Thursday, April 30, 2009

Henry Hall, beloved family pooch, passed away today

Thank you for clicking on this post and thank you for reading it. It is still fresh, what happened, but I will do my best here to explain.

Henry Hall, Best.Dog.Ever., passed this afternoon.

It was a good death, as death goes. I was holding him while he passed. And for this I am eternally grateful. I have a few things going for me in this regard, being able to help my dog on his way out, I am a Mom, a Nurse and a HIS HUMAN. I am so thankful I could lead him on the way out, like I had lead him on so many walks.

It was really sudden and really out of the blue, his death. I was not expecting it today. When I let him outside to do his 3 oclock business, he took about three steps out the door and promptly layed down. His breathing got all puffy and labored.

I stroked his head, listened to his breathing change and well, stroked his head and told him it was ok, everything was fine, he was alright, he was ok. And I massaged his ears and jowls. His pupils blew. I prayed to God. I said, God, please take Henry so he won't feel anymore pain, let him pass peacefully. I thanked God for sending us Henry, because he was the best dog, he loved us and we loved him. He made our family so much richer, we are a better family for having had him in our lives. I thanked God for this too.

And so passed on my lap, out in the warm spring sun, in the back yard. It was perfect. I am so humbled by it. And I feel so blessed to have been there, to be able to help him. To be witness.

Because death, like birth, is a miracle.

So let's raise a glass this weekend, to the mighty and gentle Henry Hall, may he be slobbering all over the other doggies in the great dog park in the sky.

Next week, you get more pictures of the mighty and gentle Henry Hall. Now, if you'll excuse me, I feel like i've been run over by a truck. I'm off to weep and sob, all snot bubble ugly cry and feel sad. It's a good sad though, thankful sad even. :) Take care all.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Send me a photo, I'll tell the story (and maybe you get a book too)


I am saying to you, this Mrs. Hall, she loves the adventures of life, she is feeling wistful with the beauty and bourgeoisie today. And the Mrs. Hall blog, she craves adventure, she wants to tell more stories than her own.

So YOU! yes YOU!

And EVERYONE ELSE who reads this, send me a picture from your collection, something you enjoy, something that means something and features your lovely face!

Or send me a random image having nothing to do with you and makes you feel contempt and/or boredom. Maybe an image of your socks. I'm not picky.

I will make up a story to knock those socks right off!! Publish right here even. Here on the hallowed blog of Mrs. Hall.

ONE MORE THING! Don't tell me anything about the photo, keep it zipped people! And let me make a story by scratch.

But send me something and I will whip up a post. My email address:



That's my first photo in this experiment. The man behind the photo and the story I have written will be revealed THIS FRIDAY.

And really, it is quite good.


O-and the best photo gets my copy of the book I reviewed on Monday. I'll pay the postage.

Because I am a giver like that :)

Ok, go now, get thee to thy flickr, face book, Picasa, adobe and other caches of your photo collection.


Sunday, April 26, 2009

Anne Sexton's Daughter writes about her mom and I write about a tiny blue bird

This is Anne Sexton.

She smoked Salem menthol's.

And wrote a lot of poetry.

Searching for Mercy Street is a common theme in the poetry of Anne Sexton. It is a metaphor for the author's search for peace, for security and home.

Her daughter, Linda Gray Sexton, wrote this book trying to find her mother. While looking she wrote beautiful prose that turned into this book. She found Mercy Street.

Anne Sexton, however, never did.

Long post, well worth the read. Let's begin shall wee?

I recently finished the book pictured above. In this book, three women are discussed. There is Anne Sexton the poet, Anne Sexton the mother and lastly, Linda Gray Sexton, the daughter.

As for the first woman, I was blown away. I was not familiar with her work, well, perhaps peripherally. I can say that she was one of the first women to ‘verbally undress’ in her poetry and be a success at it. Her daughter spoke of the untold hours Anne spent, crafting the poems, working harder than anyone else. Revising some poems hundred of times over. All the hard labor proved fruitful for a body of work that is magnificent. Drop dead brilliant.

Her poetry is confessional and vacant of taboos. Just like what I write here. My goal of this space is to document me and my truth. Hold back nothing and lay out my emotions because, as Linda Gray Sexton wrote, “What I seek is only the truth of how I felt, a truth far more revelatory about me than any exact history". p 39

Let that last line sink in.

Anne Sexton the mother, was mentally ill. Her daughter documents a number of times where her mother would sit at the kitchen table, going crazy. Twirling her hair until it knotted and snapped. Staring a thousand yard stare, muttering in a low voice and not answering to her name. This was in the fifties, back when the only treatment for the mentally ill involved ice baths, strapping a patient down and Thorazine. None of which helped her mother.

Another part of her mother, beyond the mental illness, was a disordered personality. Somewhere in Anne Sexton’s development, she stopped maturing. She operated on the level of a 13 year old in a woman’s body. This is common among people who are abused. By all accounts, Anne Sexton experienced physical and sexual abuse as a child. Unfortunately, she visited this abuse upon Linda Gray. Also, like a child, Anne Sexton depended on everyone around her to take care of her emotional and physical needs. She firmly put Linda Gray, her child, in the role of primary caretaker. It was a role that the daughter continued until her mother's suicide.

Lastly, there is Linda Gray Sexton. By all accounts, she is an accomplished author herself. Her prose is outstanding. She unfolds her mother’s life through the lens of herself as daughter, a mother and author. All after she turned forty. The mature age makes all the difference in this book. She has had time to take an unflinching look at all of it. She has had time to open up all manner of ugly and violated feelings. She has had time to process and write an unbiased account of the woman she calls Mom, the poet Anne Sexton.

And this is where I write about my Mom.

Specifically, I want to write about the thread between her mom and mine. The reason Anne Sexton could visit such harm on Linda Gray, is that she had little empathy for others. Including her daughter. This is the primary problem with my mom, lack of empathy for her daughter. She doesn’t see me or hear my feelings because she will always come first. She has never sought to learn my truth. Or, if she does see my feelings, she doesn't respond. It is a house I live in, but it is not my home.

This is not true for her grandkids. While my mom has an overarching disdain for the hands on or day to day care of the kids, she is always there for a hug and comforts them when they are sad. But, my kids are tiny and dependant. My mom cared for me when I was tiny. I do remember feeling loved and secure as a child.

Gaining indepence has soured a lot of our relationship. My mom has a low tolerance for anything that is different. If it is not her, it is not real. When I developed the age of about fourteen, I became a completely different person than her. Her hurt was very deep by this development. Crying a lot. Temper fits. Hissed out words.

“Why?," she wrote me once, “Why do you want to hurt me so much? Why do you insist on being who you are despite how you’re Dad and I feel?”

Of course you realize how surreal that statement is right? I mean, it is a teenager’s job to grow up and be who they are. To separate from their parents and try on different identities. I was just doing my job. Yet it hurt her so much, she lived in so much pain. Crying a lot. Temper fits. Pain she put me in charge of easing, to be her caretaker. Which I did until I moved out.

Moving back in has caused me to stare this dynamic right in the face. To acknowledge the truth under my mom and I. Truth that hasn’t changed. She still calls me out for being different. Rolls her eyes, slams dishes around. She still has angry fits. Cries a lot. Still tries to suck me in, to be her caretaker. This is not her loving me. While she still lives in pain, I no longer feel responsible.

Then came a few weeks ago when she said this, “I don’t think I'd given you enough credit when you were a kid. I mean, you were a good kid, got good grades, volunteered. And now you have this master’s degree and help people. And you are a very good mom. I just don’t think I have given you enough credit.”

I was a little sad when she said this. There was a time when this would have healed a thousand wounds. But, I had already stopped waiting for the day she would crack open her love and see me for who I am. My healing is already done. I found my Mercy Street a long time ago.

But then she said, “You are better mom than I was.”

This also made me sad because it was bait. Bait to tell her what a good mom she was. To assuage her guilt or pain or whathaveyou. Caretaking bait. I just smiled politely and went down stairs. Holding the first part of the statement in my hands.

The words liquefied and I poured them into an eyedropper. Gingerly, I pinched the black rubber top and fed the tiny blue bird that lives inside my rib cage. The little blue bird was very thankful and spent the rest of the day flapping around, chirping the sweetest song.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Flashback Friday: The new skill of shushing (with updates)

Ironically enough, I am not a big fan of Bjork. Well, maybe I haven't heard the right music.

I am not sure how Mr. Hall figured it out, but he did. After all, he is quite handsome and gainfully employed. Plus, he is very charming and self assured. And so nice. He had his pick of thousand girls. Yet, he choose me with singular purpose. He figured out who I was before I did.

When he met me, I wore my hair like Bjork, was about 180 pounds and required a lot of care. Let me tell you the level of care I once required. Lord help me, here goes.

When we were dating I would visit his house on the weekend. I would bring my dishes. My dishes people.

So he could put them in his dishwasher.

Despite the fact that I had a communal kitchen across from my dorm room.

It boggles the mind, this event. It boggles my mind because it made perfect sense to me at the time. And he saw this, that it made sense to me. And he didn't run for the hills. He saw that I was capable of much more than I was. And for the most part, he didn't say much about who I was or how I operated. Well, except for the hair.

"Babe," he said, "the tail pipes gotta go, they are not attractive."

He also suggested there just might be a better way to eat. Exercise might be something I could do once in a while. He was gentle about it. Never pushy, never mean. Just gentle suggestions once in a while. Suggestions that we could be different, we didn't have to get fat like everyone else in this state. And I fought it like a cat trapped in a cardboard box.

But, that was ten years ago. My overall healthiness has waxed and waned. I have been getting better all along, with a few set backs here and there. A few weeks ago, I figured out what has been holding me back from permanent change.

My thinking. My inner voice. My own talk.

Again, I can over think things to the point where I can't move. Paralyzed by my own voice.

So, on Sunday, I learned how to shut the hell up.

When I had the chance I bolted for the gym. I worked it like no other. All that yoga has prepped me for pushing beyond my comfort zone. I was prepared to ignore and extinguish the tiny doubting voices, the murmurs of self consciousness and the blathering on of freight.

I can honestly say, don't believe everything you think or feel.

The tailpipes, I must agree, were not attractive :)

Me and the wee pancake :)

By the way, reached my goal weight last week


Monday, April 20, 2009

And that's when I snapped . . . .

That dog up there, that dog is my dog. His name is Henry, he's a rottweiler. He came fully trained and full of love. I loved him back. Everyone loves Henry. He is a good dog. No, wait . . . he is the best dog.

About a year ago he developed a limp. It came and went. We did nothing, no vet trips. We blamed it on not walking him so much after the second baby. Then the limp grew undeniable and off to the vet he went. We got the news about 2 months ago. Cancer is growing from the inside of his left front leg. Right about the time I moved up here.

Henry stayed behind with my husband. Thus, I haven't seen him much, except on weekends. This weekend Henry moved up for good. I wasn't really prepared for it. Denial is a comfy place. I was forced to leave it as I watched Henry this weekend, all boney, Limp, limp, limpy. Big fatty turmor globbed on the leg.

Then I had to deal with getting his pain meds.

Stupid vet from two hours away, stupid, stupid stupid stupid. Then I took matters into my own hands, came up with a plan. I told Mr. Hall about it, whilst getting my oil changed. It was a quick-e-lube. My windows were rolled up because of the smells. The oil change guys were giving me hand signals to pop the hood. I was on my cell phone.

"I've made an appointment to get him established here so I don't have call and frick around with getting his meds."

Mr. Hall said, "Wait, just have the vet fax the prescription up there or try again with petmeds . . . "

And that's when I snapped.

I just started yelling and sobbing at my husband. Big fat tears popping down my cheeks. "DAMMIT, look!!! This is where we will help him, this is where it's going to happen!!!" Big heaving sobs.

I try to pull it together when I noticed both of the teenagers, all dark blue coveralls, standing there with a clip board, staring at me, looking helpless . . . um, ma'am, do you want the car wash with that? . . . .

I pulled it together and finished the job. Just like I will in a few months.

Mr. Hall and I have since talked. He didn't understand that I was just getting Henry established so he can get the care he needs. He thought I was getting a second opinion, getting a bunch of tests or something. Which we are not. I mean, at this point,

our goal .

is to keep him.


It sucks writing that. Sucks. Sucks. Sucks.

But if I write this here, I can begin to help myself not have freak outs whilst getting my oil changed. And that picture up there, that picture cheers me like no other.

I hope the picture cheers you too.

O... and the girl? Yeah, I am not sure who she is, but she keeps calling me Momma :)

Sunday, April 19, 2009

I love me some Zombies

Tomorrow, I will have the day off.

Last time I had the day off, I watched SIX HOURS of america's next top model.

My brain hasn't been working right since.

So! I plan on doing some repair work by watching Shaun of the Dead.


Here is a clip that I hold dear to my heart. Note the faint SKA music in the background. Note the seething rage the blond has for the situation, in that very girl gritting of the teeth, passive aggressive kind of way.


The best part of Shaun of the Dead?

Why, it's the part where our hero goes into the quik-e-mart, gets a soda out of the cooler, turns around slipping on some blood--almost falling on his ass, and then flips some change at the cashier. The Zombie Cashier.

And he has no idea about any of it.

(alas no clip on youtube for that!)

The part where he slips though, good lord, that is the best. Belly laughs people, BELLY LAUGHS AWAIT ME!!


What is you favorite part of Shaun of the Dead?

Friday, April 17, 2009

(Misheard swears at the Olive Garden)

A few weeks ago, the wee Pancake (my daughter, age 6), and I were waiting for a table at the Olive Garden. It was crowded.

Some dude was using his cellphone while clogging our space. Very loudly.

He says,


My head whips around, jaw dropped in disbelief.

I mean, it's not like you can miss a small child standing LESS THAN A FOOT AWAY.


This is what we do while waiting for things, we thumb wrestle.

I look directly at Pancake. She has a smile on her face. A naughty smile. Eyes all wide. She knows swears have been said in her vincity.

I decide to take the bull by the horns, acknowledge the swear, call it out for the ugliness it is. I say, "Did you hear what that man said?,"

"Yes!", she peeped. "That man called somebody a stupid fish!"

And no, I didn't correct her :)

OK For this you get one of my favorite songs!

Ladies and Gents:

Reel Big Fish


DAMMIT!!! Who wants to be in a band with me??? Come on!! I could totally be the lead singer, I mean, what I lack in vocal talent I would totally make up for with my babeness!!!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

It gets a second chance

See, I told you I would use this photo for another post :)

Anywho-I wrote this last September. As I have said before, for every post I post, five more don't make the cut. This didn't make the cut because of too much repeated content. It is still lacking something, I believe. I don't know. But, today, it gets a second chance. Enjoy everyone and have a good weekend :)

Mr. Hall drove into my life in a Ford Taurus SHO (standard high output). Red with grey leather interior. It had a beep-beep key chain. You know the kind, when you press a button on the key chain-the car goes beep-beep! He payed for everything, opened doors for me. Pulled out chairs. He leaned in when I talked. Still does.

We didn't stop talking during out first four months of dating. He has never once called into question who I was or who I wanted to be. He still doesn't.

We got married. It was awesome, our wedding. You should have been there, so much fun, so much dancing.

Then he knocked me up. I was struck down with Bone Crushing Nausea. It felt like being suspended in jello, unable to move my limbs or jaw without great effort. I was never alone during these times, I felt nauseous every time I took a breath.

On one of these nights, Mr. Hall took a different approach with me and my shadow. He suggested we go for a walk. I fought him. I don't want to get out of bed, let me just lay here, I whimpered. I can't move, I said. Yet he pushed me further. Not accepting no for an answer. I got up, and we did indeed walk. As expected, I threw up. Just like I had done five times that day.

But, when I looked up, I saw these fat autumn leaves, black bark on the trees. The flower beds were ripe and bursting with reds and yellows. The last riot of summer color. And he was squatting beside me, rubbing my back.

"See?", he said, "Much better to do it here than in the bathroom eh?" It was so kind that moment, so love. So solid, so marital.

He was very right. And I still love how he handles me with his husbandly ways.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Hey NURSE! Stories from my time at the county jail

I was a County Jail nurse for about a year. I was reminded of this by a certain number two sister.

If you have even seen an episode of COPS, you pretty much have a complete picture of the County Jail Inmates A.K.A. my patients. Go ahead now, picture them in your head . . . no shirt, no shoes, running their mouth off, white trash . . . ahhh . . good times, good times.

My time at the County Jail is a veritable treasure trove of crazy nurse stories. So, let's begin shall we?

Mr. Johnson had come in four hours prior to my shift. He was loaded on alcohol and had been driving. Drove into the center median, jumped out of his car, ran across the oncoming lanes of traffic and kept on running.

Can ya hear the theme song people?. . . bad boys bad boys, whatyagonnado-ooh. . .

Can ya see it? Lone white male, wearing cut off shorts, barefoot and drunk as hell, drives off road, jumps out of the car and gives foot chase to the police.

Dark nighttime sky, flash lights beams waving all around. K-9 unit is dispatched, police dog barking crazily. They police begin to shout:




Yet the suspect keeps running. Cause he's an idiot, and drunk, and maybe he thinks if he runs fast enough, he will outrun the-


Again, idiot.

For the love of God people, if the police say GET DOWN, get the fuck down ok??? Jeez. Listen to the nurse here. please.

Now, I have met the K-9 in question. All sorts of friendly. He is a family dog to one of the deputies. German Shepard dog. Good dog. Speaks German even.

Well, it is the German commands that release the training. The training that taught the K-9 how to take down the criminal. Which the dog did.

Once the suspect was immobilized, he was brought in. Brought in drunk and belligerent. Refused medical care. Refused to cooperate with the booking process. All sorts of liquid courage and superman. He was put into 'segregation' or seg for short. He yelled a lot and then passed out in the cell.

This is where I visited him some four hours later. My task was to clean the wound, check his vitals, check his sobering up status. He was no longer drunk. He was very pissed off though. Not so mouthy anymore, but, in a world of hurt.

The K-9 took the suspect down by clamping down on his right shoulder. Clamping down with a very powerful jaw and sharp canine teeth. The shepard bit through the guy's t-shirt. It was now crusty with splotches of dried blood and matted into the dog bite. There was bits of grass, road pebbles and pus too.

The t-shirt was a total loss. First I cut off the sleeve, then I cut up the back. Gingerly I worked. Slowly peeling an orange.

My breathing was shallow and I became sweaty. I was spooked by what I might find with his shoulder. I was expecting to see torn up flesh, exposed muscle and tendons. There was none of this. Just a very deep puncture wound from the teeth, and some bruising from the crush of the jaw. No torn flesh, just a small and surgical bite wound.

The inmate took my care in stride. He winced a lot but was very quiet.

"It's too late to get stitches now", I told him, "but we can continue to keep this clean and it should heal nicely, you are very young and there is good blood supply. It doesn't look infected at all."

He made eye contact for the first time. I offered a sympathy wince.

"How are you doing by the way?" I asked.

"I don't never wanna see another fucking dog again".

I laughed. He chuckled a little. The deputies laughed. It was really funny.

"I bet you don't", I said.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Best. Easter. Ever.

I did make it out of bed on Friday and made it to the farm for the annual Easter Gathering.

Nor sleet, nor snow, nor one foot in the grave, none of these shall stop a mother's determination to provide . . . .


AND they're off to hunt the elusive Easter Egg

Bubbles! Bubbles! Bubbles!

The next morning pre-make up, post ears, I wore them for the next 8 hours.

I love holidays:)

Post-make up with Mr. Hall who doesn't get to be shown here.

He is making that stupid face he makes in photos to irritate me.

So no! No photo for him!

Clean and ready to go on the last leg of the journey




Friday, April 10, 2009

I've been smighted, on Good Friday no less

Today, I woke up with a Ford F150 parked on top of me. The tires were all hot from street racing and smushing my arms and legs down, the undercarriage all was hot, searing my belly.

Stupid truck.

I've been smighted, with a fever of 102.0, on Good Friday no less.

Makes sense, my kids were sick, now it is my turn.

Somehow, I have to get dressed and drive my son 2 hours away, sleep at the house I own, then drive even further to the annual farm fun that is Easter.

But, I have about six hours to make it to the car. It will take this long, trust me.

And I should have abs of steel at this point on account of all the coughing I am doing.

So I got that going for me.

Pray for me.

Take care everyone. And have a Good Easter :)

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Mr. & Mrs. Hall discuss sex and how hot I am

After . . . . . . . . . .

Mr. Hall: Are you sastisssss-fiiied my love?

Mrs. Hall: burrrumphahhlennbuuuulew, murphhhherrgrr . . . green

Mr. Hall: Well, anytime someone gets a charlie horse, they must be doing something right.

Mrs. Hall: mmmmmmmurrphhh

Mr. Hall: Remember to move your legs around more next time, maybe do some ankle rotations.

He spoons me. My left lower leg is still sore, but no longer spasming. Minutes pass

Mr. Hall: Oh my God, you're so hot, so hot like a curry. I didn't want to tell you how hot you are, didn't want to sound sexist. I mean, you're so hot your making me sexist.

Smiles, I smiles back

Mrs. Hall: SHUSH now!! (giggles)

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Knocking yourself up and a Daddy of the Year

The Dude Abides

There are a number of options available to the modern woman who wishes to knock herself up. For instance, you could make friends with a certain leisurely gentleman, like the one pictured above. He appears virile and would not require any further emotional entanglements after the deed is done. (for extra credit, what were other reasons she choose The Dude?)

If you do not wish to have any contact with a male, you could try a sperm bank. Or, you can order sperm online and have it delivered to your door. That's right, comes right to your door. You insert the sperm yourself. It is the ultimate in DIY pregnancy or knocking yourself up. click here for more details.

I understand why women go to these lengths to get knocked up. It is a mighty need, this need to grow big and swollen with baby.

author with two weeks left to go. (on a personal note here, dayum!)

I wonder about these women that order the sperm online or mate with the Dude. If I were to meet them, I would give a big hug. Then I would hold the babies and shed tears of happiness. Because no matter how babies got here, the best way to come into the world is really, really wanted.

I thought about this as both my kids were sick last week. Full on sick with 101 temps, snotty noses, coughing, headache, belly aches . . and sicky eyes.

If you don't have kids, here are what sicky eyes look like:

Despite the sicky eyes, she still retains her sense of humor :)

I hold up well while tending to my sick children. I have an acceptance of fever, snotty nose, whimpering, crying and cough cough cough. They are like old friends. And dealing with throw up/diarrhea? Come on, that's amateur hour!

However, last week was week two of the sicky. The sicky had gotten to the absolute WORST LEVEL OF SICKY. Listless sicky.

Listless is the worse. They just sat there, little hot couch potatoes, not eating the brownies I made. Mac stopped showing interest in drinking. Started having dry diapers. Would only sip when coached. Pancake just breathed heavy, her lips all cracked from mouth breathing. Hot fever breath. And yes, I had brought them to the doctor (just a virus-no ear infection, no pneumonia).

Irregardless of what kind of mom I am, I only have a certain amount of fortitude. When your children are sick you feel all of it. It's like an invisible boa constrictor wrapped around your torso. As their sickness wears on, the grip gets tighter and tighter, squeezing the life out of my emotional control.

The problem is, I am tending to my sick kids, so I don't realize how close I am to losing it.

Luckily, I have someone who recognizes when he is needed.

Mr. Hall recognizes and responds. When he was driving up, Mac's fever broke. He got up from the couch and preceded to eat his own weight in food and poop/pee like a champ. Pancake began to demand grilled cheese sandwiches. I began to breathe.

The next day, while I am work for the first time that week, it being thursday, I get a call from school. Mac has a rash. His fever is still down, still eating/drinking and running around all crazy toddler like. But the rash is all over his body.

I make a phone call to Mr. Hall. Help, I say.

Sure babe, be right there, love you, he says.


This is what Daddy's do.

Mr. Hall is Daddy of the year.

We are all better now, all fixed. :)

Thursday, April 2, 2009

E.R., time of death 2200

What can I say about ER?

People always ask, is that stuff real?

As real as a heart attack I tell them.

The only flaw is that sometimes, just sometimes, their treatments/medications are a bit behind the latest treatments. Medicine moves just that fast.

Well, emergency room medicine does.

The last episode touched on all the areas that are universal to all health care.

And it showed what doctors and nurses do best which is struggle and eat absolute garbage at four am and be tired and be traumatized and try hard to hold it all together and then you get older and more experienced you can go sit next to a man and say, ‘its time to think about making your wife comfortable.’ And ‘this irregular breathing this is a natural part of dying’.

And not even miss a breath. And have it come out like you are tying your shoes.

I can say I have watched only about 10 episodes of ER.

And even though I have not worked in an ER, every episode feels like going to work.

Because the ER is the place everything and anything can and will happen.

Which feeds the crazy that drives all the nurses and doctors.

Ya see, when you crack open an anatomy book, when you open up a cadaver, when you take a blood pressure, when you put in an IV, when you help birth a baby, when you wash an old man’s face after he pukes up coffee ground emesis, you fight a sergeant to get the inmate to a hospital, when you hold a patient’s hand as they die, when you teach someone’s twelve year old daughter to help clean their granmma’s wound, you sit with a patient and help them unpack unbelievable sadness and trauma and watch as they heal, watch as they come out of their darkness, get their job back, talk to their kids more, and when you listen to their wives and find out they are healing too . . then . . .

You have seen God.

Now here is your assignment, what is the definition of a sternal rub and when was it used in the last episode of ER? First correct answer gets 50 points.

and watch this

click on the x to make the advert go away

Have a good weekend everyone!

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

This is not my house I just live here (Update)

update: for those reading in google reader, there are words here, so click on my page and come to the site to read them. or just enjoy the video before the mofos yank it. On this night I took extra special care of myself. I lovingly dyed my hair, did my nails, lingered in a hot shower. On this night I breathed deep and relaxed.

It was also on this night my mom chooses to toss the work ‘fuck’ around like a ping pong ball. Normally I can withstand it, normally I can take it. Sometimes I make the mistake of stepping on to the whirling disk and fall, smacking my face on the concrete.

Tonight I just collected myself and ran downstairs, turned off the light and shut the door. She yelled from upstairs, still batting the word ‘fuck’ around.

Ignoring the drama makes it grow.

I don’t care though.

Because I am far from home, but not in the danger zone.

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