South Carolina or Bust!

Spring Break has sprung upon us, in a very literal sense. While preparing to depart for the Krupp residence in Liberty, South Carolina for my week and a half hiatus, I have witnessed the evidences of spring left and right. Robins have come to roost on Thatcher lawn and there are even some daffodils blooming along University Drive. But more than that, I'll now make my point by quoting a certain Barry White - "Love is in the air."

Returning late last night to Thatcher Hatchery I beheld more than just a drove of robins. Scattered about the porch were approxiamately 7 couples. I suppose they were bidding each other farewell for the break. Twas quite a long farewell, but hey, who am I to criticize?

With that, I leave you with a poetic taste of South Carolina, a place that I have grown to love.

Interstate Exhibition

For Rachel and Ronald

Paint me sunsets with

Right-handed brush strokes,

Across the canvas of

South Carolina skies.

A mere spectator from

My passengerside window,

I am admitted to this rare display,

Free of charge.

As Maternal Daylight yawns wearily

Gold joins hands with Crimson

And Lavender hues.

Twirling each other in circles,

They ring-around-the-rosey

On the horizon until

Paternal Twilight tucks them

In under a blanket of stars.

Gross Encounters of The Loogie Kind

I expected to go out with a bang, but it was more like a mild, quickly fading wimper. Considering this was our last week in the Memorial Hospital ICU, clinicals were fairly uneventful. But on second thought, I may have spoken too quickly. As I reevaluate the day's events, Monday was anything but ordinary.

The day began with a Divine wakeup call, literally! We certainly are not living in the time of the antediluvians, but here in Tennessee, one would never be able to tell the difference. We would be wise to just gather some goofer bark and build an ark! As fate would have it, Thatcher Hatchery lost power at approximately 3:00 AM, cutting off my alarm clock. But God smiled down on this little chickadee and woke me up naturally, 10 minutes before the alarm was supposed to startle me into a partially conscious state.

4:30 AM. Time to don my gay apparel. Stumbling around in the dark, I managed to get dressed and make myself presentable, although by the looks of the forecast I was just wasting my time. By this time I was wide-eyed and bushy tailed, which was fortunate for me because I needed to fetch Wanda from Thatcher South. Thus, I trudged out into the downpour armed with my umbrella, which really proved to be useless unless my name is Mary Poppins. Fighting the wind, I was finally able to relocate Wanda to Thatcher parking lot. Now the only thing left to do was wait till 5:35 AM when I would again head out into the deluge.

Struggling to keep myself awake I sat in the lobby waiting for a fellow classmate who was to catch a ride with me to the hospital. Tick tock, tick tock. I glanced at the face of my watch. Time to go. Other classmates made their way to the lobby, signed out, and left. Frustrated, I called my passenger's cell phone. No answer. Plan B. I called her room phone. A sleepy voice picked up on the other end. My reminder sent her into shock, which was quickly proceeded by the slam of the receiver. 5 minutes. 10 minutes passed and still no passenger. The tick of my watch became louder, acting as a constant reminder of my anal retentive tendencies toward being on time. Finally the side door flung open and my passenger was ready to embark on our journey through flooded side streets and flashing lightning.

6:15 AM I illegally parked in the hospital parking garage and rushed into the lobby, just as pre-conference was starting. The remainder of the morning consisted of paperwork and even a little play in the poo-nanny (please contact me personally so I may relate this experience to you). 3:00 PM I climbed back into Wanda, passenger on time, and headed for home.

Still raining steadily, I scaled the 3 flights of stairs to my room. Feeling like a half drowned rat I proceeded to take off my ergonomically designed nursing shoes, but froze as something caught my eye. Lifting the shoe closer to my face, it was all I could do to not throw it across the room. A loogie, quite fresh, just parked out on the side of my shoe! Now, you must understand that there is almost nothing that grosses me out. I am never surprised to find the occasional bandaid on the bottom of my shoe, but this? More then the actual presence of the mucus is the consideration of how it got there. Darn wall suction just put the icing on the cake of my day. Pardon the illustration.

And I Know You From Where, Elementary School?

Such were the words of the rapper Big Pun before he passed away, and thus was my experience today. Two dark eyes peered out from the peephole formed from the hood tightly tied around her face. From a few yards off, she did not strike me as someone I might know, not even a superficial acquaintance. As we approached each other, her countenance was beaming with anticipation. The closer we got the more excited she seemed to become, as if I were her long lost companion. I was slightly tempted to turn around and scour the Promanade for other signs of human life. No one else in their right mind would be outside in this downpour, and maybe that is what prompted her enthusiasm toward me.

She finally was close enough that I could get a clear view of her face. I'm drawing a panicked blank. Just then my thoughts were interrupted by her greeting. This was not just the usual mundane "Hello" that you sometimes elicit from a friendly stranger as you're rushing to class. She spoke as if she had known me for years. Almost as if she would call me by name and ask me about my most recent life event. I felt a slight surge of guilt. Was I supposed to know her? Was this one of those really embarrassing occasions when you have totally forgotten someone that you really once met?

Regardless of the background circumstances, our paths crossed, and my spirits were cheered by her contagious personality toward a complete stranger, trudging through the miseries of Tennessee rain.

A more recent depiction of myself. 

Web To Web

Pasta Thursday. Just the thought makes my entrails groan. It seems I O-Ded on the fried ravioli during my Freshman year, and thus I cannot bare to even smell the marinara sauce bubbling in the cafeteria cauldrons. Yet, the cafeteria has a strange magnetic pull on pasta Thurdays, and I always seem to wander directly into the kitchen despite my fight with nausea. It wasn't until this past Thursday that I understood what keeps me coming back time and time again.

He can barely see above the serving deck, but comes faithfully each week to perform his serving duties. He's quite petite, and thus I when I converse with him I feel as though we are on the same plane. I sometimes wonder if it is his stature that makes me feel this connection with him, but upon rethinking the situation I am ever more convinced that it is his handshake. For those not familiar with the current cafeteria crew, I speak of a certain Dr. Samaan, professor of religion. This little man packs some punch, literally!

Last semester I took Life and Teachings of Jesus from him, and since then I always look forward to our Thursday meetings when I can experience a real handshake. Now, some of you may be wondering what I mean when I say a "real handshake", so prepare to be educated. There are different kinds of handshakes. There are the kinds of handshakes where the other person seems to think that a hand merely consists of your finger tips, and thus that is all they grab. Then there are the kinds of people that realize the webbing between your fingers have more than just an anatomical purpose. They take your hand with authority, palms meeting, web to web! This is just the type of handshake you would receive from Dr. Samaan.

Therefore, on Thursday I arrived at the cafeteria in need of my weekly handshake, only to catch Dr. Samaan preparing to leave. I bounced up to him, as is my manner, and thrust my hand forward. He smiled and offered his in return only to pull back and look at me in surprise. I suppose he never met a girl who appreciated the importance of a good handshake. But I must admit that I am known for my handshake. When first introduced to the second-to- youngest Landry brother, I elicited the same response I always receive from Dr. Samaan. He too drew back in surprise and commended me on such a powerful, impressive handshake. Thus it was that I laughed, slapped Dr. Samaan on the back, and proceeded to clock in for my shift.

Would You Like Fries With That?

With the most recent passing of Valentine’s Day, our blessed campus has taken on a whole new aura. Seems as though Valentine’s Day has triggered the release of every Mac-Daddy on the face of this earth, and they have all gravitated to Collegedale, Tennessee. Apparently cupid has cast a spell of bravery over the male student body, and they’ve all come out of hiding. What’s more, they’re like a pack of hungry wolves seeking, you guessed it, female flesh.

I’ve been taking notice of little things warning me such individuals are roaming about. I just strolled through Thatcher lobby and noticed a couple sitting intently at a table in the corner. I’m well acquainted with one of the pair and so I’m not surprised to see him putting the moves on her. In fact, I find the whole situation to be quite humorous because I can see right through this façade. He leans in toward her, and if you observed them from a distance you might be convinced that they are holding a serious conversation, but you see, this is all part of the game. He’s presenting his sensitive side knowing her susceptibility to his sudden gush of femininity.

Of course my nonchalant glance in their direction has distracted him, and he interrupts their conversation to wave in my general direction. I give him the nod, acknowledging his recognition of me as a passerby, but avoid getting pulled into their exchange. I disappear for about a half hour, run some errands and such, only to return to find them in the same situation as before I left. But alas, he’s now standing close to her and appears to whispering sweet nothings in her hear. Note the fact that they are called sweet nothings. His words elicit giggles on her part and disgust on mine. She’s taken the bait: hook, line, and sinker! Another pathetic Mac-Daddy success. But the truly revolting part of this whole process is the fact that I’ll see this individual in the cafeteria later and he’ll be Mac-ing on the server. “No she did not say ‘This is McDonald’s can I take your order?’ and we are not serving Big Macs for dinner. It’s pizza night!”

Therefore if you are feeling braver then usual, and are considering using some overly recycled line as an attempt to get my attention, don’t bother. I like McDonald’s, but I never order the Big Mac. I’m more of a Chicken McNugget kind of girl!

Vat Am I Going To Vear Today?

Pulling open dresser drawers and swinging open closet doors I always ask this question out loud as if expecting an answer. Usually it is directed toward my roommate. In fact this silly little saying originated during my Freshman year when Dolly, my older sister, cohabitated with me. She'd always laugh and might even throw me a suggestion or two. It was also likely that this would be the time that she might ask to borrow something of mine, as the drawers were open for display.

Our particular favorite was a shirt that came to be known between the two of us as the sherbet shirt. There was nothing extraordinary about this specific shirt besides the fact that it was centuries old and still managed to maintain its orange creamsicle vibrance. I first bought the sherbet shirt when I was in highschool. I fell into the Gap one day and it just beckoned me to the clearance rack. Being the bargain shopper that I am, I could not resist such an oppportunity. It wasn't until years later that I really realized just how wise I was in buying that shirt.

If given her choice of my entire wardrobe, Dolly would have, without question, chosen to wear the sherbet shirt. I'm not sure if it was the color, or the fabric, or the contagiously giddy feeling one had when wearing the shirt that made it the pick of the litter. Needless to say, when Dolly headed off to the motherland, she made off with the sherbet shirt leaving me shirtless! The good news if that I haven't been flashing the student body all this time. I've been on the hunt for the perfect replacement, and over Christmas break this year I achieved much success. While shopping with Vicky, my younger sibling, I spotted that same indescribable creamsicle hue. Ironically, it too, sat folded on a clearance rack. Without question this would be the purchase of the day.

Thus, this morning when I asked, "Vat am I going to vear today?" in my best Swedish accent, I was reminded of days past, days when we swapped shirts and so much more. So from under all the other shirts I've decided on this one, the replacement. Slightly modified, but still boasting that Crayola uniqueness. This one is for you Dolly. Wish you could see it!

Dyslexic Pizza

Of course, as is my nature, I was far too tired to drag myself out of bed yesterday morning to get breakfast at the SAU cafeteria. I reminded myself the night before that it was pancake Monday and just the thought made me salivate. But at 6:00 AM, when it came right down to it, I would have much rather rolled over and caught a few more winks. Consequently, I drifted off to sleep with visions of pancakes smothered with sugarplums dancing in my head. At this point, the dream becomes a nightmare. Have you ever seen a pancake dance to Tchaikovsky? If not, count yourself blessed.

I finally mustered up some strength and dragged myself out of bed for some early morning devotions. By this point in time my stomach was screaming obscenities at me for skipping breakfast. I fervently tried to block out the grumbles with my morning prayers. After what seemed to be an eternity, I realized that I’d better get dressed for clinicals. I had to drive to Dalton, GA and I was not sure how long it would take to go from Happy Valley to the pediatric facility I had been assigned to for the day. Donning my gay apparel, I headed into the rain, attempting to drown out my gurgling stomach as I splish-splashed through the puddles of Thatcher parking lot.

For the remainder of the morning the only sustenance I was able to partake of was a chocolate covered caramel that one of the nurses at Peds Care insisted I eat. We’ll now speed forward to the evening hours. I have skipped the cafeteria for dinner too, and looking at the clock realized just how hungry I really was. 6:45 PM. Oh darn, guess I’ll have to order a pizza now. In one swift motion I grabbed the phone, and dialed the number to Dominos from memory. “Can I take you’re order?” “But of course! I’d like a medium handtossed pizza half extra-cheese, half green olives and black peppers.” If this were a comic strip the next little box would boast an illustration of a little blond girl with her foot in her mouth, the caption reading, “Insert foot in mouth now!”

The other end of the phone is sheer laughter. I could inform this young whippersnapper that my brain is low on glucose, hence my fumbled vocabulary. But for some reason I didn't think he would appreciate the medical mechanics of the situation, so I bashfully informed him that it had truly been a long day.

Now I had to dig up some courage to face the stinkin' pizza man! Forever he'll recognize me as the dyslexic pizza chic. But I suppose it could always be worse. I could have had pancakes drenched in sugarplums for dinner!

The Fine Art of Wooing

Those of you who know me well may have heard me say that there is an art to everything we do. I truly believe this. In fact it is like one of my personal mottoes. Notice though that the word “everything” is italicized. This is what gives this personal philosophy some extra punch. Doesn’t matter what we may be referring to, there is a specific and artistic way of going about something, and this certainly includes the wooing of a woman. With that, I shall now attempt to appease the ravenous appetites of those interested in my most recent outing with a certain Jerry Andrew Mayers.

In conjunction with my philosophy concerning the artistic nature of our every action, many of you may have also repeatedly heard me say that I consider myself to be a simple sort of girl. Extravagance has its place, but not with me. Seems to me that Andrew has done his homework, although I suspect that a certain roommate of mine may have been his accomplice in crime. Yet I cannot fault him for this. I’m sure that even the finest detective was never ridiculed for his choice in a credible source.

My hat goes off to you though Andrew for tapping into my simplicities, whether you picked up on them yourself or whether you were educated by my better half. I am still trying to figure out how you came to choose the Billy Joel. Maybe I can credit myself for that one. Maybe I'm rubbing off on you when I insist on listening to him during our occasional joyrides. Also there is something especially elegant about a bouquet of daisies. Maybe it is their compatibility with my personality or their lack of thorns. Whatever the case may be, I cannot help but smile looking at them from across the room.

I was once told by some superstitious soul that should you ever receive a fortune cookie the rule of thumb is to eat the entire cookie before reading the fortune. This is to ensure its fulfillment, and me, being the gullible type, pretends to believe such foolishness. Thus at dinner I shared this morsel with Andrew only to elicit a slight chuckle. Of course, he, being the more rational one of the two of us, disregarded my comment and read his fortune before finishing the cookie. Me, being anal retentive, had to chew and swallow before even peeking at the tiny scrap of paper. This is what my fortune read: Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you. Now normally, I would laugh to myself and not give it a second thought. But I feel that this one is particularly applicable to me. I’m still not quite sure in which direction the sun is facing, but armed with some SPF 30+, a pair of shades, and my superior sense of navigation, we’ll find it.

St. Valentine’s Day Heartburn

It’s that time of year again. In fact, it was not too long after Christmas when I walked into a store managed by some poor fool who was suffering from a bad case of the love bug. It looked as though someone had sprayed the walls down with Pepto Bismol. Pink and red decorations were swift to replace the red and greens of Christmas that was barely over but a few weeks before. Of course I groaned to myself, rolled my eyes, and promptly turned to find the nearest exit. If you have detected a note of bitterness in these opening lines I congratulate you Sherlot! For many years now I’ve considered myself the scrooge of Valentine’s Day. It was bad enough that someone had lit the love coals of society, but did they have to rub it in my face?

Without fail the annual Southern Adventist University Valentine’s Banquet rears its ugly head to remind me of my singleness, and every year I try to convince myself things will improve for the following year. Oftentimes I even anticipate the day, looking for the light at the end of the tunnel of love. Yet repeatedly, I find myself tucked away behind the four walls of room 329, licking my wounds. But for some reason, this year is different. Although at times I still find myself completely disgusted with this concept of commercializing love, I’ve outwitted that wily lil tart cupid. As a matter of fact, I was thinking that maybe he should join forces with Southern’s Panty Brigade and give up that nasty habit of streaking. The bow and arrow is bad enough Bud! Point being, my heartburn, so-to-say, is subsiding and maybe there is a glimmer of something lovely in the distance.

So for all the ladies, and even the gentlemen out there, who are ailing this season with a roaring case of heartburn, pass the Tums, and then treat yourself to a pizza!

Attack of the Southern Panty Brigade

As of lately, Thatcher Hall, the woman’s dormitory here at Southern Adventist University, has had a series of break-ins. Reports from the infamous Campus Safety informed the student body that windows were broken and some select items were stolen from certain rooms. What they forgot to inform us was that these thieves seem to have some kind of panty fetish. The only thing that was stolen from each room was some underwear. As if that was not bad enough, the culprits are evidently Zoro wanna-be’s except they are not suave enough to have swords. Instead these clowns take a single pair of undies and fold them (perhaps how they always watched their mothers do) and then proceed to lay them on the victim’s beds.

While talking to my sister, Dolly, the other day, she asked if I was frightened by such vandalism. Negative ghostwriter, and my response is such for a number of reasons. First, all the intrusions occurred on the first floor. Unless the president of the Panty Brigade is planning operation Spider Man, I doubt that he will be bothering me up here on the third floor. Second, we are referring to individuals who pass over computers, wallets, and items of significant value for a pair of Vicky Secrets! Maybe I am overly confident, but I don’t feel that this should illicit emotions of fear. My third and final reason is simply because an underwear thief would not want to mess with someone like me. There are many things in this world that I can handle, but perverts are not one of them. Having moved my residency to the South, I seem to have developed this ornery streak. Maybe I’ve always had it and it just took living here for 3 years to bring it out. Whatever the case may be, an old-school saying is brought to mind at times like these and it goes a little something like this, “Homey don’t play that!”

So be forewarned Panty Brigade. Choose wisely when you are creeping around Thatcher Hall, because in all honesty, you will likely find yourself hanging from the third story by your own panties if you feel so inclined to surf on my turf!

Just Hanging Out 

Open Heart Experiences

Clinicals this week were once in a life-time. I remember back to when I was just beginning the program. I was the typical Sophomore; a wise fool as Mr. Webster would define it. Wet behind the ears, I entered the wonderful world of nursing. Mocked for my enthusiasm, I jumped in with both feet. I soon learned that not only were we required to learn patient care and perform learned skills, but we were also assigned a number of O.R. observations. Just the thought made me all tingly inside!

My first O.R. experience proved to be less than eventful. Abdominal surgery has it perks, and although I have a uterus of my own, and was wholly enthalled to actaully see someone else's, once was enough for me. My second experience was not so much a lesson in medicine as it was a lesson in O.R. decorum. It quickly learned that most of the conversation circulating between the surgeon and his assistants was just plain vulgar. "What does oral sex have to do with a knee replacement sir?" I felt like asking. But since he had already scolded me about sterile fields I felt it best to keep my mouth shut.

Regardless of past experiences, it was this past week that was going to take the cake. Sunday, I was presented with the opportunity of a lifetime. Wanda, my faithful steed, transported me safely to Memorial Hospital in downtown Chattanooga on Sunday afternoon to pick up my clinical assignment for Monday morning. Posted in the SICU (surgical intensive care unit) were the assignments of choice and my name highlighted with a memo branching off the paper. "Call me before you pick a patient." I promptly beeped Kelly Hagan, my instructor, and waited for her reply. Startled by my cell phone and more than likely waking all the patients on the unit, I scrambled to answer her call. "Would you like to go see a CABG (coronary artery bypass graft) tomorrow?" (As nurses we just call this a cabbage for the obvious reasons.) Flabbergastered I followed Kelly's instructions and found the paperwork she had set aside for me. Since Fundamentals of Nursing I had dreamed of this moment. Open heart! The opportunity of a lifetime.

That night I could hardly contain myself. Sleep was hard to come by, but somehow I made myself slip into unconsciousness and before I knew it the alarm went off. 4:30 AM. Dragging myself out of bed I slipped on my gay apparel. You must understand why I call it this. We have to wear all white, all the time. I have even been rudely called the virgin Southern nursing student because of such attire. Anyway, I digress. I arrived at the hospital at 6:00 AM. Immediately we paged the O.R. and they said they were ready for me. I scrubbed in and was given the usual O.R. head gear and face mask. All set! Now it was time to meet the patient. This is where I can't say much, you know, HIPPA and all, but I met them none the less and followed them here and there. First a swan-ganz cathether was put in and an A-line. If you want to know about these things call me later! In a nut shell the swan-ganz is is something that is threaded into the heart to measure blood pressure and cardiac output. We'll leave it at that. Then the doctor came to see the patient and told us that we would be ready in about an hour. It was the longest hour of my life.

Rolling at 8:00 AM. The patient was wheeled into the O.R. and the prep was to begin. Here is where I experienced some difficulty. They wanted to know my name for medical records. Of course reading is not a prerequisite to be in the medical field, for I was clearly wearing a name tag, but nevertheless they asked me to write my full name on a white board across the room. Proceeding to do so I was questioned by the nurse if I touched a sterile field along the crowded path to the white board. I was tempted to say, "Lady, despite your apparant inability to learn to read, I did. I also learned my colors, and I know that blue indicates a sterile field!" But I bit down hard on my tongue and smiled politely replying, "No." This woman then proceeded to take me by the shoulders and physically walked me across the room and stuffed me in a corner. I had a few choice words for her, but again, kept them to myself. 2 months shy of graduating and they still manage to treat you like a complete imbicile!

The developing conversation did not surprise me either as the physicians filed into the O.R. All I caught was something about "boobs" and suddenly became grateful for the face mask to cover my blushing and even for the fact that I was stuffed in the corner. After 1 hour of prep they opened the patient's leg to harvest the saphenous vein which would become the new coronary bypass grafts. This done laproscopically was interesting despite the fact that it was a lap procedure. Finally it was out and the cardiologist came in. I was placed at the head of the patient and given yet more face gear. Sporting some vascular googles I was told the importance of having then on. Vascular surgery = blood spattering and such!

The surgeon opened the patient's chest and sawed (yes sawed!) through the sterum to get to the heart. I could see the pink lungs moving up and down in synch with the ventilator. Rib spreader. Scalpel. Incision. The pericardium was opened (this is the sac that surrounds the heart). Retractors. And there is was. Glistening in the overhead lights. Beating. My heart stopped. For the next hour the patient was transferred to a bypass machine and the grafts were meticulously sutured into place. Ice was placed on the heart to prevent ischemia (tissue death), and the surgeons performed what I really consider a miracle. 5 bypasses later, I left the O.R. in a daze. I'd forgotten about the conversations and my treatment. For the rest of the day I walked around in an amazed stupor.

Normally I am known for my big mouth. In fact, there is a girl that I work with in the SAU cafeteria, Kamara, who calls me big mouth. I usually have a lot to say. Yet this is one of those occasions where I am left totally speakless. So to close this, my first blog, I leave you with these words, not from myself, but from the great Psalmist himself: "I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made." Psalms 139:14