Priestess of Puke

I spent a great deal of time this week being productive--productive in puking. I was puking like a champ for two whole days due to a stomach virus. Let me tell you this about myself: when I get a stomach virus, I go hard or go home. If you don't believe me, take a look at this earlier post about international puking (make sure you have some time on your hands--it's worth it).

Between hurls of Exorcist proportions, I started thinking about my resume of puking. I have a fairly impressive one, but for whatever reason, LinkedIn doesn't find that to be a marketable skill. Whatever. They just don't know. You never know when you're going to need someone who can hurl across an entire yard and hit a target at fifty paces.

Five years ago, I would've been disappointed that the following tale hadn't been caused by drinking or something else fun like eating an entire pizza.

Anyway, at the beginning of sixth grade, there was a girl in my class that I was good friends with. We hung out, I met her parents, we bought each other Christmas presents, went to each other's birthday parties. At some point in the year, things changed, unknowingly for me. At one point, she wrote me a very long and articulate letter telling me what a terrible person I was and that she hated me. She also told me I dressed like a baby--a comment she would be very sorry about today. She had placed her heartfelt commentary through a locker vent, letting it hang out enough that I would notice it first thing. She hung out at her locker and watched while I read through it, and eventually started to cry. Nice, huh? I later found out that there was a teacher who facilitated the whole thing. Bad, Teacher--bad.

I got my revenge about a week later, though not intentionally. My only regret was that Teach hadn't been in the room when it happened.

As with any good stomach virus, I started feeling kinda weird on the drive to school. I didn't say anything because--you'll think this is weird--I hated missing school. Even back in the 90s, daytime TV was terrible. Maybe I should start telling kids this whenever they're faking sick to go home.

Anyway, I reached school and homeroom. At 7:45 am, it was like any class--utter pandemonium. It was not doing wonders for my symptoms. The more it went on, the worse I felt. Then, ex-friend came over and decided to hold a conversation right in front of me. It was probably about me, but that's not really pertinent at this juncture. I kept saying, "I don't feel good", and still she stood there.

I know you know where this is headed, but hang with me, because this is good.

I finally said, "You should really move." She was turned to the side and looked at me with eyes in narrow slits, and then it happened.

Oh yeah, I puked on her. But I didn't just puke on her. I puked IN…HER...HAIR and IN…HER...FACE. Oh yeah! I nailed it in TWO spots. TRIPLE BONUS!!! I hit someone in two spots, and it was someone I didn't like.

My mother has always said I have an impeccable sense of timing. The entire class came to a standstill.

At that point, one of us was screaming; the other was crying. You could try to guess who was doing what and you'd probably be right, regardless of the guess. We were both sent home from school immediately thereafter. It was a Friday. She spent her weekend getting her hair cut , and I spent mine continuing to puke. In fact, that was the beginning of a week-long puking stint during which I lost eleven pounds. Yeah (don't be jealous--it was no fun)!!!

However, I would be lying if I said nothing good came from this. I would cite the weight loss, but as I was only four feet tall at the time. That really wasn't healthy, nor would I recommend puking to do it. No. Now when kids come to me puking and crying because they're embarrassed about it, I tell them this story. They generally look at me in horror with the look that says, "Wow, no matter how bad this is, at least I didn't do that!" Even the little kids know that's gross.

That being said, I guess it would be a bad idea to encourage the young'uns to aim for someone they don't like the next time they feel the urge to hurl. It was just dumb luck that it happened for me. But it's probably still considered bad form, isn't it?

Dang.

"Squawk, Bacock!"

A couple of years ago, I had a rare opportunity. Okay, it wasn't really that rare, but I was terribly excited about it. I went to see "The Muppets" in...the...theater!!! Kids of the 70s and 80s rejoice! Actually, I was really fortunate that I was able to convince my mom to take me. Did I also mention I was in my late twenties at the time? I should say what happened to me at the theater was rare (though not really for me), but keep reading.

Now, if you haven't seen "The Muppets", drop everything you're doing and go watch it. NOW! I adored it, watched it several times and currently own it. I have always loved and identified with Animal. Frankly, I love his passion for life, and we both have unruly hair, so it works. Observe.

I'm pretty sure we have the same facial expressions and make the same noises--especially when I'm sitting in traffic. Again, observe. 

Anyway, while I love and adore Animal, he is not my main focus. Sad face. 

I'll try to give a quick plot summary. The Muppets are reunited by three superfans in order to save their studio. They decide to have a telethon to raise the money. The Muppets perform their acts as they were known for during the series (example: Gonzo shooting out of a cannon). Oh, and by the way, this movie is really meant more for those who grew up watching the Muppets (age-wise), as opposed to the young'uns today. 

I should also tell you: I don't remember Camilla and the Chickens very well as I watched the Muppets growing up. This movie gave me a new appreciation of them, and I now love them as much (I can't say "more than"...yet) as Animal. When I saw this, my whole world changed. 

Y'all: when I saw this, I...lost...it. I don't mean I laughed--I guffawed. When I say I guffawed, I mean I was howling loud enough for the whole theater to hear it. Even now as I'm re-watching this video to post it, I'm laughing so loudly my dogs are wondering if I'm going to be dragged off to the Funny Farm before they get their dinner. 

But then it happened. 

I was laughing so hard, so loud, snorting with tears and snot, when I rolled out of my chair and onto the floor in fetal position. I was still "squawking and bacocking" and my mother was mortified to say the least. At least I was in the wheelchair aisle, so I had some room to roll around. My poor Mom was pulling on my arms, begging as much as one can beg in a whisper to "Get up off the floor--YOU'REEMBARRASSINGME!!!" Everyone: I was literally ROFLing.

I'm here to tell you that I was laughing so hard that my sinuses cleared out, and I very nearly peed on myself. My face actually swelled up. I'm not sure if it was because I was crying so hard or because I couldn't breathe. My nursing background tells me it was probably a combination of both. I missed a good five or ten minutes of that movie due to my inability to stop laughing--or breathe, for that matter. 

I was only able to get out of the floor by putting my arms in the chair seat and weakly pull myself up with the help of my mother. She will no longer watch that movie with me. 

That scene, compounded by my reaction to it, is one of the funniest things I've ever seen in my life. It's right up there with the Epileptic Cat or a friend of mine who was carried off by a bowling ball when said person went to bowl (other stories for another party). While it embarrassed the "pee-waddlin'"--as she would say--out of my mother, it was pretty glorious. It was glorious to laugh like that, and the fact that it embarrassed my mother was a double-bonus. 

Please don't tell her I said that. She can still scare me with a fly swatter. But seriously, go see The Muppets--NOW. And imagine me rolling all over the floor as a crying, laughing, snotting mess with a red face. If that doesn't make you squawk and bacock yourself into oblivion, you may very well have Bell's Palsy. Go look that one up.  

"Who Brought That Guy?!?"

How appropriate that this story took place at where else? A party. Yep. So what we actually have here is a story I would tell at a party--about a party.

Wow, I'm barely into this story and I'm already digressing. Don't act surprised. 

Anyway, before I get too far into this, I should tell you something about myself: I love basketball. I don't mean I enjoy watching it; I mean that, other than the weather, September through June gives me a new reason to live. When I have to go visit my parents for various holidays, I usually have to hide in a bedroom to watch a game, or chew on my nails while refreshing my ESPN app. When I worked in the hospital, I was thankful on days when I had a sedated patient so I could hijack their TV (don't worry, no one was harmed). People who know me joke about how I throw things at the TV when the game isn't going my way. I named one of my dogs--Dirk--after my favorite player, for crying out loud! 

Get it? I'm a fan of the round ball. 

One of my friends was having an engagement party and I was stoked for my friend and her engagement, but I was also a little proud to show off my date. 

Isn't it funny how the joke's always on you? Keep reading. 

Anyway, we were doing the usual party thing: eating, drinking, being merry, telling embarrassing stories--you get the idea. 

I didn't realize I was about to become the embarrassing story. I was in the middle of giving my pre-season commentary regarding the Dallas Mavericks, when, at a break in the conversation, my date asks--in all seriousness--"Didn't Michael Jordan play for the Lakers?"

Oh...my...LANTA!! You know that cliche about hearing a pin drop? The silence came over the party in waves, and then it was totally true. I heard someone mutter, "Who brought that guy?" 

I don't know if it was the unmistakable shock on my face, or the fact that I dropped my cake and started to cry, but either way, it was soon evident that I was, in fact, the one who'd brought that guy. Luckily, someone brought me a new piece of cake without much hesitation.

I don't really remember how it was all resolved at the party, because there was too much visible pity. However, I do remember asking a few obligatory questions on the way home, such as, "Do you know who Michael Jordan is?!?" or "Do you know what city the Lakers play in?" and "Do you know that the basket in basketball is actually made out of net or chain, and not wicker?!?" Fortunately for all involved here, we weren't together much longer after that.

**Note to the boys in the yard: after this incident, several of my friends felt it necessary--rightfully so--to put together a dating application. If you can't correctly state the answer to the question of who Michael Jordan played for, or what sport (principally) he played, you're out. This is your fair warning.

Now What?

I remember being four years old and people asking me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I never had to hesitate before I would say, "a nurse." That changed in third grade when I had a teacher tell me I should aim higher, so I decided I wanted to be a doctor. Again, I was deterred when I was ready to go to college. After many twists, turns and six years of college, I finally realized my prophecy from toddlerhood: I became a nurse.

I began my career in the Medical Intensive Care Unit of a Dallas hospital, and continued from there as a pediatric nurse at Children's Medical Center Dallas--the very hospital where I was diagnosed with diabetes. I reached my dream and the pinnacle of my career four years ago when I became a pediatric certified diabetes educator. Now, I'm a school nurse and not a day goes by that I don't have a great story or some kid who makes me smile. My career--albeit short--has provided me with great reward, great stories, a fantastic knowledge base, fairly decent medical care for myself, and flexibility to move around, grow and attempt a work-life balance. Yes, there are circumstances that make you want to retire sometimes, but for the most part, the rewards are greater than the trials.

And you know what? I don't want to do it anymore.

WHAAAAAAAT?!? You may--or may not--be thinking one of the following: But it's such a great career! You can do anything you want! You'll always have a job! Nurses make such great money! Nursing is such an honorable profession! I don't want to make assumptions, but given that I hear these all...the...time, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that, somewhere in there, I'm right.

If you think I haven't beaten myself up about this, you'd be sorely mistaken. My "granny" was a nurse--for 32 years...in a psych hospital. Many of the nurses I've met have withstood some pretty shoddy conditions to remain in their honorable profession for 25-plus years. Many others still that I graduated with not only stuck it out, but have gone on to earn advanced degrees. So what's wrong with me?

Absolutely nothing. There is nothing wrong with the fact that I am ready to move on. I've been in healthcare for the last twelve years. No, that's not my granny's 30-plus years, but by today's standards, that's quite a long stretch. It's not going to do me--or you--any favors to go into why I'm ready to move on. It should be enough (and it is for me) that it's time.

So now what? I don't know. That's okay, too. I just have a process to go through to try to figure out what's next. What am I good at? What would I want to wake up and do every day? How can I do that and still have medical insurance and buy dog food (yes, there are some logistics that remain)?

Maybe I'll arrange flowers. Or be a rodeo clown. Or a bricklayer. Or a basketball player. Or a hobo. Probably not a hobo, but I don't want to leave any stone unturned.

The reason I'm putting this out here is because I know for a fact that I'm not the only one who feels this way. But I do think many times we're shamed into keeping quiet about it for a multitude of reasons; a lot of them boil down to keeping up with the Joneses (money, a "stable" career, making enough money for "stuff"). I'm not going to lie and say I'd be happy becoming a minimalist, but that just proves my point. All of this is really hard to say out loud, or put into print, where it will be forever (or until I decide my blog sucks and I want to take it down)!

I don't know what your story is, but this is mine. And I'm going to bet there are many like it. I really thought I needed permission to for it to be okay to want to do something else, and I did. From me. Now I have it, and in doing so, I realize there's absolutely nothing wrong with that or me. So I would encourage you to do the same if you're finding yourself in the same "crisis". LIfe is too short not to.

Wow, with all that wisdom, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted. That's the fastest ten pounds I've ever lost.

The Letter I Wish I'd Written

Today, I had an experience that was nothing short of infuriating. In all honesty, it's been ongoing for about the last week, but today the fat lady sung. The fork was jabbed in. The camel's back was broken.

How fitting, because this post has to do with my gimp back...and neck. For those of you not totally caught up, I was in a car accident back in May. According to doctors, I shouldn't have lived through it, much less walked out of the hospital (albeit on crutches, but I digress...). There. You're now caught up.

Anyway, things seemed to be moving along in my treatment until last Wednesday. Then, I received a set of steroid injections that a) I didn't tolerate very well, and b) was the beginning of a downward spiral. The day of, they even asked me if I was okay, telling me that I looked like I didn't feel very good, and I confirmed that I was indeed out of it. I didn't think much about it, but little did I know, that was the beginning of the end. On Thursday, my back was burning at the injection sites, which, oddly enough, I wasn't too concerned about, as that can sometimes happen.

Friday was a completely different story. Late Friday afternoon (of course it always happens on a Friday), I felt searing, burning, stabbing, constant pain in my lower back--almost like my tailbone and lower spine were going to poke right out of my back. I was wailing. I was actually contemplating asking other doctors I knew if a tailbone was really necessary and could they surgically remove it? I was in agony. Those who know me--and if you don't, I'm about to tell you--it takes a lot for me to say that. It takes even more for me to call the on-call doctor after hours, and more still, to actually make a trip to the emergency room for some relief. One thing I was not, however, was making any of this up by any stretch of the imagination.

After several days of being made to feel like that was, in fact, what I was doing, the final straw for me came today when I followed up with my pain care doctor. What was so different? The physician's assistant called me a liar without using those exact words.

This sparked a very eloquent but forthright nastygram to my attorney (minus profanity, even!), but in thinking about things, there are a few things, that, if those health care professionals were sitting in front of me right now, I wish I had said. When I first set out to write this, I wanted to tell these people what jacktards I thought they were, and what jacktards I thought their mother, and their mother's mother were, but we all know that wouldn't get me very far. I wanted you to know that if you were ever under my care, I would get back at you by hiding the key to the door that houses all the medications. I'm not going to publish what I wrote to my lawyer because of some confidential information, but I think this will get the point across as to what happened, and most of all, I'll get to feel better without violence or profanity.

To those of you involved in my events related to car accident-induced pain over the weekend: 

I am shocked. Shocked and sad. Over this past weekend, I have dealt with pain that, before last Friday, I didn't know existed, but I hope I will never know again--particularly after the way my situation was handled. 

I'm generally not "that person" who complains often and because I think the "squeaky wheel gets the grease"; in fact, I'm usually the one that stays quiet because, as a nurse, I have a deep appreciation for what you do and how busy you are. However, after being treated as though I consulted you for a "score," I've been pushed over the edge. 

As I mentioned, I am part of your club. I am one of you, and as such, I always strove to be the gold-star patient, because, as I mentioned before, I get it. I know what it's like to be so busy you feel like you can't keep your head above water, and then to have someone come in with what seems like a menial complaint that adds to your workload is infuriating. But my pain was--and is--very much real. You have to know that as a healthcare professional, it took a lot for me to even seek help in the ER. I didn't want to be there, but again, I was trying to play nice in the sandbox and do exactly what my doctor suggested I do. 

As it turns out, your colleague who saw me back in my room treated me like a real person who felt secure in her convictions that she was indeed in pain and it was in fact severe. She didn't cut me off at every sentence and let me know just how annoying I was because I had come in with a menial complaint. Perhaps you could take a lesson from her. To the physician's assistant in the ER who saw me, thank you for understanding that I had to think things were B-A-D to even darken your door. I don't think I should have had to push through "please don't blow me off--I'm not a drug-seeker" while crying and hyperventilating at the same time, but you didn't require that of me. 

To the PA who saw me at the pain care clinic today: I hope you're never in my position, because I guarantee you that, if you ever were, you wouldn't like it at all. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you did something worse than write a nasty-gram. Surely, as a professional working in pain care, you recall that pain is subjective. It is exactly as bad as the person experiencing it says it is. Perhaps you missed that lesson in your studies, but I guarantee you that was drilled into my head in nursing school. Then again, maybe you haven't had the greatest of teachers if your boss' response to complaints of pain is, "Ice is the best pain reliever." By the way--I asked him how it was possible that he has a job if that's actually the case; someone as smart and well-educated as he is didn't have an answer. 

Anyway, back to you. I don't know if you were having a bad day or what, but you had absolutely no right to take it out on me, and I won't stand for that. Just so you know, I've also told my attorney this, and I'll be curious to hear what she has to say about it. The thing I really want to say to you right now is How dare you? How dare you call me a liar and try to put me down for a) doing what I was told, and b) feeling how I feel? Again, I guarantee that if you had been in my position, you wouldn't have liked it very much. I don't know where you lost your bedside manner, but you'd better either reclaim it or find another job, because you absolutely cannot treat people the way you treated me today. 

I'm sure I could go on and on about this, but I think I got my point across. Do I think these people will ever see this? I doubt it. Do I deserve an apology? You'd better believe it. Am I going to hold my breath waiting for it? No. I've always been a firm believer in my industry and those who perform within it, but I can finally understand why people get so frustrated and angry; right now I'm both of those things, and it hurts my heart to say it. My feelings are hurt, which only adds to my pain. Thanks, guys.

In all honesty, though, my hope is this: if these people ever find themselves on my side of the coin--regardless of the condition--I hope they have better clinicians and caretakers than they were to me.

Back to School, Back to School

Today was a much-dreaded day across the state. No, there was no legislation against football, fishing or the death penalty. It was...well, the first day of school. School brings out the school supply nerd in all of us, or the worst Oscar the Grouch for us non-morning people.

As I watched multitudes of elementary school children be dropped off and photographed by their parents, I thought back to my own first days of school. Then I realized, I can't remember them. I was five. One of the few things I remember about Kindergarten were my Alf and McDonald's lunch boxes (those were so cool!). So I asked my mom to refresh my memory.

When I asked her to tell me about my first day of Kindergarten, her answer was short and sweet: "I don't know." Huh? How did she not remember?

"You wouldn't let me come with you. When I told you I wanted to take you, you said, 'don't go, Mama. I can do it myself!'." I don't know that I would have been that blunt... Oh, who am I kidding? Yeah, that sounds like me. I was saucy even then.

Here's another one from my earlier files that I'll share before I turn it over to you.

Did you know I have a little brother? No? Neither did my mom. Neither did anyone else. Except my first-grade teacher. Supposedly, he was almost run over by a car, but I pushed him out of the way. Aren't I an amazing older sister? Of course I am!

Were my heroic efforts documented in the town newspaper for all to read and then everyone adored me? No. You know why? Because there's no little brother. Now, why would my teacher make up such a story? She didn't. I did. Some people have imaginary friends. I had imaginary siblings.

And then my mom found out. And she was displeased--especially when my teacher wanted to know if her "other child also had diabetes." And it wasn't good.

How did I forget the story of MY FIRST KISS?!? It was so sweet. I changed schools in the middle of kindergarten for a semester. On my first day, one of the cutest boys in the class introduced himself to me by kissing me on the cheek.

You know what I did in response? I SLAPPED THE SNOT OUT OF HIM. And then I told on him. And then he got in trouble. And I was happy.

I'm sure there's a plethora (actually I know there is) of other bizarre, farfetched and downright mischievous tales from my school files, but I want to give you the opportunity to share. If you have a great story from your's or your kiddo's career, share it below! It doesn't even have to be great. You don't even have to spell it right.

How I Became the Whiz Kid

I like to think I'm reasonably smart. After all, I can read and spell my name reasonably well. So it stands to reason that those qualities alone would certify me as a whiz kid. Right?

I wish. 

Long ago and far away, when I was in eighth grade--so 13 years old--we had a very exciting event in our small town. Our high school football team made it to the regional playoffs. I grew up in a small town in Texas, so you can imagine. Football is a religion and playoffs are Heaven itself. Either way, the town was abuzz and we weren't missing this game come hell or high water. 

I'm not going to go into specifics of the game--not because it wasn't exciting (even though it wasn't), but because we lost, and I don't want to have to relive it. 

Nor do I want to relive what happened next. However, because everyone who's heard this story thinks it's pretty funny--only because it didn't happen to them--I've decided to print it here for posterity. You're welcome.

Anyway, we had about a 45-minute car ride home, so we had to keep ourselves entertained. We did so by playing Make Me Laugh. The game is exactly what it sounds like. At one point, very abruptly, I decided I didn't want to play anymore. I tried to play it off as in I thought the game was boring and wanted to move on, but my friends weren't having it. They demanded to know why I didn't want to play. However, it didn't take very long for them to figure it out. 

What did they do? What every good friend does--worked harder to make me laugh. It didn't take them very long before what was on the inside of my body--in my bladder--exploded to the outside. I was drenched, and so was the back of the van we were sitting in. I...was...mortified. 

Of course we had to tell the parents of the van, even though I was crying and begging them not to. And of course, I didn't have an extra pair of underwear. Who, at 13, thinks to bring extra underwear because they pee their pants?!? Certainly not this kid. 

Fortunately, someone did have extras. I'm not sure what's more disturbing here: that I, as a teenager, had a major toileting accident, or that someone else in the car had extras because of their own (possibly?) toileting issues and I was about to be wearing them. 

Regardless, we pulled over to the nearest gas station to remedy the situation. I think my friends felt bad, because they shuffled with me, one in front, one behind in order to get to the bathroom with as much dignity as was possible in a situation such as peeing your pants between the ages of six and 60.  I changed, used the restroom for good measure, and off we went. Life was good. 

Or so I thought. About ten minutes into our journey, I felt a familiar sensation. I won't waste time building it up: I had to pee again. Yep. So I informed everyone in the van that I needed to do business again, and we saved another embarrassing situation. 

Again--I wish. My "voice of reason" prevailed and I decided that, by God, I would make it home to the comfort of my own clean bathroom. So I kept quiet. 

My voice of reason crapped out. The above scenario played out again. Tell me that this isn't weird: another change of clothes and underwear were produced that weren't mine or came from my mom. How many accidents were these people planning? Yuck. Regardless, beggars couldn't be choosers at this point. So we repeated the Pee Pants Shuffle, I used the restroom, changed clothes, and off we went. 

To make an already long story short(er), I'm going to kind of gloss over the fact that there was, in fact, a third incident about five or ten miles later. I was out of luck on clothes this time. This may have actually been a good thing, because I'm not sure what I would've thought if I knew there had been anticipation of three or more accidents in the same car on a given period. And I should probably tell you I was restricted from liquids at this point. 

If you think I ever lived that down, you would be wrong. In fact, I had a similar incident later on that year where I required two changes of clothes, but one was only because I fell in knee-deep mud  while rock-hunting and running from snakes on a science field trip. My senior yearbook is even inscribed with "Whiz Kid." But that's only because I'm super-smart. I know that because, now, I always have access to extra underwear.