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My Maine Woods

Posted on by Susannah Warner

“We need the tonic of wilderness. We can never have enough of nature.”  -Henry David Thoreau

There’s just something about spending time in the woods that is healing. Studies say that it can lower your blood pressure, ease anxiety and lift depression. I’m grateful that I don’t suffer from any of these things, but I know that I have never once spent the day in the woods that I was sorry about, or felt like it was a waste of time. As a kid, I spent most of my days there, tramping around, building forts, leaping over mossy rocks, trying to catch water bugs and frogs, exploring and discovering old stone foundations and rock walls. At night, filled to the brim with fresh air and sunshine, I slept like a baby, knowing nothing until the sun peeked through my window and I jumped from my bed, eager to go back to God’s playground, a place where boredom does not exist. As an adult, my husband and I do the same things occasionally, but I appreciate the peace and sense of wonder even more. We like to go four-wheeling on trails and logging roads, zipping through cold and warm spots, cheeks pelted by an occasional June bug, cobweb or low hanging limb, feeling the thrill of speed and freedom, but more than that, we like to stop and explore, breathe in the silence and exhale the stress. This is what the Maine woods can do for a soul.

Each season in the Maine woods has its own smell, and if you spend enough time there, you know that even some months of the year have a certain aroma. My favorite, is June. It is so raw and so fresh and so distinctive to me that I could identify it with my eyes closed. For a child, it is the promise of days and days of freedom, for an adult it is the a reminder that all things can be made new again, and that growth is possible even after a long, cold winter. It is with the first inhalation of fresh balsam, pine, and cedar mixed with the sweetness of rotting leaves and the soil containing the footsteps of thousands of animals, that I feel the cares of the world falling off like an old coat.

I inhale and relax, tipping my head back with release, my eyes closed at first, then opening to reveal the canopy of leaves over me, screening the sun. Natures filter, the light in the woods is a photographers dream, no glare or hard lines. just a dreamy radiance. Green everywhere: different shades complimenting, not competing with each other with pops of color from purple and white violets, white and red trillium, buttercups, lily of the valley, clearings with lupine, and later in the season, daisies, black-eyed Susans, and queen Anne’s lace. Chipmunks dart away, birds swoop, deer freeze when spotted, moose lumber. Frogs are as still as statues, even when I toss grass on their backs or poke at them with a stick. Fish jump, creating ripples in the glass, jackrabbits play chicken with us, monarchs flit and the blackflys, surround my head. Deerflys, viscous and focused as heat seeking missals, are relentless, until, zipping away on four-wheelers, we finally leave them behind.

But, then we stop, and listen. Really listen. It takes a few moments to tune in. Maybe more for some people and quite possibly there are a few poor souls who never hear the sounds of the woods. There is nothing at first, just my own breathing. And then I hear it,  the symphony of the forest. God’s concert, the anthesis to the cacophony of the world. Tranquility, serenity, a hush falls over my mind and my spirit is lulled into peace. Birds, of course, but then I realize that they all have a different voice, some sweet, some aggressive, some plaintive. Frogs croak, dragonflys hum and the sounds of water, trickles through rocks. Of one accord; different, but complimentary, all together the feeling of harmony. No app can do it justice, no white noise as soothing and restful as the call of the wild.

The woods hold many treasures, hidden to all but the most adventurous, the ones who step away from the path, and venture away from man-made trails. In we go, no purpose other than curiosity, no agenda or expectations. Following the sound of water or the draw of the unknown, stumbling over fallen limbs and zig zagging around rocks. Until suddenly, my husband, ahead of me now, spots a hidden waterfall. It is beautiful, a hidden gem, and I wonder how many other eyes have seen it. Did someone venture this way last year, or maybe it has been a hundred years, or possibly it has never been seen by human eyes? The enormity of my untethered thoughts mix with the aesthetics of the backdrop and I am almost brought to tears with thankfulness. Thankful for the beauty, the feeling of innocent joy, contentment and stillness. A peace made all the sweeter because as an adult, I have felt the weight of the world and now I am unburdened. Tonight, I will sleep like a baby.

“Come to the woods, for here is rest,” -John Muir

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Switching Roles

Posted on by Susannah Warner

The following exchange happened via texts a few minutes ago between my daughter and me.

*sends a picture of an inner arm, with an insect bite or sting surrounded by quarter size pink area with a pink line creeping up the arm*  “When did this happen?” “I don’t know, I just came in from outside and noticed it.” “Where’s your (epi) pen?” “I don’t think it works, it was recalled.” “How do you feel?” Then, “Are you alone? Take Benadryl” All in quick succession. If you thought that I was the concerned one, you would be wrong. My adult daughter and I have started to switch roles, a natural progression of life.

I noticed this for the first time this winter, when I accidentally drank acetone ( I know, ridiculous but true!) and as soon as I lifted my head from the sink, where I was trying to wash my mouth out and told myself to calm down and stop hyperventilating, she was the first person I thought of to text. 1. Because she works in an ER, and knows the number to poison control off the top of her head, and 2, because she is the calmest person I know in emergencies. She has a level head, a practical mind, and the ability to assess a situation immediately. FYI, I was fine, apparently it’s not as dire as it sounds to take a swig off a bottle of acetone, although I wouldn’t recommend it as it leaves a terrible aftertaste. More recently, I wrote something that I wanted her to read. I wanted her opinion on it, but more than that, I wanted her to say she liked it. “Have you read my post yet?” I asked her twice. “No, I haven’t had a chance.” she said. She is very busy. Her weekdays are like that of any working mom, harried, busy, no breaks until her daughter is sleeping, and even then, there is still work to be done. Weekends are full of games, practices and catching up on chores. I’m happy that she is busy and enjoying her life and her family. This is what parents want for their children when they are small. I wouldn’t want her life to be any different. but I miss her.

Gone are the days when I heard her say, “Mama, watch this” a hundred times a day, while she jumped off a swing or attempted a cart-wheel. I’m glad that I tried to pay attention and respond with one of many standard mom responses, “Wow! Great job! That’s awesome! You’re amazing…..”  It’s a strange thing for a parent to ask their child for advice, for attention, and for approval if you think about it. But, I don’t usually think about it. It seems quite natural, actually. I do the same thing for my mother and someday Bean will do the same thing for hers. And now, I’m will pester my daughter to read this as soon as I post it,  I wonder what she will say.

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New Every Morning

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

The weight of the previous night pins you to your bed and the thought of your actions pierce your heart. The sickness in your body competes with the sickness in your mind, because you promised yourself that you would stop, you told your loved ones that you were done, that you hated it as much as they did. Your days are long and arduous because your nights are short and carefree, and the disappointment of others is surpassed only by the hatred of yourself and what you’ve done, again. You long to be a kid again, with no desire for evil, before you knew addiction and pain. The call of freedom and the allure of joy, no matter how false, pulls you, and you come running, justifying your actions by telling yourself that you deserve a break, because it was a hard day, you’re feeling down and overwhelmed, or maybe the day is sunny, its Friday or a holiday. There is always a reason, there is always an excuse. When the thought of juggling lives and lies is too much, know this: it is a new day, with new mercies and a clean slate. You are loved and you are forgiven. Today, you are fresh and new. Get up, show up, don’t give up. Do all that you can, and know that what you can’t do, He will. His mercies are new every morning. This is a promise, claim it, it is yours.

Lamentations 3:22-23 (KJV)

It is of the Lord‘s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.

They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.

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The Pull of Addiction

Posted on by Susannah Warner

She calls your name, and you shiver. You try to ignore her, but without her, life seems meaningless. She whispers in your ear, and you strain to catch what she is saying. Shaking your head to stop the spread, insidious and encompassing, you can’t help but wonder how anyone can live without her. What a dull life others must lead without the pull of something so alluring and exciting. “Stay busy,” you think, “that will help.” But on your feet or lying in your bed, curled up to stop the onslaught, she finds you, her voice urgent now. She needs you, you need her, her beckon is intoxicating. You think of your family, your friends. They hate her, they say she has taken you away from them, robbed you of your joy. “Don’t listen to them,” she purrs, “I love you, we have so much fun together. You are happy with me, how can something that makes you happy be bad? They don’t understand.” She tugs on the cable surrounding you, ensnaring you. It is a beautiful chain. Golden and glistening with diamonds, you allow yourself to be pulled. “She is so beautiful, beauty is good. She knows me, understands me, she accepts me,” you reason. On your feet now, walking, then running to her, excitement building, your heart pounding. Your loved ones, watch you go to her once again, and they keep watching, hoping you will turn around and see that they are still there, right where you left them. But you become smaller and smaller until even eyes sharp and bright with love, can’t see you anymore. And you? You run to her now, the decision made, the die-cast. But she turns before you can reach her, a swirl of beauty, the ecstasy you have chased just out of reach. “wait,” you say, “you promised that we would be together, you told me you loved me, I left everything for you.” Laughing, she darts out of your grasp, pulling you with her, you can’t keep up and you fall on your knees. She is dragging you now, you are no match for her strength. You try to stand, but she runs faster, the golden thread now a rusty chain, wrapped around your neck, choking you. Too late, you realize that your family was right. Her beauty is hideous, terrible and alive. How did you not see? Why didn’t you listen? Shame falls on you like a black blanket, stifling and paralyzing. You know that it won’t be long now, you have thrown away everything for her, and she will make you another victim. Taking one last furtive glance back, you can see your family, maybe a whole group still, or maybe only one left, standing on a hill, backlit by the setting sun, as steady and unfaltering as an oak, with roots so vast and so deep, they tremble below you now, and jolt you with the truth. You have been deceived, you were wrong, you hate yourself and you want to die, but you keep looking at that beautiful tree as you bump along ensnared by your master, Addiction. Hope gone now, regret, bitter on your tongue, you are ready to accept your fate until you become aware of love and forgiveness raining down on you, a sprinkle at first, then a downpour. Clean and refreshed, you struggle to your feet, causing Addiction to stop for a minute, bewildered. She’s coming back to get you, beautiful once again, whispering to you so sweetly. But, you have seen the truth, you have felt love and she is not love, she is deception. The decision made, the chains around you fall, and you trudge back up the hill, beaten and battered, but feet moving toward your shelter. She still calls you, you are still attached, but it is a thread now, and the velvet cord from your family to your heart strengthens. It has always been there, it will always be there. It is called love and it will never fail. You are still pulled, you will always be pulled, but you know that the love and devotion of others will tug at your heart with a strength that far surpasses the pull of Addiction. You are sheltered now. You are home, you are loved and forgiven, you are where you belong.

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Sunflower

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Today, as I dropped Bean off at preschool, we were a few minutes later than we usually are. The door to the classroom was already open, and she started to head in without saying goodbye. “Hey!” I said, “where’s my kiss?” “Ohhh, duh” she said, slapping her head in a gesture I’ve done myself, many times. I bent down as she turned her sunflower face to me, open and beautiful, framed by the purple petals of her dress and matching hair bow. “Have a good day, love you, see you later.” I said, after kissing her, a scene that has replayed countless times in my 25 years of motherhood, first with her mother, then her uncle. I will be there to pick her up when school is over, she knows that I will, as I know that she will greet me, face up, radiant smile on her face.

Our little ones are like this, at least for a short while, hungrily lapping up attention and affection rays as greedily as a seedling, their small stature forcing them to look up at us, their sun. But our sunflower will grow, and there will come a time when she will be your height or taller. Then, you will raise your face to your flower, as eager for affection and attention as they once were. If you have cultivated what you have sown, with rains of structure and discipline, winds of hope and love, and rays of joy, if you have tended your little garden faithfully, pulling weeds and whispering words of encouragement, and with a little luck on your side, someday your sunflower will smile down on you. Eagerly, you might say,  “hey! Where’s my kiss?!?” Your flower, woman sized now, will incline her lovely head and you will kiss her forhead before she leaves for school, driving now. “Have a good day, love you, see you later,” you cheerfully wave her off, while you throw a prayer out to the universe or to God, “take care of my baby, keep her safe.” You are no longer the gardener in her life and you can only hope that the seed you planted, cultivated, showered, and weeded, will bloom making the world a more beautiful place, bright and joyful like a sunflower.

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10 Reasons to Love a Millennial

Posted on by Susannah Warner

The other day in the grocery store, searching for a line that was not too long, I decided to test out my husband’s “line” theory. One time, I complained to him about how I always seem to get stuck in the wrong line. He said, “That’s because you are looking at the length of the line, instead of the cashier.” Curious to see if he was right, and in no particular hurry this time, I pushed my cart past the shorter lines, the ones manned by older ladies with short, permed hair who paused at every item to comment on the weather or the unfairness of the price of eggs, and arrived at a longer line with a cashier 1/3 of the age of some of the others. The line moved quicker than I thought it would, thanks to the ease with which the young man could chat, scan coupons and produce and help bag the groceries. I usually try to give credit where credit is due, so I said “Wow, you are fast.” he shrugged and said, “I try to be.”

This short exchange made me think a few things: first, my husband was actually right about this, and secondly, and more relevant to this post, I thought about the fact that millennials often get a bad rap and that’s too bad, because I think that they are awesome.

Let me start by saying that I am firmly ensconced in Generation X, having a birth year of 1972. My husband is too, although just barely because he was born in 1965. We have two children, both millennials. I have worked with, and have both family and friends that are baby boomers, Gen Xers, millennials and even traditionalists, who were born between 1900-1945. I have realized recently that I enjoy working with, and hanging out with millennials the most, and here are 10 reasons why.

1. Millennials are great communicators. Because they grew up in a time where they were encouraged to talk about their feelings, they do, and this is great. I don’t know about you, but I prefer to know where I stand with someone rather than suffer through years of passive/aggressive BS and wonder if that person is mad at me or just a jerk.

2. Everyone knows that they are great multi-taskers, but as in the case of the cashier, we all can, and will benefit from this skill. This is great news for someone who is as impatient as I am.

3. They have time management skills. Many millennials had very structured childhoods. Practice, lessons, even free time was scheduled. Because of this, they know how to be where they are supposed to be, and on time.

4. They are willing to share their knowledge without judgement. They are patient and even chuckle fondly, shaking their heads at my helplessness when I ask them to help me navigate Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat.

5, They like to make connections. Thanks to social media, the millennials I know, seem to view the world as a smaller place than I did as a kid. They find it easier than some generations to find a common ground with any age group.

6, They work to live, not live to work. They already know what some people don’t find out until it’s too late. Life is too short to not have fun.

7. Many of them actually like their parents and enjoy spending time with them. As a mother of millennials, I can’t tell you how happy this makes me. I’m pretty sure that my generation was not supposed to like their parents and certainly not choose to spend a Saturday night with them. I love that about this generation.

8. They are tolerant. They accept and appreciate different cultures, ethnicities, religions and sexual orientations. Because of that, I know that they will not mind at all if I include this Bible verse from John 15: 12. “This is my commandment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you.” Millennials, you are great at this.

9. They received a trophies for participation as children. I know, I know, this is one of the  things that other generations don’t like. Gen X’ers and baby boomers like to brag that if we got a trophy, it was because we were the best at something and we deserved it, not just received an award for showing up. I’d like to challenge that belief. How else are kids going to learn the value of trying something out and sticking with it even if they were not the best at it? I mean really, its well-known that hard work and dedication can carry you pretty far in life, even if you haven’t been born with a specific gift. Actually, why should someone be rewarded for raw talent as opposed to participation anyway? If you were born with it, that doesn’t make you special, just lucky. As adults, don’t we get the grownup equivalent of a trophy by bringing home a paycheck for showing up at work and at least participating? I believe that these kids learned life lessons about perseverance, commitment and just maybe, they got a little self-esteem boost, isn’t that what we want for our kids and traits we want to foster into adulthood?

10.  Last but not least, someday a millennial might be pushing my wheelchair out to the courtyard at the nursing home. I’m counting on that diligent, parent-loving, connection building individual, with a passion for life who is looking for a little bit of fun, to take an extra minute and share a cigarette (yes, I quit 18 years ago, but plan to pick it back up in my final days!), and a laugh with me. I have no doubt one of them will.

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Why I love Teens

Posted on by Susannah Warner

This is my last night of being a mother of a teenager, a role I have had for almost 13 years. It may seem strange, but it makes me sad to think that my son will no longer be a teen in less than 24 hours. I have enjoyed these years immensely, actually this has been my favorite stage of child rearing. I know, it’s weird. But I have loved going to games and meets, plays and concerts and even having tons of their friends in the house. It made me feel like one of them, in a good way, without the crappy school part.

My son especially, has had a steady stream of visitors since he was in the first grade. As the boys grew older, the sneakers hastily kicked off by the door got bigger and so did the appetites. Sometimes I would get up in the morning and found that gallons of milk had been consumed as well as whole jars full of cookies. frozen pizzas, potato chips, any leftovers I had, and one time a whole jar of cinnamon for some ridiculous “cinnamon challenge.”  I never minded this. I loved having them at home where I knew what they were doing and I also loved just hanging out with them.

My daughter’s friends were fun, because I could get the detailed information about school happenings that she was either unwilling or unable to give. Nothing major, just high school gossip, who was dating whom, who cheated on who, that kind of stuff.  It was fun and helped me to see my daughter in a different light and it felt like I was back in school with them. Watching movies, taking them shopping, doing hair for prom, I loved it all.

My son’s friends were different. They came in packs, rarely alone. Most of the time, at least two that would spend the night, or that’s how many there were when I went to bed. Sometimes a few more would be dropped off later by their parents and I wouldn’t know until morning when I would stumble over several pairs of Nike’s that were littering the area by the door. Sometimes there would be so many boys, there would not be any available room to sleep on the bed, or the floor and some poor soul was forced to sleep on the couch. You might think that this would be better than than sleeping five deep in a smallish, slightly stinky bedroom but they weren’t there to sleep. Not unlike puppies, sleep was not on the agenda, until exhausted from a night of wrestling, rolling around, and teasing each other, they would fall asleep in what appeared to be a large pile of blankets, arms and feet. In more recent years, as the boys got their licences, a jumble of old sedans and a rusty SUV or two littered my driveway and spilled out onto the side of the street some mornings, making our property look like a used car lot until one by one, they stumbled downstairs at different intervals to go to work or an early morning practice. I loved it.  I loved it when they would grab a freshly baked muffin on the way out or when they would sit in the kitchen to talk, some drinking milk, some drinking coffee.

The best thing about having a teenager though, was when we were alone. Watching one of our shows together, going out to eat, or my favorite, and the best, most comfortable place to talk, riding in the car. This is where our most organic conversations have happened. Music on, staring straight ahead, no pressure, that’s when the real stuff comes out.

Teens can be challenging, they can be thoughtless and selfish at times. It has not always been a joy to raise them. It certainly is not as easy emotionally as it is to have a preschooler who throws her arms around you and tells you that you are her best friend or the first-grader who grabs your hand and tells you that he will marry you someday. No, teens make you work for their affection and their time. They will not say either of these things to you and you are not usually their first choice to hang out with. But, if you cherish the pieces they give you, you will see a glimmer of the adult that they will become, and you will see that you have been raising  your future best friend.

 

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Forgiving a Mother Who Never Asked

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Mother’s day is a hard day for my husband. His mother passed away several years ago due to complications from the chemotherapy she was receiving for the treatment of breast cancer. It damaged her heart to the point that she needed a heart transplant. The attempted transplant was not successful and a mechanical heart was implanted. She suffered several strokes shortly after and died within a week of the surgery. Her untimely death is not the only reason that Mother’s day is hard. It is a tough day because he has had to learn to forgive a person who was not sorry.

A mom of two boys by the age of 17, she missed out on the normal experiences of a teenager in the mid 60’s, and often told her sons this. She frequently left the boys with relatives, dumping them off for weeks at a time. It is testament to the poor living conditions that he had with his mother that the days of living with grandparents and a few times with an aunt and her partner were some of the best times of my husband’s life, and the people he credits for giving him some semblance of a normal childhood. She was mentally and physically abusive, and had some of the things happened in this day and age, the boys would surely have been removed from her care. The addition of a stepfather and later on, two half-brothers did not help the situation. The younger ones were favored but even they didn’t escape some of the abuse. My husband tried to run away multiple times and ultimately left for good as soon as he turned 17,  joining the army with his mothers written permission.

Seven years later, when I joined the family, things had only improved marginally and although my he never complained about his upbringing and rarely said anything negative about her, I could see the situation clearly.  She was not a big part of our lives through the years, and her death only bothered me because of the grief that it caused my husband. He mourned her passing even when he was handed a letter at the funeral, written by her before she entered the hospital to await her transplant. The letter was not the apology that I initially assumed it would be. It was a list of his shortcomings and the hardships she endured in her selfless attempt to raise him and his brothers. I watched him burn the letter that night, and I saw him cry. There would be no absolution, no explanation, nothing that said “I did the best that I could.”

Yet, he misses her, especially on her birthday and Mother’s day. Maybe he misses her good points, she was beautiful, and witty, and at times, generous. But I think he misses most, something he never had. A relationship like I have with our son. I wish that he had with her the easy friendship that I have with our boy. The shared jokes and favorite TV shows, the ease with which he shares things with me that sometimes I don’t really want to know. I wish that my husband had that with his mother. I wish he had a lifetime of sweet memories of her instead of the painful legacy she left behind. I wish that she had left a different letter. I think he just misses having a mother, good or bad. He loves her and has forgiven her, although she never asked for it.

It is a strange thing to behold as a nurse, and as an observer of human nature, how children love their mothers. Selfish and abusive or unfeeling and negligent, these things do not prevent a child from having the desire to be with his mother. They long for them, and call for them until suddenly they don’t. Until finally, the child is old enough to protect himself from the pain of rejection. The heart hardens and a wall develops. A wall that a future partner will spend a lifetime trying to knock down. A wall that a mother, nearing the end of her days, lonely, and with a lifetime of regret, could dissolve with a few words… “I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry, I did the best that I could.”

Afterword: I almost didn’t post this piece. I asked my husband to read it because I wanted to get his permission since it is his life, and his story. He told me initially that is was alright to post, but I could tell that it made him sad. He doesn’t want his mom to look bad. I actually had a different title in the beginning, and some unkind comments. We talked about it and I changed some things. Tines, thank you for letting me share with others a small piece of your amazing, crazy life.

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More Precious than Jewels

Posted on by Susannah Warner

She is far more precious than jewels. Proverbs 31:10

This is the face of a mom who has to go to work. Her daughter wants her to stay home but she has to go. Her mouth smiles but her eyes do not. She has her keys in her hand, her purse on her shoulder and she has had to ask for favors from family and friends to watch her daughter because it is nearly impossible to afford daycare and because her evening and weekend work schedule does not allow her to send her daughter to one anyway. She cries as she drives and she thinks about that sad face. “I can’t do this,” she says aloud. But she is doing it. She works in a busy emergency room where she will see good moms, with pinched, worried faces. Mothers whose children have high fevers or a broken arm. She will also see a few bad moms. Selfish and rude, with coarse voices and a hardened exterior, they will sneak outside for a cigarette or demand to know in a loud, disruptive voice, “what the f#@$ is taking so long?”  But those moms are few and far between. Many of the  mothers are single and many are like this mom; trying to get by, struggling to raise kind, productive citizens on boxed macaroni and cheese. This is a picture of my daughter, She is a single mom. She is one of many, many women who are doing it every day, even though they feel like they can’t.

This is to the mom who drops her kids off at daycare after an early morning wake-up call in which the first thought was that you are going to go to bed early tonight for a change instead of basking in the one hour of alone time you have all day. A morning spent changing diapers, feeding the cat, asking, then telling, then finally yelling at your preschooler to get her shoes on in between trying to make yourself presentable for work and then suddenly remembering that the baby has a well-child checkup mid-day and you will have to get out of work early. You drop them off in a rush, but the baby clings to your legs and puts up his chubby arms for you to pick him up. You smile and remove him, give him a kiss and tell him that you love him, and leave him with his caregiver. You cry on the way to work and think, “I can’t do this. ”  But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose six-year-old exhausts you with requests to play Uno, Barbies, and hopscotch. “Read to me, watch me, play with me” is her battle cry. You go to the bathroom to get a minute to yourself but the door bangs open and in she comes, asking to make cookies with you. You need a break, an hour alone to not talk or smile and to please no one but yourself. But there is no one to relieve you, and you feel guilty for wishing you could be alone. “I can’t do this,” you think as you get out the chocolate chips and she pulls a kitchen chair up to the counter so that she can “help.” But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose teenage son is angry with school and with life. His music is loud and his hair is long. His friends are questionable and his girlfriend is sullen. He stays out past curfew one night and you do not sleep and instead, frantically text, call, and social-media stalk him and his friends to determine his whereabouts. You wonder if you should start texting other parents or maybe call the police, until finally, two hours late, he stumbles in, the stench of rebellion poisoning the air.  You know that you should wait until the morning, but you are tired and relieved and angry all at once, so you yell at him and he yells back. Your sweet baby boy punches a hole in the wall and in your heart and then slams his door while you think to yourself, “I can’t do this.” But you are doing it.

Mom, this is the hardest task you that will ever be entrusted to you. You won’t be sure of yourself and you will always feel guilty. There will never be a time when you think,  I’m doing a damn good job. You will always worry, wonder, and at times wish it away. As a single mom, the full mantle of responsibility rests on your shoulders. You are the good cop and the bad cop, the yin and the yang. You have no one to bounce ideas off of, to tell you when you are being ridiculous or to support you with an end-of-discussion Dad voice warning the whiner to “listen to your mother.”

It is a struggle: financially, mentally, and emotionally. There will be days when you feel confident and in control and nights when fear, the friend of darkness, pins you to your bed, paralyzing your body and stimulating your mind.  But when the sun comes up, and your phone alarm goes off in the morning, and you roll out of bed swearing that you will go to bed early tonight, know this: You are strong and beautiful. Your strength comes from adversity and your beauty comes from every challenge that you have faced along the way. These hard times are polishing you and preparing you for the day when your babies are grown and they show you off  like a young woman shows off her engagement ring. “Meet my Mom,” he will say, diploma in hand, his face alight, “I couldn’t have done it without her.” On that day, you, in a green dress, tissue in hand, standing back to let your baby have his moment, will be brought forth and your worth and brilliance will be on display for all to admire. You will finally know what your children have learned and what we bystanders have always known; that you are precious and that you did a damn good job.

 

Posted in Uncategorized

What it feels like to be a Nurse

Posted on by Susannah Warner

#1 Most trusted profession? According to Gallup’s annual poll, nurses have ranked highest in honesty and ethical standards for 15 consecutive years. Today is National Nurses Day and this is what it feel like to be a nurse.

You work 3 days a week (unless you feel guilty that everyone is working short-staffed and you pick up an extra shift) but during those three days you see only your co- workers and your bed. Everything and everyone else cease to exist.

Returning home after a 13+ hour day, you have learned to ignore piles of dishes and laundry and force yourself to get to bed ASAP because in a few hours, you will do it all over again.
Friends and family say to you, “wow, you have a lot of time off!”

Your first day off after two or three shifts in a row is a day of catching up on laundry, not on sleep.
At any given moment at work, your feet hurt, your back or neck hurts, you are probably hungry, and you may or may not have had a chance to go to the bathroom since you got there.

You optimistically bring a lunch everyday but sometimes don’t have time to eat it.

You are really good at nodding and smiling, but your nurse friends know the truth. Sometimes, you only have time to exchange glances, but that’s all you need to feel better.
Your long hours make you depend on co-workers to switch shifts or come in early for you so you can rush to your child’s basketball game or concert in your scrubs.
Saltines and graham crackers? Yes at work. Never, ever at home.
Someone else’s bowel movements; Cheered, charted, reported and discussed. Weird? Not to us.
Same with urine, sputum and vomit.
Walks, talks and pees in the toilet is a wonderful phrase to hear during report.
Ditto with alert and oriented.
Speaking of report, giving to and getting from the same person a few days in a row can make your whole day.
Admission is a dirty word.
So is quiet.
Holidays and weekends and nights. Enough said.

Donuts from Drs, chocolates from patients and cakes for birthdays can cause a stampede in the break room.
When you are off, random medical emergencies in which you must take action, seem to happen frequently around you, although you try to avoid these situations like the plague.
Regarding the health of your children, you are one of two ways: certain that every headache is brain tumor and every stomach ache is appendicitis or shrug off every complaint with a “you’ll be fine.”
Among your coworkers, you know who is the best at different tasks like a difficult IV start or putting in an NG tube so you trade tasks or beg them to come along for “moral support.”
You have uttered the phrase, “I absolutely HAVE to get out on time today because I have to do X, Y and Z.” It doesn’t happen.
After a long day, when your spouse says, “how was your day?”, you say “fine” because to even begin to tell a non medical person everything you did and saw seems exhausting.
When you do feel like talking, usually when eating, your spouse abruptly ends the conversation with a hand up and a “please!”, when the word diarrhea makes its appearance.

No subject is off-limits with your co-workers and they know everything about you.

Wolfing down a meal with another nurse is the perfect time to discuss bodily functions. or lack thereof.

You think maybe you have seen it all, until the next strange things comes along.

You learn to accept anything, odd requests from patients, OCD behavior from other nurses, mood swings of physicians, and try to accomadate them all, as they also accept your quirks.

You live in fear that you will accidentally cause a HIPPA violation.
Because of HIPPA, your spouse has probably said to you, “xxxx said they saw you at work. Why didn’t you tell me?!?”

As a nurse, you have been punched, kicked, sworn and spit at. You have also held hands, cried with, hugged and even kissed strangers. You have been called a bi*%# and an angel in the same day. You have truly loved and disliked certain patients but have treated both the same way. You have loved and hated your job. You have cried and laughed. You have seen births and deaths. You have seen tragedy and triumph. You have seen people at their worst and their best. You have been at your worst and at your best. Your co-workers are like siblings. You are proud to be a nurse.

Happy Nurses Day.