Hello My Name Is. . . . . .

There's something that I just don't understand. Anonymous commenters. I just don't understand the point of this. If I were receiving hate comments I would be a little more understanding of the need to maintain one's anonymity. But these friendly comments without mention of who you are, those bother me.

I always figured one of the benefits of this whole blogging thing was being able to meet new people. But really, I'm not meeting anyone, especially when I receive comments that say something to the effect of, " I met you recently. . . . ." Ok. That really means nothing to me. Lately my mind has been like a sieve, and I can't for the life of me figure out who these people are.

So unless you have some nasty grahams you are wishing to leave me, tell me who you are. At least I'll know who my readers are.

What's In A Name?

Throughout my life I've acquired a number of different nicknames, most of which requiring a little explanation as to its origination, and why not? Isn't that what nicknames are all about? One day you did something really stupid or maybe even something magnificent permitting one of the witnesses of said incident (whether idiotic or brillant) to brand you with some silly name, for the rest of your pathetic, miserable life. So now wherever you go, that's how you're known. Me? I have many nicknames. I thought it'd be fun to list a few of my favorites, but please, expect no explanations for those that may appear slightly questionable:

1. Little White Phoofy Head - or just Phoofy
2. Pootie
3. Lil bit
4. "P" Squared
5. Peppermint Patti
6. Patti-Cake

Patti-Cake. Somtimes I really despise my name. It's too easily fooled around with, too easily made too cute. Yet this nickname seems to follow me everywhere, and it's everyone's favorite, often accompanied by the popular nursery rhyme. It's not really that I mind the name itself. It's actually one of my personal favorites. But it's origination is what bothers me. DB was the first person to ever call me Patti-Cake, and that of course made it all the more special. But when things fell apart, leaving me with only memories, it adopted a more bitter sound, almost to the point where I hear even my own name, and I feel pain.

Yet this nickname has followed me to the hospital, and Muscles felt so clever when he played with my name and came up with his own nickname for me. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was not the first or the last person to call me that. Yet whenever I hear it, my mind reverts back to a time so different, it almost seems like a dream.

The other day I almost requested that Muscles not call me Patti-Cake. But I didn't want to come across as hasty or give the impression that I'm still attached to it's old meaning. Thus as I've erased all previous memories of DB, this one will be disgarded as well. And so begins another new beginning to which I will attach a new meaning. Just call me Patti-Cake.

And Another And Another And Another. . . .

Frank Ward O'Malley once said, "Life is just one damned thing after another." Aside from the fact that I haven't a clue who Frank Ward O'Malley is, or even his significance within history, I find myself strangely connected to him. I supposed this feeling stems from the sad truth that he has the guts to say what I often feel and yet would never admit. Not that I would word it quite the same and with as much elegance. But I think you get the drift.

It's not that I believe life is one huge chain of events, one leading to another, entirely void of purpose. I'd be the first person to get up on my soapbox and lecture you on the impossibilities of a life without purpose. Yet the pessimist within often rears its ugly head and lately life, mine in particular, seems to be one gigantic domino set up desperately awaiting a single event to set them all in motion. But that's not even the worst of it. In keeping with the laws of Sir Isaac Newton, and object once set in motion, would really prefer to stay that way, which inevitably means I'm doomed. And it all began Wednesday night.

Dobbhoffs are just a bad omen for me. I shouldn't have tried to suppress my pessimism that night when really it was just reality smacking me upside the head. For those not familiar with my medical jargon, I'll take a brief moment to define and explain the significance of a dobbhoff.

1. A dobbhoff tube is an apparatus used in a medical setting to administer tube feeding for nutritional purposes. Inserted through the nose, this small bore tube travels down the back of the throat, and into the esophagus reaching its final destination in the stomach. Placement is then verified by X-ray. Upon placement verification the styllette wire is removed and a Kangaroo pump is used to administer the feeding through the tube.

Sounds simple right? Wrong. Dobbhoff = invasive procedure which = patient consent, which in this particular case = consent won't be given until the family members decide to visit. Dobbhoff insertion is rather challenging. I've never had a patient whose X-ray verified placement on the first try. Thus was the case on this particular evening. But the real problem begins with the fact that the previous RN did not attempt placement until right before shift change. So of course the complication is passed on to me. To make matters worse, everybody whose anybody, whose services might be needed, is at home. This includes the radiologist who reads my X-rays and gives me the okay to use the dobbhoff. Thus either I spend the night bribing and persuading the ER docs to read my X-rays or I just leave it till the morning. I'd had my fill of these problems from the past and thus decided to allow the next RN to figure it all out in the morning. At least she would have the necessary resources and the faculty members to finish the job. But this decision was not made out of laziness. You see this patient was having a plethora of other problems, most requiring my immediate attention, allowing me to temporarily and completely disregard the dobbhoff dilemma.

Not only was he gushing blood from a surgical site, but he was vomiting profusely in between bouts of explosive diarrhea. In the meantime this person wants pain medication, that MD is on the phone ready to chew me out about things or other, this person needs to receive 3 enemas, my beeper is ringing incessantly, and on, and on, and on, swirling around me like a crazed tornado. And people wonder why I get stressed out sometimes from work. Thank God for Muscles. Without his constant encouragement and spare set of hands I'm sure that I would've quit a long time ago. Back at home in my little apartment there is a leaking roof thanks to another idiotic stunt from the woman upstairs, with mismatched paint to repair, most of it ending up in my hair, sickness, medication, side effects, fatigue, loneliness, a broken heart, and maybe even a little chocolate cake.

So you see, O'Malley had it right. Sometimes life really is just one damned thing after another.

My Plea

Temporary insanity. I'm sure that more often than not, I'm just not thinking straight. As my step brother would say - I'm a few sandwiches short of a picnic. It's not that I'm recanting what I wrote earlier. Yet I have been thinking, hard, and there is a reason why we call it jumping to conclusions.

I have learned good and plenty to be especially careful to heed the red flag when it's raised, and figuratively waved in front of my face. There are more than a few warning signs indicating me to just leave it alone. I should know better than to make assumptions, even about my own feelings.

Ever like the idea of something? I suppose my overwhelming loneliness likes to speak out every so often. I'd like to be with someone, but this is far from it. This certainly isn't love. Probably just a 24 hour, viral thing. . . . . .

Freudian Slip

"Is love all we know to write about?" she asked, referring to my most recent blog entry. At first I felt a little offended as if she were cynically downing such a powerful emotion. Afterall, don't we live, eat, breathe, and evn write because someONE loved us, and still does? Although through love I've seen the depths of despair, and continually suffer the bitterness of its aftertaste, I've also climbed its heights to euphoria and would by no means make a mockery of its presence in my life. Which beings me to the events of this last week:

I've found myself becoming ever more smitten with a certain male counterpart, of whom I've known for nearly a year. In an attempt to protect his anominity I'm not going to elaborate any further on the many facets of his character, but feel it would be sufficient to say that he's quite "amazing."

Of course, I know this all sounds so wonderful and storybook, but you see this story would not be complete unless there was a hitch. Not only is he unavailable, but I am becoming ever more convinced that I'm not his type, which I'm not even really sure what that translates to. I suppose some would say that he's too good for me or vice versa. But really its more than that. Maybe what it really boils down to is my gut feeling that even if he was unattached and intriqued, and despite the intensity of my feelings for him, I don't picture us together. Which in and of itself is enough to break my heart.

Yet this past week I found myself in a fit of worriment as I was informed that he had fallen extremely and seriously ill. Since most of the significant details were omitted, I was left with the little bits and pieces of data that only fit together forming a horrible nightmare-ish situation. This lack of information and my wild imagination made for a rather toxic combination, so much so that I ventured a phone call to inquire about his condition. Such an idea, in and of itself was poisoness, considering that I've already been rather sloppy with the discretion of my feelings. Yet I found a quiet corner at work and proceeded to make the call.

One year, in celebration, Bryce presented Dolly with an Amaryllis bulb in a pot, to which I replied, "Nothing says 'I love you' like a potted plant." It is just this week that I have formulated a very similar saying that is applicable to myself: Nothing says I love you like an incomprehensible voicemail message.

As fate would have it I was not able to speak directly to the patient himself, but was granted the privilege of speaking to a machine, which of course is why I called in the first place! As I lamented his sudden decline in health, I stuttered and hesitated to express myself, not quite sure what I wanted to say. Maybe I ought to have rehearsed it beforehand. Yet just as I was about to hang up I nearly uttered those undeniably powerful three little words. It came so naturally until I stopped myself. I hung up and sat stunned. A Freudian slip if I'd ever heard one, or not heard one.

Did I mean it? Did I genuinely have those feelings? Freud would reply with an emphatic, "Yes!" I don't consider myself to be one of those people who says what they really don't mean. Experience has taught me that it's just too painful to be the receipient of emotions that are not truly heartfelt. Why would I do that to someone else? Was it just a repetitous mixup? Something that I'm so used to saying that it was just another phrase, void of meaning? Of this I'm still not sure. The only thing that is clear is my relief. I've decided that none of it is worth ruining our friendship, which I value to its utmost. Yet that still does not validate my feelings.

Sister you were right - what a soul haveth I. . .sigh . . . . . . .

The Scarlet Letter

It's strange how removal of one element in your life can initiate the domino effect, causing many other, relatively unrelated elements to come tumbling down. We are now cresting the one year mark of my erasure of a certain person from my life. Since then I have undeniably struggled with not only finding daily happiness but a number of other things. The one thing that I did not expect to struggle with was my writing.

Of course I am no Hemingway or Browning, but really this is one of my hidden passions. I have not blogged in quite some time and yet whenever I try, I find myself feeling quite frustrated with the entire process. If I didn't care about the order, or the sound, or the meaning of the words chosen, by all means I am sure that I would not have as much difficulty as I have been experiencing. But you see, that is the point of being a writer. It matters. It all matters. Right down to the punctuation.

Within the span of this last year I have repeatedly attempted to add to my poetry collection only to find myself writing about things that no long matter, or on those rare occasions when I do produce something of worth, I rip it apart with criticisms. I suppose I am too hard on myself. And yet I know that this is something of worth inside me just waiting to be expressed, just waiting to be converted to words. I have officially hit a dry spell. My nose is against the wall. The writer's block has set in.

Yet I must not forget to leave out my most recent creation, one that nearly the entire world will never read. Those words never to be seen by any other eyes but the ones they were intended for. Kubler Ross would tell me that I am grieving. But I say it's time to let go. It's time to just leave it all behind. I like to call them, my last words.

Last week I was hanging with the girls. Amidst the update on our lives was some advice, powerful advice, and it came to me in one word. Forgiveness. So despite the appearance of boldness, I ventured into Wal-Mart and bought some college ruled notebook paper, and began to write. I wrote for about 3 hours. At first I was sure that this was going to be my final draft and thus I wrote with my best penmenship. I was thoughtful and thorough. But then I hit a point when how it looked didn't matter so much anymore. It was the words that mattered. Even more than that, it was the emotion behind those words that mattered. I scribbled out 6 pages of 3 years of feelings, and really there was so much more than that, just begging to be expressed.

The next day I sat with my thesaurus and revised those six pages. As I sealed the envelope, it was perfect. I addressed the letter, omitting my return address and then dropped it into the mailbox, not caring if it got lost along the way. Not caring if it was ever read. Not caring if it provoked anger within its reader. Just not caring. Just writing. And feeling free.