When I started this journal and journey how ever long ago, I was struggling with what should have been the happiest time of my life. I was a much loved wife and a brand new mom. My beloved husband would not be going back to war; my beautiful adopted son had just come home from the hospital after a mere 24 hours. I was surrounded by family and friends, with a roof over my head and an ocean breeze to lull me to sleep at night. And yet I was miserable.

I happened to land on JournalHome and found I had a place there. I could rage and vent and cry in the relative anonymity of cyberspace. Blogging all my trials and tribulations, trite as though they may have seemed, was my saving grace in a dark and desperate time. I mean, who knew you could have post partum depression when you´ve never even given birth? How fortunate was I to have even made some friends along the way...

Now, fast forward. I am in a much different place. The love of my life, St. Hubby remains by firmly by my side; the other love of my life, my beautiful adopted son is a healthy, bright, joyous 21 month old bundle of energy. I am still surrounded by family and friends, with a roof over my head and an ocean breeze that lulls me to sleep at night. But I have exorcised the demons that prevented me from truly embracing all the tender mercies and many blessings in my life. JH is largely responsible for that - free therapy! - and for that I am grateful.

My blogging has dropped off quite a bit lately (although I suppose it is typically egotistic of me to believe anyone has noticed), as my energies have turned elsewhere. I am no longer completely entrenched in my own misery; no longer have the burning need to document my every angst. After all, there are husbands to be kissed and flowers to be named and bugs to be looked at, puppies to pet, toes to be tickled and stories to be read.

Because I am a Mother now, and all that entails. I have the greatest, hardest, most rewarding, exasperating job on earth. Oh, I am still me: I wear my tiara occasionally; I do not function well on four hours of sleep; I curse when I am mad, and I am vain and selfish at times. But I am a much better driver - and a much better me. Becoming a Mom (and a grown up) did that.

Whew. What a journey.

Until we meet again, blessings to you all.

Mary Kate and William

aka Caffeinedmom and Junior

p.s. Love and thanks to Dawnie, CyberMom to everyone... 

Let me preface by saying a few things:

1. Yes, the word "piss" or "pisses" is vulgar. Acknowledged. As a child, we got in more trouble from the Almighty Junester (aka Mom) when we used such words as pissed and sucked than we used true curse words

2. It is true I seem to blog when I am venting ~ which, if you look at it is actually a good thing, since I have not whined in a while (things are that good - but that's another blog)

3. I may, just may have had that second glass of La Crema Chardonnay (incidentally, YUM!) against better judgement

Okay! On to my pissy-ness. I'll keep it simple, since a) I may not be exceptionally articulate at this point and b) Junior has broken several critical keys on my laptop and it makes it more difficult to type. So here it is: Gang member opens up fire in crowded, family entertainment area. Gang member shoots the face off of one of the officers responding. Officer able to shoot (and kill) said gang member. Pissy in it self, yes? The bullet bounced around his spine for a bit, too. Intubated now; hoping to wean and trach by Friday if the swelling goes down. So this asshole did some real damage. Well, come to find dead gang member belongs to a certain gang whose street motto is one for all, which means, you kill one of them, they will kill an officer and his family. ICU has turned into Alcatraz and a circus all at the same time. These amoraless fuckwads and their twisted sense of values actually leaves me speechless.

Sorry, Mom, but this sucks and it really pisses me off...

Things have really been shaken up here in the old homestead over the last couple of months. St. Hubby, casuality of corporate downsizing, lost his job in September. Ten years of seniority just wasn't enough. He still has his military gig, and fortunately, we have always gotten our health benefits through that. But Junior, certainly worth every penny and then some, had eaten considerably into our savings. We had kind of become a paycheck-to-paycheck household over the last year.

So Holy Crap, Batman! We we just an Oprah show away from middle class to homeless? Would we start to bicker, fight, blame each other? Would we (*gasp*) have to move in with my mother? This whole thing had us really rattled...

St. Hubby had been miserable at work. MISERABLE. He often worked 60 hours a week, between his military and civilian jobs. It was not a rare occurence for him to work 26 days in a row. And he was away from home a lot. He never complained (soldier's mentality), but I could see it in his eyes. Really. His beautiful baby blues had been missing something for a long time.

So for a temporary fix, I picked up a couple of extra shifts at work. (God Bless the nursing shortage.) I worked three 12 hour shifts one week, and 3 more the following week. St. Hubby stayed home, thought about job prospects, and got to know his son. Starting over in corporate America (especially at his - ahem - seasoned age) was a bleak prospect. It did not excite him at all. And undoubtedly, he would be taking a huge paycut, starting all over again. he fretted, and worried. I comforted and was optimistic. He didn't want corporate America? We would find something else. He argued we had no other chocie. My annoying Laura Ingalls Facing The Blizzard We Will Get Through This attiditude reminded him there was always a choice. 

And 2 weeks later, when I got my paycheck, voila. There was the answer. Right there, preceeded by a dollar sign. Turns out, I make a shit load of money. A mean a veritible poop load. I guess all my years of experience and speciality pay caught up with me. This was not readily obvious, working as sporadically as I did previously. I made more in 6 days of working than he did in 2 weeks. Who knew? When I handed him my paystub, I said "We can now afford to do what ever it is you want to do." He looked at me, looked at the paystub, looked at me, and said "I want to be a history teacher and coach soccer on the side and have weekends and holidays off so I can be with my family."

Done. He is now one great stay-at-home Dad, working on his teaching certification.

We are one happy family, rolling along, and I thank God that I can thank God that he lost his job...

...yesterday they installed bullet-proof doors in ICU.

So I am at work the other day, saving lives and stamping out disease as usual, and I have a particularly - um - insistant - patient who thinks every thing is absolutely critical and can only be handled by a nurse. I am trying to cut the guy some slack; he's had major surgery and maybe he's a little scared. So although I am responsive to his needs ("more water, more ice, another pillow, close the curtain," etc.) by the 11th hour, literally, it's getting a little old.

The call light goes on AGAIN.

"I need to see my nurse right away"

"What did you need, sir?" The unit secretary is ever sweet, ever patient.

"My nurse!"

"What did you need so she can better assist you when she comes to your room?"

"I told you, my nurse! I need my nurse! I need her!"

Thinking he was in distress, I stop everything and hightail it down to his room.

"Yes, Mr. ___. What did you need?"

"Hold on." He is writing furiously on a piece of paper. I sigh inwardly. He keeps writing. I sigh outwardly. "Mr. ___, I thought this was an emergency."

"This is. This is very important." He handed me a note. I think - briefly - it's a note of thanks, but stop myself. This is county, after all.

The notes says "I do not like tuna. Please do not place tuna on my tray. I like chicken. Dark meat, well done only, and BBQ flavored. But no tuna."

Since God blessed me with a warped sense of humor, I simply replied "Well, this is the Hospital, not the Hilton, but I will see what I can do. Please don't forget to tip your waitress at the end of her shift."

Thankfully I am off for the next two days...

A gentleman came up to me in the parking lot yesterday at the market. He motioned to the military stickers required for base entrance on the lower left hand side of my vehicle. "Excuse me, Miss," he began.

I smiled politely, wanly, thinking to myself "please don't be a Bush basher, bashing me along with your tirade, and give your Monday Morning quarterback opinion of the war and this country and all that is wrong with it; (heavy sigh), I realize it is popular to, with superior attitude, pontificate smugly about the so called ineffective military strategy enacted approximately 8,000 miles away (because you undoubtedly have soooo much experience in this area) and point out the faults and flaws of this great land. I heard about the 'missed benchmarks.' I know. I'm tired of this war, too. But I love this country, and I love the man I sent into war to protect it, I don't want to send him back and I really, really don't want to hear any political rhetoric today."

"I just wanted to say thank you for your service."

I relaxed a little, gave him a more genuine smile, and said "I'll tell my husband you said that. Thanks." I started to get in my car.

"No, Ma'am. I'm thanking you for your service. I am grateful to your husband and all, and I have no doubt that he has done or is doing a fine job. But make no mistake, you are every bit a hero in my book. Your job here, on the home front, is every bit as difficult."

"Well, you're very kind, but I wouldn't go that far." It didn't dawn on me that someone other than a fellow military spouse would get it.

"I would." He looked me in the eye. "Every bit a hero. So thank you."

Wow. He got it.

He shook my hand. I kissed his cheek.

A tear ran down mine as I drove home.  

you have compassion for the patient but want to kill the family members

can have a detailed conversation about poop over lunch without batting an eye

tag, bag, and drag a body down to the morgue, wash your hands, and go on break

think three day old donuts in the breakroom is a score

fully and firmly believe in the whole full moon jinx hocus pocus

you can decipher gang tatoos

you are so good at multitasking you could probably give birth, change a tire, and carve the Thanksgiving turkey all at the same time

 When you are this dang cute?!?!

My first car was a 1960 Ford Falcon. I bought it for $50 bucks, it was literally held together with duct tape, and the fact that it still ran made it inherently cool.

My next vehicle was a 1950 Chevy pick up truck. Three-the-tree gear shift, with the 5 window wrap around. SWEET!

Digging the whole truck thing, I then purchased a 1967 Ford (yes, Ford again, so I'm fickle) Pick Up, F250, double gas tanks. The original engine turned 300,000 miles as I crossed the Texas state line. Now is that a country song or what?

Earl/Sleeping With the Enemy/Practice Husband got the 1989 Ford Bronco in the divorce, so I won't go there. But I still regret letting it go. And by "it" I mean the Bronco.

Still have my 1998 Chevy Silverado, which has at least another year to go, minimum, before it can be in the running for cool. But it is long since paid for, so it's getting there.

With Junior in the picture, I refused the typical mini-van (the equivilant to emasculation with a butter knife to all men) and St.Hubby and I jointly decided on a Jeep Liberty. I like it. The 5 CD disc changer is quite a step up from duct tape. However, I noticed...Gasp...the little crumbs...the plethora of toys...the back up diaper bag...the stroller...the roll of paper towels...the pop-up of Lysol disinfectant wipes...

It's official. Doesn't matter what I drive. I've got a Mom Car.

Our son from the day he was born...made official by the State of California July 19, 2007

No, not by St. Hubby. If that were the case, I would be posting bail, not blogging. No, I am talking about the profession I have loved, and the body I have tried to love. Both have seemingly turned on me.

I noticed the pain almost a year ago, but like any good crusty nurse worth her salt, I ignored it. Isn't that what ungodly amounts of motrin and the occasional Jack Daniel's is for? (Sorry I ended that sentence in a preposition. Never have parents who were English teachers - it fucks you up!) Anyway, I shrugged it off and moved on. Started going to yoga less - couldn't do all the moves - and then modifying all of my movements; getting dressed was turning out to be an athletic event in itself in effort to avoid the pain. Months ticked by; I had to let my best friend and evil companion at work finally know, because I could no longer hide my grimaces and occasional yelps of pain when repositioning patients. (And like any good and decent evil companion, she covered for me.) Besides, my gynormous uterus was bothering me as well and taking precedence in the overall scheme of things.

So I got the uterus somewhat fixed, and at last confessed to myself the 5, count 'em 5 motrin I was taking at one time was no longer dimming the discomfort, and I would have to go to the goddamn doctor. Many MRIs, X-rays, cortisone shots later... 

'"Left shoulder tendonitis with impingement sydrome. Surgical candidate"

Um, okay, well, not great, but sounded innocuous enough. Arthroscopic, right? Day surgery? Few weeks off of work? Hey! Here's an idea - let's schedule it around Christmas, so I can get the holidays off!

"...three weeks in a sling and then 16 weeks no lifting; you have extensive nerve involvement."

Well, I coulda told you that based on the fact I keep dropping things, but 16 weeks? What the frick?!?!?!

"Probably repetitive motion through the years. I actually see this with a lot of nurses, We'll have to wait and see if there is permanent damage. Can you pinpoint an exact date of injury?"

Well, there was the time the diagnosed schizophrenic thought I was trying to kill him and twisted my arm behind my back so hard I actually cried, but I could not tell you when that was. And I remember distinctly when the 600 pound man fell on the floor and then turned a smurfy blue and we had to pull him up and put him back in bed, but again, the date escapes me. But all in all, I'm gonna bet that since I have spent almost half of my life (literally) pushing, pulling, lifting, twisting and generally physically exerting myself to save lives and stamp out disease, that's the cause. The funny thing is, I've always done what I could to protect my back...

Incidentally, there is no such thing as modified duty as a nurse - they won't pay nurse's wages to do modified work. They let you sit home and collect disability. Except as a per diem nurse, I don't qualify for disability.

Somebody pass the motrin. I'll wash it down with a swig of Jack (held in my right hand, of course, so I don't drop it) while I try to figure this out...

..I'll let you know when the pity party is over!

Coulda been the 17 year old gun shot wound to the head (by a rival gang member) who is confused (now permanently) and crying for his Mama. When his Mama does finally show up, shes wearing a tank top that says "No body sucks it better." Just rubbed me the wrong way. But I didnt say word.

Mighta been the man watching me juggle multiple IV tubings and yet screamed he needed me immediately. He couldnt reach his feet and he wanted me to wash them. Yup, pissed me off. I kept my mouth shut.

Was it the Grandma who, despite all of my best efforts, managed to pull out her central line and swung repeatedly at me when I tried to apply pressure to the wound? I mean, honestly, isnt 67 a little old to be doing crack cocaine? But I just smiled, applied pressure, and ducked.

But no, I think it was the guy who insisted on giving me a running commentary on his every freakin move. "Nurse! Come now! I am tired!" (Um, okay, take a nap.) "Nurse! Come now! I dont like this kind of juice!" (Ill send your waitress right over.) "Nurse! Come now! I feel pain!" (Well, I just gave you enough morphine to sedate a horse about 90 seconds ago. What say we wait and see if it works?) "Nurse! Come now! I want extra pillow!" (This is County, buddy. You already have one. That makes you one over the usual quota.) Of course, my retorts are all in my head.

"Nurse! Come now! He fell!"

Wait a minute; thats the wife. I rush over, I find him in bed. I am confused. Wife explains she was helping him up when he slumped over in bed. Okay, technically that is a slump, not a fall. He did not hit his head or any other body part. He is not bleeding, and his vital signs are better than mine. Yet miraculously, he cant see. Starts crying loud enough to shake the rafters. Looks at the doctor when the doctor comes in, tells him he cant see, and starts crying louder. Young fresh faced new intern tries to do the right thing. He orders x-rays, a CT scan, a neuro consult. I start filling out the extraneous "patient fall" paperwork. Sweet new intern says "Okay, is there anything else I should order?"

Its out of my mouth before I know it. And in tone and volume not befitting of a nurse I say "Yeah, could you order some Vagasil? This guy is a fucking pussy!"

No doubt Ms. Nightingale did a spin in her grave over that one!

When I was 16, I dreamed of becoming a famous stage and film actress, my name up in lights, walking the red carpet, splitting my time between New York and LA

When I was 25, I dreamed of a handsome cowboy sweeping me off my feet to live happily ever after on a huge ranch in New Mexico, dancing under the stars and riding off into the sunset

When I was 33, I dreamed of the practice husband meeting an untimely, moderately painful death, freeing me from 1) the marriage 2) the scandal of divorce and maybe even making a little life insurance money out of the deal

So now at 41, I give a shout out to my dear friend LB, currently touring with the cast of the broadway show "Wicked," I have fond (and I do mean fond) memories of cowboys and New Mexico, and the practice husband is now but a faint bump on the roadmap of my life.

Now, at 41, my hand to God, my Ultimate Fantasy is to just sleep past 6:00 am....

...especially on a holiday:

-The van from K-ABC eyewitness news parked out front

-The ambulance bay marked off by police caution tape

-20 crying/swearing/hyserical people outside the ICU waiting room

-Three call-offs on the board when you were already short staffed (yup, #@$%* guaranteed double shift)

-The medi-vacs taking turns landing outside on the helicopter pad

Sigh. Over now. Have kissed a groggy St. Hubby and adored my baby sleeping sweetly in his crib. Need to de-caffeinate a bit --and aren't I too young and cute to have swollen feet?

Never did find out why channel 7 was there...

...that I no longer dye my hair "for fun"

...I started getting up for work at the same time I used to get home from the Honky Tonks/Waffle House

...I began looking less like my dad and more like my mom

..my idea of sleeping in is now considered 6:30 a.m.

...I am more worried about age spots than getting the perfect tan

...I occasionally say "oof" when I get up from the couch

Dropped a patient's diamond ring while at work today. Fell out of my back pocket, where I was keeping it for her while she was in surgery. I knew I should have locked it up, but I was floated to a different unit (Note: Medicine ICU SUCKS! Give me a nice clean gun shot wound any day.) While on said unit, I couldn't get someone to piss on me were I a'fire, so I didn't bother to ask where/how they lock up valuables. In retrospect, sooooo my bad.

Could not find the blasted ring anywhere. Never in all my gazillion years of nursing have I pulled a bone-head manuever like this. Had no choice but to get on my hands and knees and scour every inch of that germ invested floor. Nada. I am tasting my fat-girl boxed lunch (aka Lean Cuisine) in the back of my mouth. My co-workers are stepping around me and rolling their eyes. I am swearing in 7 different languages. I say several desperate prayers to Saint Anthony, whom I think is the St. of loss items. Or lost causes. Either way, I figure I am covered.

45 minutes later, I am still swearing, broken into a sweat and wonder where the hell Saint Anthony is.

As I am mentally calculating how much overtime I will have to work to pay for the ring, I hear the sweetest voice ever blessed by angels say "'Scuse me, Miss. You looking for this?"

Well Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ if the housekeeper isn't holding up the ring. I have never met her, but I kissed her. Did a little tap dance and swung her around. Thanked her profusely, and then some. Planning to bake something spectacular for her as a thank you.

And never fucking put a patient's valuable in my pocket again!

Pretty stinkin' cute, dontchya think?