Diary Of a Shock Nurse
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Forty Years Alive

11/16/2017

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I blasted Celine Dion's "I'm Alive" as I drove to work. My eyes filled with tears and my smile stretched ear to ear.  I have many things to be thankful for, but quite simply, I was just happy to be alive.
They asked me how I felt approaching forty.
"I feel good! I feel the same, and now I will just worry about turning fifty. When I'm fifty, I'm sure I'll just worry about sixty..."
I expressed some of my fears about the intense speed at which time was passing by. 
"I figure I'll probably live until I'm about ninety-five, and it occurred to me that I'm close to approaching the halfway mark. That worries me a little," I said.
I'm afraid of only a few things...snakes, getting pooped on by birds, watching a scary movie (and my husband falling asleep), and death.
I try to convince myself that reincarnation does indeed exist, but deep down I'm not so comfortable with that either. I don't want to take on a different body or be born in some small depressed tumbleweed town, or worse. My kids and I talk about what animals we'd choose to be if we could...a family of birds on a wire, dolphins, and and usually something small and cute. As convincing as I try to be, to ease their own fears of death, I lack conviction. The idea of any loved one leaving this life really scares me.

"After we die, we go to heaven when Jesus comes back to make our earth new again. He takes us to heaven and we are all angels (all white angels with white robes according to my children's Bible)," she told me.
I pictured the pretty white gates covered in pearls, fluffy white clouds filled with smiling angels, and wondered where we would go to the bathroom.
"You won't need to go to the bathroom because you don't even need to eat," she said.
Because I was a kid that cared more about playing then eating, she appeased me for a bit.
"Will we live in a house with our family...and what about sleep? Will we not need to sleep either," I asked.
"You won't need to sleep, and you won't even have the same family that you have now really. Jesus will be our new Father, and everyone will be your family. Everyone will be brothers and sisters," she replied.

"WHAT?!" I was terrified.
I wished she had never said that and I could just go back imagining all the white stuff, harps, and happiness.
A life in which my family didn't look at me with the same set of eyes was just about as frightening as the story I heard the week before that made me think my parents were going to burn in hell for getting a divorce.

I sang the songs, listened with an open heart, and sat quietly and respectfully. Yet, I was filled with just as much fear as I was with joy. 
As I grew older, I sifted through the information a bit differently. My concrete mind morphed into something a bit more poetic and comforting. I came to the conclusion pretty early on that living this life to the fullest was the best way to not be so preoccupied with the hereafter.
Here I am, almost forty years full, and I don't feel near done. A hundred more years doesn't even seem sufficient (but very very wrinkled). 
My dad would tell me that my grandma kept saying she's "ready to go."
She was eighty-three.
Will I feel like that when I am eighty-three? Will I ever grow so tired of this life I am ready to close the curtain?

When Chris and I were living in an apartment in San Diego, we would be woken up almost every morning with Pearl Jam's "Alive" blasting through speakers below us. While Chris loves the sweet sounds of Eddie Vedder, he didn't want to love them before eight in the morning. She was in her early twenties and she lived alone. She was the daughter of the landlord, and moved in one day without either of us really noticing. We quickly knew we had a new neighbor and quickly realize it wasn't a coincidence that the same song played with intensity every morning around the same time. She was just out of rehab, and I never knew much more to the story. As curious as I was, it didn't matter. She was happy to be Alive after what she had faced, and she was ready to start anew. We would be irritated some mornings, but Chris and I never stewed too long over it. We both saw the underlining beauty in our morning disturbance. I think both of us looked slightly inward to find a bit of appreciation even though we never spoke of it. I never really saw her face, that I can remember, but I will never forget her.

I have had patients say they wished they would just go to sleep and not wake up again.
I am able to somewhat empathize and understand their persistent sadness, but I always find it hard to wrap my head around suicide. Sometimes I find myself almost whispering the word due to its unsettling implication. 
I think about how horrible their path in life must be to want it to end far too early.

My eyes fill with tears when I think about how grateful I am to be Alive and healthy, but also because I don't have to know what that kind of sadness feels like. I am lucky enough to cry happy tears over songs, parades and shooting stars. I am able to cry through my struggles, but keep hope through the process.

This Thanksgiving I am Thankful for Life and the chances I get to make other Lives better. 
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Normal is a Setting on the Washer

5/31/2017

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Every time I sat down to type out my thoughts I'd think, "how can I put all of these thoughts into any kind of organized or concise post?" I have been anything but uninspired, quite the opposite really. Most often I have so many opinions that I struggle to keep them to myself. It's like bottled up laughter in a quiet church..."Must. Keep. It. In."

I figured I'd stick with the most reoccurring theme as of lately.

I work with patients that are desperate to just be "normal," whatever that is. They don't want to live with chronic pain their whole life. They simply want get up and go to work in the morning like everyone else. For some, it's waking up every morning with debilitating anxiety and depression thick as fog.
"Why is it so hard to just be normal," she asked.

I asked Siri to give me the definition of normal, and she responded, "conforming to a standard; usual, typical or expected."
Even though I secretly hoped she'd respond with something clever, I felt satisfied with the expected answer.

I became curious as I often do. Standards change do they not? The 'typical' or 'usual' can change in less then a decade, or even a year!
The new Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM-V, added new diagnostic codes for Binge Eating and Hourding, among others.
A Binge Eating Diagnosis can be applied if a person eats to excess 12 times in 3 months.
I became more curious...and hungry.
Who decided where to set the baseline and limitations?

{I immediately pictured a room full of old white men}

What exactly is "excess?" I suppose it's somewhere along the lines of eating even though you're full.
Does that include snacking when you're bored?
How about when I'm at Disneyland and I have but one day to enjoy the most delicious popcorn on the planet and a mandatory Dole Whip soon after that dish of Mexican food by Thunder Mountain? I'm pretty sure that "Excess Day" counts for double on my watch.
Show me a person that drives through Taco Bell and orders one item within proper calorie range.
The dirt-cheap tallys are almost yelling at you to order more...just because spending $1.29 on lunch seems wrong. I am practically harassed to add on a bag full of value items.

Isn't most of America overweight?
Despite our attempts and slow progression toward cutting back calories and portion sizes, aren't we still way over the mark with 500 calorie frappes and "Buy-one-get-ones?"

I digress.

However eager some people are to assign themselves a diagnosis, there are many that fret over baseline deviation. They perceive their friends and family around them as "normal," and I'd venture to say we have social media to blame for most of it.

We should all know by now that social media sites beg us to post cute and funny anecdotes because let's be real, nobody wants to see your mundane posts about PMS, traffic jams, or what you and your husband argued about last night.
It reminds of me of Barbie commercials when I was a kid. She moved gracefully down the pink slide atop her glittery RV right into the front seat of her shiny Camero. Her shoes slipped on with ease, her hair blew perfectly in the wind, and they could even make it really look like Ken was kissing her...with tongue.
As soon as my Barbie left her box, her hair was knotted somewhere, I couldn't get those tiny shoes on, and her arms couldn't even bend to hug Ken let alone slip him the tongue.

I don't deny anyone's pain, and I don't ignore their depression or anxiety, but perhaps, for just a moment let us really reflect on how challenging this world can be...for all of us. Most of us are just one more day of excess eating away from a diagnosis.
I'd really go out on a limb (cause if you know me you know I like to do that) and suggest that some diagnosis code can be applied to each one of us.
I'm pretty sure I diagnosed myself with plantar fasciitis, sacroiliits, and Trump-supporter-itis just this last year.
Im sure my husband has a few others for me.

You are not alone. People all around you are lying in their bed at night running through and prioritizing their list of troubles. Finding out we are not alone can sometimes be another kind of therapy.

​


Disclaimer: Sometimes pills are good and sometimes pills are bad, but don't let a talkative nurse on some blog be your decision maker.

Dedicated to: That disappointing friend with more than slight deviation from any baseline. Thank you for helping me grow.



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We Are Pieces of the World

1/28/2017

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I well up with tears at least once every day. Sometimes the tears are from overwhelming pride for the communities of people around me that have taken a stand against such a vulgar display intolerance and discrimination, and other times I'm filled with sadness and hopelessness. I am taken back by the amount of people in my life that are...well, I've realized they're not really in my life at all. Social media makes me think they are, but it's just their Cliff Notes I'm thumbing through now. We aren't the same. We are far different than I ever knew. "I thought you were a person that appreciated diversity. Why can't you appreciate our differences," she asked me. I held back from giving a long-winded reply and simply said, "This is not the same thing. This isn't about just people being different. It's not even about Democrat and Republican anymore. I could care less about that at this point. You clearly support beliefs and attitudes that go far beyond anything I can rationally accept or tolerate."
​I feel as though I'm surrounded by borders and landmines. I even told my husband I'm afraid to be social with some people because I'm afraid of what they might say. How did this happen? I am sad, but I am determined. I am determined to stand up for what is right and to stand up for people that need it more than me. I marched for women's rights and I marched for the right's of others that have much fewer privileges than I. I marched for equality, and I'm tired of even women not being able to recognize their own injustices because we have learned to tolerate them. I have been mocked by friends and family and seen posts and letters about strong women that do not feel inferior or suppressed in any way. Strong women that don't need a march or a pink hat. I'm glad they live on the island of denial or unawareness. It must be much easier there. Women worked very hard for decades and centuries so that we may have the freedoms and rights they speak of. 
People are speaking up in resistance to something much bigger than what people realize. It's not about abortion and it's not just about women and Muslims. It's about America and what that word means to everyone around the world now. It's about freedom and individualism. America isn't run by the same people anymore. They aren't just straight men, they aren't white, and they aren't rich. America is a little piece of every part of the world in search of something better. That's how this country came to be and that's who is running this country now. We want people in office that represent these ideals.

The best way for me to stay positive and inspired and keep hope is to read and to write. I encourage you to do the same. We are witnessing a BIG part of American history, and it will feel pretty good knowing that I did a little more than just witness. I've included one of the letters I've written to a local senator. The good thing about the obvious trend we've seen in our White House Line-Up is that I can simply delete a name and toss in a new one!

I strongly encourage more people to do the same.

​To those of you making your voice heard, thank you and I applaud you. They are listening and you are making a difference. You will be a valuable piece of our new history books.

​
Dear Senator Jeff Stone, 

My husband and I recently took our boys to see the mighty Lady Liberty off the shores of New York City for the first time. I, along with hundreds of other people aboard the ferry boat, lifted my camera to take pictures of what has been a landmark of hope and freedom for our country for centuries now. Pictures taken from even the most talented photographers cannot do it justice. She seemed larger and more brilliant in person. I leaned over to my seven year old son and said, "Isn't she amazing? So many people from all over the world saw this statue and wept with relief and beamed with hope." I felt my face tighten and my lip quiver. I was holding back a lump in my throat just thinking of the many lives and stories that passed through here. "Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me..."
We are that country. We have set ourselves far above so many standards in the world, yet we hold ourselves back from being truly courageous and forward thinking when comes to supporting those of minority to live a life of liberty as you and I do in this beautiful country. The "tempest-tossed" are indeed the refugees, the gay and lesbian population, the poor minority population, and our African American population. The adversities they have faced, and continue to face on a regular basis cannot be adequately understood by those that live a life of privilege...like you and I.
I want to tell my sons the stories of the brave immigrants that pushed through their own adversities to start this great country, and that the blood, sweat and tears were worth it to live in a country where you could live the kind of life that makes you happy and allows you to feel safe. 
I am afraid to look at my phone in the morning these days. I am afraid to see, yet another, disappointing and discouraging announcement from our government. Jeff Sessions has shown very blatantly that only select groups in this country deserve the very rights and freedoms Lady Liberty represents. He has continually opposed legal immigration and was deemed unfit for the seat of a federal judge due to his lack of sensitivity, and inappropriate remarks toward our black community. It doesn't take much research to see an obvious pattern in the newly appointed Trump Administration. It is a pattern of  prejudice. It is a pattern that tells the world we have not really evolved and we haven't learned from our mistakes of short-sightedness. What an incredible message we could send to other countries if we continually show them we can run a safe, profitable country that supports the happiness and prosperity of men, woman and children of all colors, religions, cultures, and opinions.
I am a registered nurse in Murrieta. I am a registered Democrat, but was raised in a very Republican family. I have tried to understand, with an open mind, our differences of opinions on the political matters that separate us. I have tried to focus my young adult life on matters that I can control for the betterment of my family, and be a successful and hard-working member of this community. It has become very apparent to me that it is no longer an issue of being Republican or Democrat. It is a matter of human decency. It is a matter of being respectful and tolerant. Jeff Sessions is not. He lacks the tolerance and compassion that this country is supposed to be known for.
I urge you to, at the very least, consider making your voice heard to block Jeff Sessions from becoming Attorney General. Please do what you can to stop this new trend of government that is obviously intolerant and close-fisted. Thank you for your dedication to the communities of Temecula and Murrieta in which I work and live, and I especially thank you for listening to the opinions of your fellow citizens. --Leslie O'Neill
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Please Pass the Haldol

7/14/2016

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An angry ignorant woman yelled at me before the sun had even crept into the sky. I was a nurse out to torture patients, hold them down and stick them with the biggest needle.
She didn't know me.
I wasn't offended.
I knew she cared about her friend. Her worry and frustrations about her friend's suffering left her angry.
She was angry at anyone and everyone that crossed her path.
I'll consider a Nurse Ratched costume for Halloween in her honor.

Within 90 days, we've been subjected to horrific stories of mass shootings, acts of racism without repercussion, cars speeding into brick walls, overdoses, fires, suicide attempts...when do we get to breath some unpolluted air?
How do we continue to look at the colors around us without painting them with cynicism?

I broke down in my driveway after a tiring day and a bout of bad news. Tears fell for my patient, and they fell for so many other suffering souls across the planet. They fell for my kids. One day they will hear their own stories of terror and pain, and they'll start to see the world differently.
They will be surrounded by a world filled with mental illness, addiction, racism and hatred.
I cannot shield them, and I cannot deny.
I can only hope that my husband and I provide them with the tools to cope and to do the right thing.

I sat at a funeral for one, and read the headlines of another and thought, "They were loved by somebody. Someone fought for them and lost." They are now a statistic, and they are now a wound that will form a scar.
They were good people. What happened?
It's depression and it's addiction. It's hatred and it's fear.
It's ugly and I'm tired.

Our society is perpetuating the very stories and scenarios we grieve about, and we don't really want to do anything to change it.
I've splattered different stories and emotions on this screen. They are all mixed up in my head waiting to be sorted out, and perhaps I thought writing them down would help.

The thing is, we can't wait for healing. There is another story developing, another person suffering, someone else driving way too fast, and another someone swallowing way too many pills.
​What will I do tomorrow to make a difference?
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Red Pill or Blue Pill? You have options. 

3/28/2016

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I walked into our side room utilized for electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) education yet again. I must walk in there a dozen times or more each month. I am eager to meet another person that lives in our community that struggles with mental illness and hear another familiar yet unique story. They have all stopped living the life they wanted. Their medications are not working or they are having terrible side effects.

​"My Immodium isn't even working," he told me.

He was of small stature and reminded me of Billy Crystal for some reason. He had a fun New York accent. I assumed he used to make people laugh. He spared me his dry humor, but he did keep a smirk on his face. I wondered for a brief moment if my zipper was down. I quickly realized his smirk was of a patronizing nature and he wasn't prepared to take me seriously. He probably just recently started antidepressants even though he has lived with depression for years. He was a man that wasn't in touch with his feelings, and certainly didn't want to admit that he needed help. He thought he could just "work through it." I've heard this many times before.
I wished for a second I was 20 years older and had a white coat. How was I going to get him to listen to me?
He thinks I'm a child.
Figuring out a way to reach people is half of what I do. 

I don't ever want patients to think I am delivering a template of information to them like a salesperson. Each person is unique even if they are all suffering in similar ways.

He was a very concrete thinker so I decided to talk to him about medications, how they work, the side effects he's experiencing, and why ECT might be another option for him. 
ECT is a very valuable option for the elderly considering the struggles they have with medications and their side effects.

I went on to explain to Mr. Crystal what happens when he swallows those tiny pills in his pill box. His gastrointestinal tract breaks down and absorbs the medicine, interacting with what he ate or drank along the way. The "magic" little pill is then metabolized in his liver then carried to his heart which in turn pumps it into his bloodstream and is delivered to it's target, touching upon other locations in the body as well.
This is where I sometimes throw in the ol' "sexual side effects and erection" comments. The boys will usually start to listen at this point. I'm ready for them to ask at any moment, "I'm sorry, could you please back that up again?"
"Which part?" I would ask.
"All of the parts before the word erection, please," they would say.

​I haven't had a patient say this yet, but I know they're all thinking it.
All jokes aside, having trouble getting or maintaining an erection can certainly impede a man's quality of life. We're talking Maslow's fundamental stage in a person's heirarchy of needs.
Along with sexual side effects, one might also experience:

weight loss or weight gain
edema
headaches
blurred vision
nausea or vomiting
insomnia or drowsiness
diarrhea or constipation
anxiety
arrhythmias 
​hypertension or hypotension
rash
urinary retention
sweating 
dry mouth
kidney failure
tremors
​agitation 
abnormal thinking.....

Wait, what? I thought this pill was supposed to make me "normal" again. 

I clearly state to all patients that there is a place for medications, and they can be valuable for many people if taken as instructed. I also stress the importance of continuing medications during or after ECT unless instructed otherwise by their physician. Research even tells us that pharmacotherapy along with psychotherapy and/or ECT keeps patients in remission for greater periods of time.

He was listening to me, and now he wouldn't stop talking. I knew more about this man in fifteen minutes then I've known about my neighbors in three years.

He wasn't ready to jump on the ECT wagon, but my goal had been met. Another person suffering with depression knows a little more about their options, and isn't that what it's all about? It's so important to have information and options available to us. There is such progress in the unveiling of a dark secret you've been afraid to share with the world and feeling like you are accepted and not alone. 

As I said goodbye to Mr. Crystal, I told him what I tell all patients, "If you take away anything from your visit with me, I hope it's that you understand you have options and options means hope." 

He gave me a smile and a firm handshake, and from him, that meant a great deal.


{All identities protected.}





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The Rubber Strap That Made You Better

1/7/2016

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“Where’s that strap you were talking about?” 


The patient had fears and preconceived notions about what goes on in the ‘Shock Room.’ 
There isn’t a single day that I do not address a patient or family member’s fear of Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT). I am constantly reminding them that I show up to work to help patients…not hurt them.
I do not fault their fear. In fact, I worry more about a patient that doesn’t ask questions or disclose reservations. 
The general population is concerned with any bad effects ECT might have on their brain…their personality, cognitive abilities or memory. They might even ask, “What’s the worst thing that can happen to me?” I hold back the urge to tell them, “Pee your pants. That is the worst thing that could happen to you.” How could I not think about my worst fear…peeing myself in front of my coworkers.
I run through statistics first and then try and paint a picture of a typical ECT patient and their experience…and a typical patient does not pee themselves.
A typical patient, does in fact, notice a difference within the first few treatments. The difference might not be significant, but it’s something…and they probably haven’t felt “something positive” in a long long time. They will probably plateau a bit before they reach the desired full treatment response. A full treatment response is different for everybody, but 90 percent of our patients get at least 50 percent better. You can’t buy results like that anywhere…and they definitely don’t come in pill form produced by Eli Lilly.
Patients are picking up their phone again, taking walks outside, getting back to work, going out with friends, and…smiling again. 
Despite the successes of ECT, the fears remain. My job is to help lessen them.
I will offer to walk them around the facility, show them our equipment, and if they’re lucky, I’ll even turn on “The Machine” for them. It’s mostly the men that are intrigued with “The Machine.” They can be so predictable. 
The typical response after seeing “The Machine” is, “That’s it?”
What were they expecting? Even if I try and get really creative I can’t come up with anything grotesque enough to match their perceptions.
I usually steer away from the icky details of the gel, the strap, and the two round cold metal plates that press against their head. This kind of paraphernalia puts odd images in one’s mind…and not the sexy kind of images…well, maybe a little.
People sign up for colonoscopy’s every day and no one gets shown the large scope and lubricant that goes up their rear. Sometimes the details are better left unseen.
The patient is asleep, comfortable, cared for, and always in good hands. The procedure lasts a few short minutes and most patients wake up asking, “It’s over? That’s it?”
That’s it. We do no harm and you still have your dignity, and better than that…you are going to feel so much better in just a few short weeks.
​
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We The People

12/11/2015

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Time out for Stella Jenson...I announced her birthdate and procedure information for the room to hear. "Where are you from Stella," Doctor asked as he drew up the meds. With her face in the foam pillow, she muttered, "My family is from Denmark and Germany, but I never tell people I'm German. I just tell them I'm Danish." Doctor glances again at her birthdate. She was born in the late thirties...we knew why.
She still carries the shame. It must sound more pleasant to come from the lovely land of danish breads, free education, low suicide rates, mild summers...and you can leave your children unattended just about anywhere. I'm not sure why this always sounds so intriguing to me.
What was America up to during world war II? Well, most of us can recall the Great Depression...that's why Grandma has 250 jars in the basement and uses old sandwich bags over and over again. Unemployment rates were high, along with alcoholism, suicide and prostitution. Some found relief in Roosevelt's New Deal, and by "some," I mean, "some" white people.
Unemployment rates for black people in America were much higher, and if they did have jobs they were paid far less. Still not as bad as the millions of Jews killed in the Holocaust? Maybe not...
Jim Crow laws and the KKK perpetuated lynchings that would kill up to 4,000 black people. One particular riot in Chicago left over 300 black people dead...dead because one young black man wanted to swim in an all white pool.
Still not as bad as the Nazi's? Maybe not...
​As I placed the bandage on her injection site, I thought about all of the Hispanics and African Americans we put on the front lines of war. I imagined myself hanging large pieces of paper on my wall and starting a tally.
We can tally all day long. We can argue about who the enemy is. We can cringe at ISIS, set mosques on fire, and still be angry at the little old German lady that holds her head in shame. 
There is always someone to blame.

We can decide that we are no longer the country that let's the oppressed sail in, close our gates, and build stronger walls. "No new immigrants welcome. No Vacancy."

As American's we have the ability to always hold our head high, look to the sky, rebuild, and endure. How is it that we hold our heads so high and continuously ignore the inequality and terrorism within our own walls.
Stella holds remorse and responsibility for horrific acts of cruelty and terror almost eighty years ago...and she was just a baby. 
We show no shame and take no responsibility. We shout words like, "rights, liberal, conservative, and capitalism"...as if this defines us and makes us more powerful, more influential.


The tally marks for our black Americans are still increasing...Don't even get me started with our gay population. How is it that we have no shame? We routinely focus our attention on threats to our constitution. There probably isn't one black family in this country who hasn't had their constitutional rights violated at some point. 

What is Germany doing now? For starters, they will have welcomed approximately 1.5 million refugees into their country by the end of the year. It's December 11.

I want to tell my children what it means to be a proud American, and it has nothing to do with the Constitution anymore. Freedom in this country goes far beyond a document written in 1789. We are better than that. It is no longer old white men in wigs writing the rules...and do you know why? Because we live in a country of FREEDOM.


[All patient identities and rights have been protected]

National Civil Rights Museum. http://www.civilrightsmuseum.org/ (accessed on November 29, 2006). "The Rise and Fall of Jim Crow." pbs.org http://www.pbs.org/wnet/jimcrow/ (accessed on November 29, 2006).

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Take Me To Church

12/1/2015

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We would always spend several weeks during the summer in South Carolina visiting my grandma and family.
I remember the stifling summer heat, the humid night air filled with loud bugs right outside the window. As the fan would spin, I'd think, "this fan is doing absolutely nothing but pushing around hot sticky air...I'll never fall asleep."
Indeed, I fell asleep and woke to the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen. Oh, please let that mean pancakes with grandma's handpicked blueberries.
We would eat breakfast and run down the dirt path to the dock before nine in the morning. Getting to the boat first meant claiming your favorite seat...mine was always at the very front. The speed of the boat through my hair felt like freedom, and every ripple in the water felt like adventure. We would stay out there for hours.
We skied with 2 skis, 1 ski, and sometimes no skis. We bounced on top of the glassy water in tubes and fished when we were tired. We knew every inch of that big lake with our eyes closed.
The sabbath slowed our pace a bit which usually meant I couldn't listen to my choice in music on the radio. We would stop and rest more, read more, and eat more. My dad would usually suggest we split off into two different boats.
One boat would go out for some ski runs and maybe come back early, and the other boat would go for some ski runs and take its rest time in a quiet cove filled with still water and peaceful drifting...a bit of booze for the adults, loud music and jumping off the side of the boat to pee.
Translation: One boat is going to that mansion in the sky and the other boat is going straight to hell! Which boat are you hopping on?!
I never hesitated for a second.
I was going on my dad's boat, and if that meant going to hell, well at least we'd go together.
I'd ski until my legs shook from weakness. I laid on the front of the boat covered in tanning oil and sang the Grease soundtrack out loud. We would stop in a quiet cove, my dad would sip a cocktail and we'd talk and laugh for hours. How could any part of this mean I was a hopeless sinner? We were enjoying the beauty of the outdoors, enjoying each other's company, and...we were good and happy people. I felt alive, strong and free. I remember thinking, "How could God frown upon this?"
This is my church...no judgement and no guilt...and no panty hose. Amen.

I've sat on my snowboard on top of the highest peak around and had those same thoughts...been swallowed up by the trees of Yosemite, and serenaded by the waves on the beach.
All gods are welcome.
There are no walls to these churches and no doors to push open.

Take me to that church any day of the week.
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Finding Dry Land

8/27/2015

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He lost his wife of 48 years about six months ago. "She had cancer. We survived the cancer, but it was her heart that finally gave out. She died in my arms," he told me. We survived the cancer, he said.

Jim and I found each other while walking our dogs one evening. Our dogs were desperate to sniff each other out, and he seemed eager to cross the street and chat. He told me about his wife within two minutes of our introduction. He was lonely and he was heartbroken. I touched his arm and I listened. His life would never be the same, and I wouldn't be surprised if he followed her within the year. He was pale and thin, and he needed a haircut. He probably hadn't cut it since she passed.

As we said goodbye, I pointed to my house and told him to knock on my door anytime. I asked where he lived so that I could pass his front door on my daily dog walks. Who still cared about him? I hoped he had children...grandchildren.

I walked home and thought about the "Lands of Life," you know, like the different Lands of Disney...Adventure Land, Tomorrow Land...What Land am I in now? I definitely lumped some of my "Lands" together starting "Baby Land" late in life...marriage, baby and new career Land...okay, okay baby came before marriage. I rebelled.

What's next, I wondered? I'm too young for "Everyone-is-Dying Land!"

I thought about my patients...in "Pain and Mental Health Land." How do I avoid suffering? How do I continue to cope with the adventures that life brings? I remind myself I have good parents. I have a loving husband. I have beautiful and healthy children. I wonder, is that always enough? It doesn't seem that way for some of my patients. Why not? Is it really okay to blame estrogen or testosterone...or the lack thereof?

I see the medication lists day after day...antidepressants, sleep aids, estrogen patches, testosterone injections, pain and anxiety pills. How do we continue to wake up in the morning despite our busy, sleep deprived and complicated lives and say, "I CHOOSE TO BE HAPPY!"

There isn't a book on the shelf, a diet to be found, or a therapist to help us...know what to do next.

Sometimes I think I have it all figured it out. You want the answers? Peek over to my desk. I quickly remember how easy it is to teach my patients, but how difficult it is to follow the lessons.

Becca told me, "my psychiatrist said, 'Remember! You are in charge of your own happiness! Then he muttered something about my foot in the past and another in the future...or was it my hand? Or stepping out of the past and looking at the future?'..." She didn't care. Save your hallmark card speech for someone else with the time and give me my drugs. If only a doctor could write a prescription for happiness...oh wait, they can. It's called disability.

It's easy to tell Jim, and everyone else, to choose happy each morning, but the trouble is...they don't always know how. I listen, and I remind them that everyone else they are watching around them also puts one foot in front of the other and they too are barely making it to their destinations.

Look for pieces of pleasure in the struggle. Struggling means fighting for freedom. You cannot be free without it.

{For Jim and for Becca: you are so much stronger than you know...others are watching}

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Welcome to Fiji, Here's Your Hammock

4/16/2015

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I stretched out in the hammock under two palm trees after dark. I attempted to listen to his soothing voice through my ear buds, and take in the bounty of knowledge spewed at double speed. I drifted. I closed my eyes and tried to focus my attention, but I still drifted. Too many thoughts and emotions swirled in my head to concentrate. I was feeling defeated and misunderstood, frustrated and tired. When do I throw my hands in the air? Mercy.
I had no room in my head for stories of evolution when it was pounding with disappointment. What shall I do next? I'll try and meditate. I left the earbuds in with no sounds coming through. I'll block out the world. I'll figure out what to do next.


I'm reminded of my patient.
What was she like before she started to drift away?
What was she like on their wedding day...besides stunningly beautiful?
She is still gorgeous, but her sadness steals her beauty.
She feels defeat every single day that she wakes up. She stopped caring.
She would barely speak to me and didn't care to read the consent form. I read through it with her.
She paid the risks little attention because that would mean she actually cared about something.
I read on and asked her to sign at the bottom if she didn't have any questions. 
She signed quickly and hopped on the gurney. Get on with it, nurse.

I visited her bedside after she woke up from her second treatment. She was tired, but she was more awake then she had been in a long long time. She thanked me over and over again...she reached for my hand. 
She cared again.

Desperation is a funny thing. You will do anything. What do you have to lose?
The moment a patient starts to feel better, better than they have in years, they start to care. All that they want to fight for in life comes swimming back.
They start to have questions about their treatment. They become insightful. 
Sometimes they may even decide that ECT isn't for them...even though it saved them. The risks they didn't care to read in the beginning are now something they may fret over.
I don't mind. 
You know what that means? It means they are better. 
It means they are ready to fight. They want their life back, and we helped them get to that place.
It's beautiful.

In the treatment room, Doctor Jameela and I cheer and laugh. We are so happy for them. We are grateful for what we get to witness day after day. We also serve as each other's breath of fresh air from time to time. It can be such a sanctuary.
Doctor Joy calls it our Fiji. He is so right.
Our escape and their respite.There should be a hammock in there somewhere.

I opened my eyes, still laying in the hammock. The palm trees were blowing, and the night air was warm and seemed to say, "Life is good." 
It's so hard, but the joys in life wouldn't feel quite as rewarding if we didn't have to work for them.
I created my own Fiji. I instantly felt rested and relieved.
I knew what to do next.
I hope I always do.


To my Doctor Joy and Jameela: I never have to visit the island of Fiji as long as I have you.




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