years. And even then, I was no Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps/Missy whoever/I don't know any female Olympic swimmers. I don't like to put my face in the water. Even with goggles on, I think that I'm drowning. Thank goodness for a patient, ex-competitive-swimming boyfriend. He recommended a paddleboard. And I'm seven years old again.

We were supposed to go to 2 spring training games over the past 2 days, but decided to take afternoon naps instead. Please don't tell Coco and Yoenis, but the naps were totally worth it. Plus, we're going to see them at their Spring Training home & buy lots of prezzies for the fam, so I hope they'll forgive me.

Goodness gracious, do I miss the 90's

I loved the nineties. Glitter. Capri pants. Spaghetti strap tanks. USHER. I have to come clean and admit that this moment of nostalgia is completely brought to you by the movie She's All That. I also miss Rachael Leigh Cook.

I ran ten miles this week. And by "ran", I actually mean that I ran intervals. But at least I completed ten miles on my own legs.

Russell J was here for five days and it was GREAAAAAAAT! We ate delicious Greek and French food, got a couples massage, went to the gym, and threw a Super Bowl party. Bad news: We've figured out that by the time we finally get to relocate, we'll have bought 2 engagement rings worth of plane tickets. Good news: only 16 more days until I get to fly out to Phoenix for Spring Training and boyfriend time.

I went to the gym today. Gyms are not my thing. They remind me of picking up my brother (and his grimy little friends) from wrestling practice and forcing them to roll down all the windows so they wouldn't stink up my car. I also have a ton of anxiety about gyms. Are people looking at me? Do I look cool? Am I working out hard enough? I did 20 minutes on the elliptical today and then made myself so nervous that I started feeling pukey. My hatred of the gym: I'm working on it.

It. Is. COLD. In. Houston. White Christmas? Not interested. Leaves changing colors? Couldn't care less. I want sunshine, 80 degree weather, frozen yogurt, and t-shirts all year long. There is California blood flowing through these veins and there always will be. The Wonder Dog and I will spend this week snuggled up, drinking tea, and eating oranges to keep all the germs away.

I am obviously an adult-lescent.

At work, I do really badass things like save lives and supervise fifty people. But at home, I do really lame things like set off the smoke detector by cooking a pizza. In my defense, the pizza is not burning. There is no smoke in this apartment. Honest to God, I don't even need to set a timer because the smoke detector goes off right before the pizza is finished. My apologies to my neighbors; I've taken care of the problem. My apologies to my firefighter dad; I've hidden the smoke detector in my closet again.

New year, new stories, new goals. I'm a relief charge nurse. I'm still in Texas, though I'd like to move again soon. Russell & I are still racking up frequent flier miles. Our Christmas vacation included going to the movies three times, eating all the junk food we wanted, taking long naps, and spending a lovely New Year's Eve at home with Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin.

New Year's Resolutions? Sure.
- Stop gossiping (mostly at work)
- Stop swearing so much (mostly at work)
- Learn how to like exercising. I've started working out with these girls.
- More yoga
- More veggies. More dinners that aren't made by Lean Cuisine.
- Read more, write more.
- Be sweet to my cute boyfriend.

audition

i am beautiful/i am talented/and i am calm
i am beautiful/i am talented/and i am calm

I'm at a job fair that feels much more like a casting call. We're sizing up everyone else in line, lined up like cattle. Ten years ago, I was accustomed to this type of rapid-fire rejection. Today, I am uncomfortable. I'm fidgety. I would rather be anywhere else.

This job fair feels like the only option, even though I've got other applications out. I can never manage to convince myself that if I don't get hired, if I don't get the part, I'll still be alright. This is the only job. This is the only part. This is the only chance I'll get. This is the only time I'll be able to make a first impression.

god, i hope i get it
i hope i get it
how many people does he need?

After waiting in line for over an hour, I have a three minute conversation with a recruiter. I'm qualified, but they don't have any open positions. They'll call me if any positions open up. They'll e-mail. I'll be in the system now.

And I'm fine. Because I know the drill, and I'm well acquainted with not fitting the part. Some days, I'm almost twenty-five and some days, I'm still fifteen.

all the things, part 2

On living alone with your dog:

all the things

On having curly hair:
I firmly believe that when you've got a full head of curly, Mexican hair, hair salons are a total scam. No, I do not want golden highlights. No, I do not want short layers. No, I do not want a style that needs to be straightened to look its very best and while I appreciate that you took all of this time to blow it out and straighten it, it's never going to look like this again. It's like the episode of Sex and the City based on The Way We Were:

Miranda: "Robert Redford is madly in love with Barbara Streisand, but he can't be with her because she's too complicated and she has wild, curly hair. So he leaves her and marries this simple girl with straight hair."
Carrie: "Ladies, I am having an epiphany. The world is made up of two types of women: the simple girls and the Katie girls."

I am a curly girl. And a Katy girl. And I am desperately seeking a great (maybe Middle Eastern?) hair salon in the Houston area.



On crying in the supply room at work:
I'm a little over a month from being 25 and I'm finally finding my stride as an RN. I'm getting a lot of experience orienting new RNs to the adult and pediatric sides of our floor. I'm comfortable taking on six patients. I'm fine with blood draws and IVs and NG tubes and straight caths and all kinds of other unpleasant procedures on tiny little people. I can handle parents and family members who are upset. But sometimes, I'm still overwhelmed and frustrated. And every once in a while, I cry in the supply room for a couple minutes until I can regain my footing. I'm learning a lot. I'm teaching a lot. I might be ready to move into a new job sooner than I expected, but this has been a positive experience overall.



On being a single girl with a boyfriend:
I am certain that my dad has been my biggest fan since the first moment he laid eyes on me. When I am lonely and depressed and homesick, he always tells me, "You are living on your own, far from home. Not everyone can do what you're doing." I miss Phoenix. And I miss California. And I miss lunch dates and happy hours and favorite restaurants. I'm still not ready to go to the movies alone and I don't like only seeing my boyfriend a few days a month. I am so happy that I have a sweet, little (sometimes tick-infested) dog who is always happy to see me and never lets me sleep alone.

Restorative Yoga Made Me Cry

After my round of Power Yoga yesterday, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Restorative Yoga. It was the only class that I could make it to today.

The instructor said that we were going to hold poses for five to ten minutes and that it would cleanse our internal organs and allow our nervous system to switch from sympathetic to parasympathetic. I mean, I'm granola, but I'm not that granola. Anyway, I was already there and ready to get a good stretch on.

We laid in cobbler's pose and I could feel my right shoulder relaxing. It cramps up if I work more than two shifts in a row. She was talking about the half-awake state you find yourself in at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, laying next to a pet or a loved one. And in the middle of yoga, at my way-too-fancy gym, I started crying. Like a loser. Because I moved to Texas by myself and I am so homesick, not knowing where home is at this point.

I didn't like my job in Phoenix. But I liked my life. I loved my neighborhood. I loved being able to walk to Beckett's Table or LGO or Pita Jungle with Russell. I liked having a membership to the Desert Botanical Garden. I liked being a ten minute drive from the airport. I liked tubing the river in June and monsoon season and cooking with my boy in our tiny kitchen.

I liked having a place in which I belonged, even if it wasn't quite home.

And now, it's just me. And Vegas. And a tiny apartment that feels too big and no friends to call for brunch and a job that pays the bills but isn't quite what I expected it to be. I don't hate it, but I don't particularly like it, either. There's too much chaos and not enough babies and I'm so busy that I don't have time to think, which is important when lives are on the line. I'm learning how to juggle and appease but not how to think clearly. I'm often frustrated and annoyed and I can already feel myself not caring about these people. This isn't why I became a nurse and it isn't the type of nurse that I want to be.

I'm here for a little while, until the idea of packing up and moving again doesn't seem so insane. Until I can finish a few more certifications and get a few more months at this job. Until Russell finds a job somewhere that can be a home for both of us.

Things I Have Learned at the Gym

- If you walk into what you think is supposed to be a nice vinyasa yoga class and the guy in front of you has an Ironman (the triathlon, not the superhero) tattoo, you're about to get your butt kicked.

- People who like to work out really like to sweat. I don't particularly like to do either, but I still do both.

- The older you are, the more you like to walk around naked ALL THE TIME in the locker room. As a card-carrying never-nude, this disturbs me terribly.

- I am not the weirdest person there. Case in point: the woman showering next to me after her workout was belting out 80s tunes the whole time. You go girl.

- Even though I'm often sleep deprived, getting a good workout in makes me feel a thousand times better.

- Spin classes still scare the bejeezus out of me.

Sleepless

*So I live in Texas now. I got a job and moved out here and things are great, although Ben is my only friend. I joined a gym to get myself out of the house and in hopes that I might make some awesome girlfriends. Other than that, I don't have a whole lot to say. I know that my dad and a few other people like reading the nonsense that I write, so I'm busting out some vintage blogs that I didn't have the guts to post at the time. Here's some vintage Katy from 2008, laying it out the way you only can when you're 21 and have just gotten your heart smashed into bits.*


Sometimes I wish I had an accurate count of how many nights I have spent like this. Awake. Silent. Waiting for a phone call that will never come. These nights pass without tears, without music, but achingly full of thoughts that I can't control.

Here is the painful, ugly, honest truth:

I loved you. I would have done anything and been anyone for you. I would have waited a thousand years for you to come back to me. I would have ignored every single red flag and foregone every means of defending myself if it meant that you would have been in my life. You were my first love. You were my only love. I loved you with every atom in my body and you shattered every last piece of me by walking in and out of my life time and time again. I let you hurt me again and again because I loved you more than I can say.

I don't understand. I don't know when it all changed or why you decided not to tell me anything, leaving me to form bitter assumptions. I don't know if you ever think of me and I wouldn't be surprised if you never do. I don't love you anymore and I don't miss you, but these unanswered questions still leave me restless. I stay awake because it still hurts; I spent years pretending not to mourn, because I didn't think that I had the right.

I wish you had been man enough to protect me. I wish that you had been steadfast and stepped back when all of this started, instead of infiltrating my heart like ivy encircling an old wooden fence. I wish that I had been older and less naive and I wish I wouldn't have allowed you to take advantage of the love that I had for you. I wish you had been man enough to tell me the truth, instead of convincing yourself that I was tough enough to do this on my own. We both know that I was strong enough, but I wish you would have cared enough for me to tell me yourself.

I don't want you. I don't want an apology. I don't even want my letters back, because there's no way to pretend that I didn't carefully address them, sending another piece of my heart with each one. I just want to know what happened; after three years, I at least deserve that.

The thing that I loved most about working the night shift was that I would come home so exhausted that I could crawl into bed and fall right asleep.

I am not a good sleeper. I have never been a good sleeper. I lay in bed, planning out conversations that I will have, that I should have had, that I wish I could erase and repeat. I think about interviews and meals that I want to cook. I pray. I try to prepare for every possible scenario, so that I can be ready for the morning.

I am wide awake, trying to prepare for the next step. I am not sad, nor am I scared. But I keep hoping that if I stay up long enough, I will be able to face whatever comes next.

I want to know what tomorrow will bring. I'd rather wait awake than be woken in surprise.

My grief is quiet, nearly silent. It is drowned out by the words and tears of your parents, your siblings, your friends, your coworkers. It finds me in the middle of the night, in secluded corners, on long car rides.

Most days, I keep you out of my thoughts. It's easier not to remember you because then I don't miss you. It's easier to forget. It's easier to deny that there is a dull, heavy ache in my heart, right where you used to live. If I forget to remember you, I don't need to mourn never seeing you get married or the fact that my children will grow up never knowing yours.

The unfairness of losing you will never lose its sting. It will always be at the forefront of my feelings for you. I am not simple-minded enough to convert my grief into nostalgia. I am unwilling to deny the anger and confusion that I feel every single time I remember that you died at twenty-four, all of your goals unaccomplished, all of your dreams unrealized. There is nothing natural or correct about the way that you were taken.

I miss you. I will never stop missing you. I may never accept the way that you left us. I may never outgrow this grief.

23 was a strange year

Being 23 was rough in ways that I never expected. I am a girl wholly unaccustomed to failure; graduating from nursing school during a recession was not something that I expected or appreciated. My best friend died unexpectedly, turning my world completely upside-down. I drove across the country twice and flew between Arizona and California more times than I can count. Lost weight, gained it back. Broke up with Russell, got back together. Was unemployed for a few months, took a bunch of classes, got my DREAM JOB (even if it is temporary).

I am happy. Some days, I work at it, and it's really hard. It's been almost a year since Kaylee died and I've gotten out of bed every day since then. I consider that a victory.

I absolutely LOVE my job. I'm working nights on an infant/toddler general pediatrics floor. Sometimes when my floor is slow, I float to Level I NICU. For 12 hours, I feed babies, change diapers, and sing nursery songs. NG tubes, TPN feeds, lab draws. The last time I worked, an exceptionally chatty 4-year-old grabbed my nose; when I asked what he was doing, he yelled, "I'm beeping your horn!"

So, resolutions. It's 2012 already. I didn't make any. But here's a follow-up on the ones that I made last year:

- Cook more. ---> I've roasted chickens and hosted dinner parties and feel like I'm really finding my stride in the kitchen.

- Work less. Stress less. Generally give myself a break. ---> I'm definitely working less and enjoying my free time more.

- 6 pack abs? Right? ---> I'm sure.

- Rediscover all the things I used to love to do before I convinced myself that falling into the "work hard in high school SO you can get into a good college SO you can work hard in college SO you can get a good job SO you can make lots of money SO you can buy lots of things SO..." So what? I don't know. But the money is good and the job is not so good, so maybe by this time next year, I'll have a whole different career? Or at least hobbies that make the day job not so...job-like. ---> I'm in the same career, but a different job, and so much happier.

- Here's the big one, though: Figure out how in the world I'm going to get back to Namibia or to Haiti to work with all the babies that my heart hurts for. Whether it's nursing or being a teacher or saving all my tips from the barista gig I have to get when I finally quit being a nurse, I just can't help but believe that God puts these kids on my heart and never lets me forget them for a reason. So that's the big one. Figure out how to get from point A to point B (or point Z, because as of right now, it seems like quite a ways off). ---> I still can't quite see how it's all going to fall into place, but I'm on the right path.

this is why my brother is the athlete in the family

Vegas & I have started running. I mean, I'm calling it "running" so that you all (hi Dad & Bekah, my two most devoted readers) understand what I'm doing. If I were somebody who actually ran, I would call it jogging/walking/listening to an iPod while trying to keep Vegas out of the street/from eating cats/from eating garbage while she tries to pee on every rock that we pass.

Our schedule goes like this:

0700 - alarm goes off

0701 - reset the alarm so that I can sleep another 15 minutes

0715 - alarm

0716 - reset

0745 - alarm. Decide that we probably ought to get out of bed

0746 - stretching

0750 - realize I've fall asleep stretching, resume stretching

0755 - put on running shoes. Vegas knows WHAT IS UP

0800 - head out the door. Jog/walk/iPod/in the street/chase cat/pee on rocks

0845 - back home. Take off shoes, socks, leash, shirt. Vegas & I both stretch in front of the fan.

0900 - try to convince myself that I want yogurt for breakfast. I hate yogurt. Eat a few bites. Feed the rest to the dog.

My future as a triathlete is not all that bright. Furthermore, making me run past Raliberto's, Filiberto's AND Armando's? That is just unkind.

Anyway, sneaking into that interview seems to have switched up my luck. I have TWO interviews tomorrow for pediatrics positions!! If you are of the good thought sending or praying types, I'd appreciate if you send 'em up for me!

lazy sunday

All that I plan on doing today:

- sleeping until noon

- forcing Russell J to order tortas en español. Giggling/being totally proud of him

- watching the Steelers play/napping

- resting up for my interview on Tuesday. That's right. I scored 2 separate interviews in one week. En fueeeego.

interview ninja

Today, at twenty-four years of age, I broke the rules.

There was this hiring event. And in order to score an interview, you had to apply via the website. Of course I did, because I am super great at following the rules. I never heard back.

But I did use my sweet Google skills to find out when & where they were interviewing. And because I'm unemployed & so bored that I've started RUNNING (willingly), I showed up.

I mean, what are you gonna do? Fire me?

Really, what did I have to lose?

...

They interviewed me.

And they liked me.

And wearing my lucky black pointy-toed pumps totally worked, at least for a first interview.

And I felt like a total badass...until two men under the age of thirty called me "ma'am" at the bank.

It's cool, though. The high from this interview will last at least a week & proves that I'm not a leper.

Excited!

week five of eight

- Harry Potter at the drive-in

- Sublime at Bethel Woods

- outlet shopping

- finally hitting the wall & just being tiiiired all the time

- cry a little, laugh a lot

- still no job offers, still no interviews

- waking up every day knowing that I'm one day closer to the end of summer & not knowing how i feel about that