Guess what I'm doing for the next three days, go ahead, guess

I'm going away.

I'm going to a psychiatric conference. Which means I will leave from work tomorrow and drive 3 hours to a very BIG BIG city. Driving without kids in the backseat. Which is weird. I'm driving all by myself with maps. I have a hotel booked and everything. Booked it all by myself even.

I've never been to a conference before. But, to keep up my license up, I need continuing education hours. This will be 18 hours all told. Plus my work reimburses me for the conference and hotel/travel. I should have padded the travel expenses more.

This is so boring to talk about. I apologize. I mean, the conference itself should be interesting. But, it's all technical stuff. Neurotransmitters and whatnot. Doesn't translate well into blog form. Plus, I'm not paying for internet access so I am off the grid for three days. And I don't have internet on my phone cause I'm cheep.

CHEEP I SAY!

So you don't get to hear about it anyway.

ME NO LIKEY NO PUTER AND NO BLOGGY BLOG!!! ME NO LIKEY NO FACEBOOK!!

Plus, the thing is, is that, it just feels so odd. I mean, I will be without husband and children for three days. I've never really been without everyone. I already feel lonely about it. I mean, I'll be a solo member of the Tribe called Hall. Gallivanting about. It's so weird to think about.

ME NO LIKEY BEING SOLO TRIBE MEMBER!!

Who I am suppose to put on time outs? Whose socks am I suppose to hunt for? Who I am suppose to spoon at night? I mean, I'll call Mr. Hall through out the day but, gah.

Crap. Am I really this needy? Have I no identity outside of Mrs. Hall-- wife, mother nurse and friend?

I will be extremely busy though. Attending presentation after presentation. Learning things. Being all professional and such. I won't be going out after the long days though. I will be sticking to the the hotel. No need for met to venture out after the days are done. Lone single female in a big city after all. Safety first.

I'll get room service.

Stare at the cable television.

Maybe I'll bring booze to the hotel room. Is it bad to drink alone?

It's all so weird.

OK, that's all I got.

Wish me luck as I do something I've never done before.

Dr. Horrible and Penny sing my dilemma outloud

This week was probably the most trying I've had at work. I see a lot and feel a lot. Then, I'm reminded that I'm just one part of this huge interplay between ugly and beautiful. And I, being a wee human being, can only cause so much goodness to grow. It's humbling. And achingly frustrating. I can only help so much.

I'm not a superhero.


And it all comes down to this, which am I going to let rise up inside me? Defeat or hope?

Guess which one I choose.

:)



It's hope and beauty by the way. Because that's what Mrs. Hall is made of :)

Mary, the new secretary at work, is working my last nerve

First, let me clarify something. Mary isn’t the new secretary, just new to me. I’ll be working between two clinics, starting today. Mary works the front desk at my new clinic.

And.

As of right now, Mary is working my last nerve.

Lord help me, here goes.

First of all, she called me during my vacation last week. Which is not that big of a deal. Except she called twice.

The first call was ok. She wanted to know if I needed directions to the clinic or needed to know which door to come into. She wanted to let me know the ‘girls’ were ordering out for lunch so I needn’t bring one. Which is fine. Nice to see she is looking after things.

Except I already did a dry run to the clinic. Got my keys two weeks ago. I explain this to her. She doesn’t quite know how to take it. I thank her for her concern.

And the lunch? Gah. Everyone I work with , everyone who is female, is large and middle aged. This won’t happen to me because I yoga and weight watchers. So no, I don’t want to order out. Because the bigger women at my work order fatty yucky stuff. Stuff that makes you bloated and yuck. But, I say nothing. I will do my best to order out healthy. Not sure what I can do about preventing middle age though.

But then. Gah.

Lord help me, help me understand this woman

She didn’t take no for an answer. She kept pestering me about meeting me somewhere on the highway, or at the door and blah, blah, blah… it’s a small clinic people. Not a humungo hospital. There are like 10 parking spots total. And even if was a huge, mammoth hospital, I can figure it out. I talk her down. She chills and wishes me well. I thank her for her concern and politely hang up.

Then she calls me back.

THIS IS WHERE I START TO GET A LITTLE PISSY.

She says I need to know about my schedule. Did I know that I have THIRTEEN PATIENTS ON MONDAY AND OH MY GOD EIGHT NEW PATIENTS ON TUESDAY? She is in panic mode. Fuckin a’, I’m on vacation here Mary.

I tell her YAH, I KNOW MY SCHEDULE ALREADY. I have already prepped for my first day back. And really, I don’t care what’s on my schedule anyway. MY JOB IS TO SEE PATIENTS. I DON’T CARE WHO COMES IN. I have a certain amount of slots open AND REALLY, I HOPE THEY ALL GET FILLED CAUSE IT’S MY JOB. To see patients. I talk her down YET AGAIN. And then hang up.

I really like a full schedule. I like being busy. And working in a mental health clinic, it makes sense to pack your schedule because half the patients no show anyway. It’s just the nature of who we work with.

Also, I am a nurse. Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner even. I can handle anything. It’s a matter of training and my innate laid back personality traits. And nothing really rattles me.

That is the truth by the way. Nothing rattles me while I am on the job.

Except Mary rattles me.

Lord help me accept the things I cannot change . . . .

Mary is a unrepentant caretaker. I would bet a million dollars she has been in an abusive or co-dependant relationship. It appears she has an absolute need to mother hen those around her. And feels the consummate need to be taking care of. I am not interested in any of it.

And change the things I cannot accept . . .

So, I’ve got some extra work to do today. I have to let Mary know; in no uncertain terms, what I am interested in. I am interested in being left alone and to my own devices. I do not want my hand held. I do not want to be helped unless I ask.

The hard part of this task, is not being all girl about it. Women don’t talk to each other directly. We do a lot of communication in other ways. (don’t get me started on fucking postit notes).

I’ve worked with all men before. They talk to each other without saying things like, “I’m sorry but….” Or “Don’t be mad, but I . . .” and so forth. Men say stuff like, “Knock it off, you’re being a dumbass.” Or “Stop fucking with my stuff.” Then they do the guy nod and nothing more is said.

We, however, apologize all the damn time and often nothing is accomplished. Because we have to keep talking about it. Cause we are not direct communicators.

LIKE WHEN SHE CALLED ME TWICE.

And lord give me the wisdom to know the difference.

So, today, when I feel her smother hen energy come my way I will be direct and firm. I will put up my hand and say, “Mary, there is no need for that.” And if she continues to pester I will say, “Mary, knock it off, your working my last nerve! Step off!!”

Epilogue:

SIGH. Guess what else I learned during those phone calls?

The woman lives about two blocks away. Guess who I will be carpooling with two days a week??

Lord help us all ;)

During the interview, I told them how I failed

To summarize yesterday's post- A year ago I went on an interview. I was interviewing for a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner position. I wore my killer boots. I entered the interview room to find forty people, told them my story. Then I was left in the room with four doctors and told my story further. There was a pot luck. After three hours, I was tired. I excused myself and left. I was done.

On the drive home, they called my cell and offered me the job. And yes oh yes, I said yess.

It's been a year, I'm still here. It 's a fabulous job. Everything I dreamed it would be.

During that interview, I told them how I failed while learning how to be a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner.

It was a failure of technique really. Traditional nursing is practiced using a blend of caring and science. When I was a regular nurse, I used science to take blood pressure, read lab results, understand medications and how they worked. I used caring to talk to a patient, explain those labs results, blood pressure and medications.

In mental health, there are no labs. No x-rays. Just the patient sitting in front of you. And they are often lying. The key is to listen to what they are not saying, to hear their body language.

That was a skill set I utterly failed at. At first.

I utterly failed my first patient that I had while training to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner. Failed. He had come in to the psychiatric hospital full on psychotic. He felt the FBI was out to get him, him mom was helping the FBI, he was being monitored from every angle. In fact, they could see and hear him right now. He was hearing voices. He was 23, smart. Studying to be a doctor even. So, I tried to teach him that he was developing schizophrenia. Read him chapters from my textbook. I explained his thoughts paranoia about the FBI was just a symptom. I was using my science and utterly failing at my caring.

He stopped talking to me, stopped cooperating with the treatment team. Stopped taking his meds. I broke whatever trust he had in his treaters. I have honestly never forgiven myself for this. I took a patient and made him worse. This was my failure.

I told the group this. I told them how I failed. Then I told them what happened next. I completely turned everything around. I started listening to my patients more, reacting and adjusting my approach to reach them better. Which is what a nurse does, she tailors her treatment to fit the patient. Basically, I started articulating my nurse DNA and then, I started to get good at my job.

During the interview I said all of this. It wasn't planned or well rehearsed. It was me, explaining me.

While telling that story, I felt my strength. The strongest lessons are learned through our biggest failures.

Maybe this is why I got the job. Or, maybe it was those boots.





Either way, this job completes the part of me that says, give unto others. The part of me that says, people are out there, suffering-go to them and help. I couldn't be more thankful to do what I do.

I really adore my job. I love being a nurse.

Somebody get me a DRINK!

Alright look. I don't want to write this, but dammit, here it is.

I've been fighting a bit of a depression lately. Feel no pity for me! I see the sadness for what it is. It is me having stayed way too long in the basement of my parent's house. And missing Mr. Hall and all.

So I count my blessings, get out as much as possible doing things with the kids. Sticking with weight watchers, doing yoga. Crying when I need to, feeling sad when I need to. Celebrating the weekends with untold fervor. Yet, the cloud, she grew bigger. But, at least I have a name to my shame.

And the name is this:

Every day I come home to a house that is not my home. My husband two hours away. Everything sticky with yuck and tension. My asshole dads exits to the basement. I leave with the kids and return around 7.30. Bath-bed-book and songs for the kids. Then, I go downstairs. Wake up at 6.30 and start it again.

Things have thawed a bit with my mom and I. Her vacation helped a lot. My Dad? Still and asshole. But he hides in the basement, so yeah, good for everyone involved.

Then, in the last two days, just about everything has changed.

I started reviewing how this all came about. I graduated, this time last year, with a Master's Degree in Nursing. This enabled me to become a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner.

Now, I graduated in a town that was surrounded by TWO MEDICAL SCHOOLS and FOUR SCHOOLS OF NURSING. This alone limited the job market for such a new nurse practitioner.

Then, that word in front of nurse practitioner, "Psychiatric", limits things further. There are not a lot of jobs in mental health. Most health care organizations really don't expand or fuel their money into the mental health department.

Ya see, most health care organizations are profit based. A patient comes and the organization is reimbursed by the patients insurance company. This reimbursement is based on what type of appointment and or procedure is performed.

For instance, if the patient gets a hip surgery, they get a lot of money from the insurance company. Hip surgeries are expensive. Seeing a hip surgeon is expensive. CHA-CHING!!! My visits with patients, being a nurse practitioner, and doing what we do, just talking, this is not that expensive. cha- (no ching). This reimbursement covers the cost of salaries and running the place.

AND mental health patients are NOTORIOUS FOR NOT SHOWING UP FOR APPOINTMENTS. AND not having insurance. So as a result-MOST MENTAL HEALTH DEPARTMENTS NOT ONLY FAIL TO MAKE A PROFIT but THEY LOSE MONEY FOR THE ORGANIZATION.

WHAT ALL THIS MEANS IS THAT JOBS ARE SLIM PICKINS AND THAT IS WHY I AM HERE, IN THE GODDAMN BASEMENT.

Realizing this helps me. It really lifted my spirits to think of this yesterday. Because coming here is NOT MY FAULT. I needed to find a job and here is the BEST JOB IN THE WORLD.

Thus begins my basis of my happy.

THEN IT GETS BETTER.

Hey, are you still awake? Sorry to bore you with the background of American medicine...

The house went up on the web yesterday.

wait for it


waaaaaaaaait foooorrr iiittt . . . . .


We have had six people come and take a peep. And this is just the first two days.



I realize that these six people could be looking for nothing.

But

this is what hope is.


And now my task has gone from killing the black cloud of depression

to

Holding down the spiraling of manic happiness i am starting to feel.


Spiraling Hope.




Because one thing leads to another and having the house up for sale means people are looking and when people look they will love and when they will love they will put an offer in and then we get to accept it and then we get to sign papers saying here take this house and then

oh.

my.

god.


I can't say it.

wait.

wait. gotta dab the eyes here. hold on.

then.

Then we can buy a new house and all of this


all of this


will be gone.


I am literally vibrating with hope. Need to keep it level. Steady now, stteeaadddy. . . .

I have to hand this over now. To God.

because no matter what or how I feel right now, right now I have no control beyond making my hope and happy grow. And right here, right now, having this kind of hope means everything. :)

Van Halen - Right Now
Uploaded by VividJame. - Full seasons and entire episodes online.

Like Homer Simpson to a doughnut

I am in the thick of studying for my certification exam. This is a bridge I must cross to go from a registered nurse to a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. I am studying my ass off. But I wanted to take a break to share why I am loving every minute of it. Loving it like it's my job.

First and foremost, I am a nurse. It didn't start out that way. I originally was an art major. But this is not relevant for now. It was by happenstance I took a class about the brain. Specifically, I took a class on what the function of the brain is and what neurotransmitters are. O glory day, the heavens opened up.

Neurotransmitters are the little chemical messengers in the brain. They are like magical signals that go from brain cell to brain cell and tell the cells what to do. What they lack in size, they make up for in sheer number. In fact, there are billions and billions of brain cells in the brain. And the brain itself is about three pounds. It is like Whoville in our skulls. Not too shabby of a set up.

I am fascinated by the billions and billions of brain cells. And yes, I am stealing this line from Carl Sagan. Brain cells are also called nerve cells or neurons. I don't want to get to technical, for fear of losing you, but please, I can't help it.

So in the Whoville in our skulls live on continents called lobes. The frontal, the temporal, the parietal and the bastard in the back, the occipital. I do love them all. Each lobe has specific purpose. But it is the frontal I love the most. This is in the front (big shock) behind your forehead. All self important and logical. It pays your checkbook and lets you figure out how to argue with your wife. Well, the last part is not recommended.

When things go awry in Whoville, it will be my job to help. But here's the thing, no one really wants help if their Whoville is depressed. Or if the Whos are getting all ancy and manic like. Treatment will be sought very rarely if the Whos start muttering to themselves or seeing Whos that aren't there. The stigma attached to mental illness goes both ways, in it's diagnosis and treatment. Even in modern, educated societies, mental illness is seen as a moral failing. You should see what I get in less educated, more 'fresh of the boat' patients. But I have my ways. Indeed, I gots mad skills. (hee hee a pun!)

Let it be said here, in this blog, and please repeat it everywhere you can: Mental illness is a MEDICAL DISEASE. Just like diabetes, just like high blood pressure. Only this medical illness is in the brain.

Which brings me back to my love. The brain. The neurotransmitters. It is like Homer Simpson to a doughnut to me. It is my passion and privilege to work with people who have mental illness. One that I hold dear.

And as I pore through this review material and review the stuff I hold very dear, I can't help but get all weepy. I am so fortunate to have found my place in life. I don't want to do anything else when I grow up. I have found the golden ticket.

So please, anyone who listened or read this, please send out positive vibes, prayers and thoughts for my test next week.

Have a good weekend.

And take care of your own little Whovilles!