Oops!

There is a correction to be made. Kelly Weimer is the name of the lost. I'm such a mess that somehow I got my information and names crossed. I apologize.

The Inferno

The alarm that awoke me this morning was unusually obnoxious. Without checking the time, I threw back the covers and stumbled across the room, still half asleep, and began to fumble through draws of clothes for some suitable attire. Desperately attempting to awaken my comatose roommate, I chided and then scolded her to hurry. The siren of the alarm screaming in my ear was reason enough to scurry out of the building. Entering the masses we wobbled down the three flights of stairs that we exercise every day. Upon entering the lobby of Thatcher Hall, I caught sight of a clock. 3:50 AM.

My frustrations building, the mass exodus proceeded. It was not atypical to have a fire drill this early in the morning, yet I thought it foul play to initiate one during finals week. Shivering in the cold, we huddled together under lamp posts. Suddenly our murmurs were interrupted. From a hill over yonder came running a number of hysterical pajama-bound Thatcher residents. All eyes darted in their direction and followed them to the nearest dean. Can’t escape. Help. Please help.

I felt as though someone had taken hold of my heart and was squeezing it with their mighty fist. I grabbed Mag by the hand and prayed. In the midst of screaming and confusion, we prayed. Amen.

Wiping tears from blurry vision we scoured the building. I see nothing. Silence. Where is the trouble? Hands raise toward the night sky, pointing upward. Smoke. Billows of smoke rise from the roof of Thatcher Hall, although we have yet to see flames. Minutes and seconds feel like eternity. Confusion multiplies as questions mingle with the smoke that is ever increasing and covering night’s dark complexion. “I have to see”, and in another second she was gone. Choked by fear I ran after Mag, pleading all the way for her to stay by my side.

Ducking under some low lying Dogwood limbs, I chased after her. Rounding the corner I felt as though I ran into an invisible wall. Flames, with their evil tongues licking toward the heavens, laughed out the windows of Third West. Yet over the crackling and snapping of the fire came the clear and distinctive cries of 2 terrified residents. Sirens. Help is coming, we reassured them. I prayed my tears would multiply and shower over this inferno. Panic, I can’t breathe, air. Help, please help. Don’t leave me. Chaos had set in. Stepping forward and gurgling through my tears I raised my voice. Tears streaming down my face, the only sounds I could here were the echoes of my voice accompanied by the crackling of the adjacent flames. The smoke was getting thicker. The flames were getting larger. It was hard to breathe. Please God, help me know what to say. Be my voice. I cried out in the darkness. “God is with you. His angels are with you. He is stronger than Satan. He is stronger than this fire.” “Pray.” she beseeched me. Overwhelmed by the heat and the smoke, I ran. Police instructed us to leave the area. Even if I was not there, they were not alone.

Exhausted and tear-stained we settled ourselves in the cafeteria. Is everyone accounted for? Check, check, check. Teachers arrive. Religion professors mingle with the mass of survivors. Then Gordon Bietz steps forward, his chin quivering. Huddled into the corner I watched and listened in horror. His trembling hand took the microphone. One casualty. It seemed as though that same force that choked my heart had a hold of his throat. He could not speak. My body shook and I felt the tears come again, more bitter than before. Tears for a mother, a father, a sister, a brother.

I cried till I felt my well was dry, and even still I have cried more. The newest information released allowed Thatcher East residents to enter the building for some clothes. I ran to the parking lot and entered the doors opposite Iles PE Center. I ran up the stairs. Splinters decorated the halls. Doors had been axed open. Gapping holes seemed to laugh back at me as I ran to 329. Clicking the lock open, everything was untouched. My bed was still unmade, sheets thrown back, Ragababy still resting, unaware. Grabbing clothes and my cell phone I checked the messages. 9 voicemails. First message, Eugenia, my preceptor at Memorial. “Are you ok?” The next message was an echo of the first. “Are you ok, are you ok, are you ok?” until that is all I heard.

Standing in front of McKee Library, my eyes beheld that which night had hidden from my sight. Third West collapsed onto second floor. No roof. No windows. Empty eye sockets, and blank stares. Pray for the family of Jessica Weimer. Thank God that you are alive, and be right with Him. For now, investigation, heresy, questions, and no answers.

Get Plugged In 

My Depiction

After beholding my elder sister's depiction of stress, she challenged me to do the same claiming that she thought it might be healthy for me. At first I was convinced that there was no way that I would be able to transfer such emotions to a piece of paper let alone a Word document with all its kilobytes and such. Yet this morning I was inspired and began to draw. What follows is my personal depiction of stress, Patti's stress.

Hussy Hesi

My schedule has almost tripled in size as I prepare myself for the completion of this educational excursion. My calendar is a cornucopia of errands and last minute musts, such as my financial aid exit interview. Luckily that was something which was easily accomplished this morning following work. For a total of 13 minutes I was assigned the duty of viewing a video clearly instructing me the in's and out's of my loan repayment.

The broadcast continually reitierated the simple fact that I was required to repay these moneys granted to me by Big Brother himself. Sorrowfully you become aware of the fact that this concept is hammered into your head simply because some poor fool many moons ago assumed that he was not required to repay his student loans and caused a legal raucous leading to this silly tradition. Consequently, I am quite convinced that I have to repay these funds.

Yet somewhere on this monsterous to-do list is my nightmare of all nightmares, spelled out in a mere 4 letters. Hesi. To define it plainly and sweetly, Hesi is a cumulative nursing exam that each student is required to pass before taking the NCLEX for state licensing. My dear friend Jamie calls it the Hussy, which I find to be quite fitting.

3 hours, 160 hard core nursing questions, and lots of GI upset. If you believe in prayer, now would be the ideal time to practice the power of prayer on my behalf.

Lost But Not Yet Found

“You’re the inspiration.” were the lyrics sung in a hit song by the group Chicago. Under normal circumstances I might continue singing the song to myself, being that it is one of my personal favorites. Yet as of lately all I can seem to muster up is a pathetic, discordant sigh.

The other week I received some junk mail from poetry.com. On any other day I might not be able to contain myself and begin ripping the envelope open as I ascended the stairs to the third floor. But not this day. Without a second thought I peered into the cellophane window presenting my name and address, sighed as once before, and nonchalantly tossed the unopened envelope into the trash can.

Oh how I long to sit and scribble poetic expressions of my deepest inner thoughts and feelings. But it appears that my tall, dark, and handsome past has not only recklessly stolen my heart and spirit, but my inspiration as well. Where is that girl who in less than an hour could artistically spill the entire contents of her soul onto a mere piece of paper? Where are those individualized ideas about love and life? Where are those joyful moments when my heart swelled beyond confining ribs?

Perhaps they have been thrown in the corner under the remains of some dirty laundry. Or maybe they have been discarded along with the household garbage. Yet maybe, perhaps, you have hidden them in the closet, for it is then that they are out of sight and out of mind, just like me.

This lost and found is till waiting for a Good Samaritan, someone to find and return that which was unjustly possessed. I want to write again. I want to idealize again. I want to love again. I’m here to say I want it all back.

Sleeping Beauty 

Tropical Beauty Straight From Island Wannahauchaloogie 

Horray For Girl Scouts! 

Junior Recital 

Post Elizabeth Makeovers 

You, Me, and Gloworm. . .Gives A Whole New Meaning To Snuggle-Bug! 

More Than Just Tax Day

As twilight creeps upon the providence of Tennessee it is not surprising to know that most people are still scurrying about, running on their 50th cup of coffee, clicking away at calculators, and nervously gnawing on the distal end of the pencil that was once inconspicuously tucked behind their ear. Ah, but not I. No, I am thinking of you. For as the clock strikes midnight, it is more than just tax day. Surely I shall be one of few people to rejoice at the opportunity to hand a portion of my hard earned, measly income over to Uncle Sam. But you see, without today there would be no you.

There would be no one to snuggle-bug with. There would be no one to tattle on. There would be no one to sing with. There would be no one to laugh with. There would be no one to cry with. And who knows, there may never have been me, for I could not live or laugh or love without you.

Sto Lat! Happy Birthday! And know that today is more than just tax day. It's more than figures and decimal points and dollar signs. It's about you. In my pathetic little world that is all I know. That is all that is significant to me. I love you!

Ode to Dolly

The Countdown Begins

I have held out long enough, and thus begins my countdown to graduation. 11 days, and mind, this is not counting weekends. 11 days till glorious accomplishment. 11 days till success. 11 days till freedom. 11 days till the rest of my life begins.

Treading these waters of anticipation, I find my head bearly above the surface, which begs the question, "Will I even survive 11 more days?"

Head-Banging Myself Toward Freedom

A week ago today I accepted a rather interesting invitation. My third weekend had rolled around and thus I was scheduled to work in the cafeteria. In my three years of employment at the cafeteria I have been privileged to meet some of the most wonderful people who have each had an eternal influence on my life. In the confines of stainless steel I have been adopted into numerous families, made lifetime friendships, laughed, loved, and even cried.

One such person is my friend Derek. One’s first impression of Derek is best summed up in the question, “What is he doing here?” When I first met Derek I was not sure why he had chosen Southern Adventist University to seek out his education. But at least he was seeking and that was enough for me. I am sure that my doubts had something to do with the eyebrow piercing and the mow hawk dyed some outrageous shade of green. Yet after working with him for only a few shifts I found myself looking forward to our next shift together. Behind all the rebellion, or what he would consider his own expression of himself lies one of the more rare soft-hearted fellows of the male species.

Of course as it is my nature, I grew quite fond of Derek and consequently when he told me he was quitting the cafeteria to work for Fed-Ex, I was broken-hearted to say the least. Thus on this particular Saturday I was nicely surprised when I looked up from my plate of Steaks Delux to see Derek wander into the dining hall. Ready with a hug for me he explained that he was covering for another worker. I knew it would be no ordinary Sabbath lunch.

After finishing lunch and clocking in, I donned my apron and headed to the fishbowl to check our progress. Just as a side note, the fish bowl is the area between the two Salad Department decks where we carry out all our daily duties of stocking the salad and sandwich bars. To this day I am not quite sure why we call it such. Perhaps it is because when inside we are literally surrounded by Plexiglass, peering out into the scrambler area as the people pass us by, stuck inside, working. But I digress.

Things seemed to be in tip top shape and thus I headed into the back to lend a hand to Jeri, my supervisor. While standing at the deck working, Derek approached me and ask, “Hey didn’t I promise to take you to a rock concert one day?” “Yeah” I replied. He then proceeded to tell me about a concert for that night presenting a band called As Cities Burn. He insisted that it was going to be the best concert ever and attempted to persuade me to come with him. Hesitant, I made the excuse that I had something to do, study of course, for my Adult III final. A groan rang throughout the Salad Department. Rachel looked at me from across the deck and gave me that “come-on” look. In response to his invitation I insisted that I needed to commit to studying and said no. As he made his way into the farther side of the kitchen he commented about me insulting him, his words dripping with a guilt trip, directed at me. I sighed to myself. I probably would never get to do this ever again in my life. And I have not seen Derek in months. As he came through the Salad Department again I told him I would go. It was then, even before the concert that his excitement reached colossal proportions. He informed me that we were leaving at 6:30 PM and he would pick me up at Thatcher. I agreed and returned to my job.

6:30 PM, or actually a little later than that, Derek pulled up in his blue Chevy and we headed into Chattanooga for the concert. Our destination was Club Fathom, a Christian club for all ages. Once we arrived and parked, we walked across the street and into the club where they shooed the girls into the building but ran metal detectors over the men. After paying and getting stamped Derek led me into the Red Room where all the action was. Standing in the middle of the room I felt as though my eardrums would burst. The noise was so intense I felt almost sick. The only person holding their ears, Derek led me to the bathroom and instructed me to put some toilet paper in my ears. He promised this would help, which it did, immensely!

We returned to the Red Room and settled onto a couch and listened to band after band. I soon realized that when he told me rock music he really meant rock music. This was the kind of music where all the singers do is scream till you are sure that they must be hoarse, and yet they continue, song after song. The up side to all this was that the message in the music was Christian and so I caught a few words here and there and felt blessed. Soon it was time for As Cities Burn to take the stage. All night Derek had tried to get me to follow him up to the front of the stage and I refused. But just as they were about to do their last song he insisted that I come with him. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. So taking me by the hand we went to the front of the stage. Showered with the sweat of singers and guitar players as they head-banged to the music, I found that I let go of myself and did the same. Heaving with the crowd, Derek and I rocked out to one last song, the best song of the entire night.

The next day I told my experience to my cafeteria co-workers only to receive a tongue lashing from Caroline who informed me that I was behaving Satanically, and I should have never gone. Thus I proceeded to inform her that I already have one mother and I don’t need another. I know what is right and what is wrong. She was not there. I was. I felt angry that she would judge something she knew nothing about. Yet at the same time I was not going to let her rain on my parade. That night I had let go of who I was, and became someone else for a short while, someone who did not care who was watching. I felt free.

Searching for Strawberries

This was originally supposed to be my entry for Thursday, but of course as fate would pay her cards the Blogger site has not been functioning. So please just humor me and pretend that it is Thursday again:

It’s strange the times that God decides to reveal things to us. Such was the case this morning as I stewed over my bowl of Cheerios.

I had originally set my alarm for 5:00 AM to allot myself some extra time to study for Peds class at 10:00 AM. Yet as is my new habit, I rolled over, turned the alarm off, and went right back to sleep for about another hour and a half. At 6:30 AM my inner self served as a gentle reminder that this day had a lot in store for me and I could not begin my extensive to-do list if I never got out of bed. Flinging back the covers I stumbled out of bed and across the room, fumbling around for my glasses and textbook. For the next hour I soaked in the necessary information on hematologic disorders in children. Once I had finished the reading I was struck with the realization that if I wanted some breakfast I’d better get to it pronto because the cafeteria was going to close in about a half hour. Of course, this being Tennessee, and the beginnings of spring, it was pouring, literally. Sloshing my way to the cafeteria I was not unexpectedly surprised to see they were serving waffles, being that it is waffle Thursday. Thus I opted for some Cheerios and fresh strawberries.

After returning to the dorm I settled into a comfy chair and emptied the prepackaged cartons of cereal into my plastic Dollar Tree bowl and proceeded to dump the strawberries on top. After adding some milk I then decided that it might be best to just mix the strawberries into the floating O’s. Then in the next moment I dug amongst the Cheerios with my spoon looking for the strawberries, which totally defeats the purpose of mixing them in. If I wanted to have then at my immediate disposal I should have just left them on top as was my initial plan.

Nevertheless, as I was sitting there digging for sweets I had a silly sort of epiphany. A part of me seemed to say, “You always do this. You’re always searching for the sweet things in life, the things you desire, while in the meantime you overlook all the other blessings of this life.”

I never seem to be satisfied with what is happening in my life. Tis truly one of my worst faults. There is so much to be thankful for and yet my glass is always half empty, or should I say bowl? For instance, I am starting a new job. I have many friends who are scratching and clawing for a job opportunity like this. I just finished arranging the initiation of my health benefits that come as a perk with my job at Memorial. They are even offering me free life insurance and a free dental plan. I could continue on and on with this list, but point being is that despite all the good I still see the shadows, the things that I don’t have yet. I’m still single, my health is going down the tubes, I’m overworked and underpaid, stressed about this class and that project and on and on.

Whatever happened to savoring those delicious blessings, whether buried under the Cheerios or floating on the surface?

Yet every once in a while something really cool happens. You’re fishing around as I was, and think that you’ve got the last one when suddenly as you raise the spoon to your lips you’re kicked in the mouth with the surprising sweetness of one more strawberry that you were sure was not there to begin with.

Thus, to continue with my analogy, such are the ways of God. He never leaves your bowl empty, and just when you think that you’ve received your fair share of sweetness, He leaves you speechless and satisfied. Consequently, I think the next time my breakfast menu consists of cereal and fruit, I might just blindfold myself. I might just enjoy the surprises as they come. I might just wait things out and see what God has hiding under the Cheerios and milk. I might just stop searching for strawberries.

Under The Weather

I have gotten quite a bit of grief from some of my readers for not updating my entries, yet I assure ya'll it is with good reason. In case it wasn't already obvious from the title of this entry, I have been feeling a little, shall we say, under the weather. Over the past 3 weeks my poor body has been fighting some unidentifiable monster. This of course is the diagnosis the doctors have given me, as well as insinuate that it is all in my mind. Personally, not only do I feel ever so slightly insulted, but I find the entire situation really quite despicable. It is all to ironic that doctors call what they do "practice" for that is exactly what it boils down to.

This is how it works:

White coat enters room. White coat sticks his cold hand in your shirt and pretends to listen to your heart and lung sounds. White coat nods to himself. White coat then overzealously pokes around on your stomach and nods some more. White coat then introduces a small light into your ears, and for his own entertainment, up your nose. Again there is more nodding and even some curious humming as an added but pathetic attempt to make you believe that he is thinking. Ultimately he turns to you and says, " I find nothing wrong with you." OR in my case, "Ma'am I think you have shingles!"

Now please, if there is someone out there that knows more about shingles than I do, I would be very open to further education on the matter (for I do not claim to be an expert on the subject), but from 2 years of intense nursing school I know all I need to know about shingles. I have even seen a rip roaring case of shingles. Yet, diagnosing shingles seems to be quite simple. I'll put it this way: shingles = lesions! Now mind you, this is not rocket science. All the man had to do was open his eyes and look at me for half a millisecond to realize there was not even the most remote beginnings of any type of lesion, anywhere on my body. But you see, common sense is not a prerequisite for medical school.

In my case I got a little of both. First his conclusion was that there was nothing wrong with me, despite the fact that I was experiencing pain in my ear and running a temperature. Yet just as quickly as his dim-witted mind conjured up the first diagnosis, he formulated another. Thus the shingles. Consequently there is only one more thing to do. He pulls out his secret weapon and scribbles you a perscription for some medication that costs $55 dollars, and sends you on your merry way.

And you pay him for this.