Hopeless

These are cells from a rare childhood tumor that affects mostly boys and men.  This is what is taking the life of a woman who only just came of legal age-my youngest ever hospice patient.  This terrible disease has wrapped itself around every major organ and is invading new ones.  What surgeons removed is already growing back.  I'm not unused to young adults dying. Usually in critical care, it's from something dumb like an accidental (or deliberate) drug overdose.  

Needless to say, I cried all the way home.  Diagnosed 3 weeks ago.  Prognosis?  If lucky, 2 more weeks.  Her outlook was so poor from the beginning that every major cancer center has declined to treat her.  Hopeless.  My heart is heavy for this patient but most especially, for her mother.  No mom should have to be facing the death of her child.  Cancer just doesn't fight fair.

Photo: wikipedia

Six Month Introspective

When I worked in ICU and precepted new nurses, the ones who had the hardest time acclimating to the new role were seasoned nurses. Sometimes, it's tremendously difficult to go from the top of one's game to not being sure of anything. Only time and repeated exposure to procedures and situations make a nurse comfortable in new positions. One opportunity after another to be successful is what gives us confidence (practice makes perfect). I used to tell new nurses that it would take six months to begin to feel confidence and up to a year to feel fairly good about things. Feeling expert at tasks can take years.

My transition from an intensive care environment into hospice has been no different. After six months, I'm feeling a bit more confident. I was not happy with certain aspects of my hospice training and promised myself that in six months, I'd re-evaluate where I stand. If still unhappy, I'd give myself permission to admit defeat and jump ship. In this time, I've developed a rapport with the doctors who support my efforts in the field; this has made a tremendous difference. I'm making fewer mistakes, really, only minor omissions on paperwork and that's helped in a huge way. It's so nice to seldom get a pile of papers back that I have to tweak. While I don't feel I've completely mastered the computer program we use, I do think we're on better terms these days. Very little cursing accompanies my interactions with my work laptop.

I've embraced the patient care aspect completely. I no longer feel unsure of myself in those encounters either. I use everything I have at my disposal-especially, the doctors. I still feel called to do this line of work. It's not true of everyone and I do work with some who seem a little jaded, as if this is just a way to pay the bills. Families and patients can always detect this in a caregiver. A nurse or hospice physician has compassion for a suffering human-or they don't. The fakers are almost always outed for what they are. This is my biggest time management issue. I am not a faker-out there only to make a living. This leads to those epic visits and starts of care that seem to go on and on forever. On a slow night, it's not an issue but on a busy night, there is no reprieve and nobody available to help. Other nurses tell me I need to get better with my time management and learn how to keep my patients and family members directed to the task at hand. Really?

How do you interrupt and redirect a dying person when they are discussing major issues? I can't. I'm giving notice that I won't. If my colleagues have a problem with this, I consider that their problem, not mine. I will practice the skill of being in the moment and most certainly will never leave a patient dangling in emotional crisis. I believe that dying a good death is a goal that can be achieved, one that requires attention to all aspects of life including the physical, spiritual and psychosocial aspects that make us human. To do otherwise would be a betrayal of the oath I've taken as a nurse.

It's only taken 25 years to heed the call and find my niche in this profession. I'm well rounded because of the detours but, I feel that I've found what I need to do with my career. I am finally, a hospice nurse. I think I'll stay here for awhile. My next mission will be to change the minds and behaviors of jaded nurses.

Do you think I stand a chance?

Such a He-Dog. Not.

31° F | 20° F
-1° C | -7° C

The cold is intense for mid-December; so much so, not even many layers of wool help ease the bite. To say the least, it's not a good night for the heat to go out. However, this is an annual event in this house and it's always the same problem. The furnace is so ancient, I think it belongs in the Henry Ford Museum.

The pooch was so cold, he let the man-child snuggle up. Notice who has the blanket though (you'd think the fur coat that comes naturally would be enough).

The Shady Side

Yesterday was the gloomiest day I've seen around here in a very long time. The rain started Monday night. I drove an hour and a half to see a patient. It was dry but damp and cold. By the time I came out of my patient's home an hour later, there was close to an inch of heavy wet snow on my car. Driving home, the snow turned to rain and slush. It took closer to two hours to get home. It rained all night and all day yesterday. The blessing is that an inch of rain does not require the use of a shovel. The snowy equivalent would have placed nearly a foot of snow on the ground.

I had the day off to shop and pretty much finished it all. There is nothing left to do except wrap everything and I don't do that until it's almost Christmas. Rachel can't stay away from wrapped gifts. It doesn't matter to her if they don't belong to her, if they're out, she will unwrap them. It's really pretty funny to see all of the perfectly wrapped gifts get patched with things like scotch tape, duct tape, surgical tape and Bandaids; pretty much, whatever is handy.

I stayed out all day and came home to this gift from my oldest daughter hanging from my baker's rack:

The top picture is a simple garter stitch scarf in all the shades of sand and mud. The yarn is double stranded and every 8 or 21 garter ridges, I pick up a new shade. Right now, it's about half way finished and I'll work my way back down to the sandy colored shade. It's a gift for my son though it is not a surprise. After this, I should have filled my quota of garter stitch for the year. It is a pretty stitch but bores me to tears after awhile. I have another 4 feet and it's done.

To The Nines

Last Saturday, my sweetie took me to see the play White Christmas. I love going to events at Detroit's Fox Theater. Years ago, this place had fallen into disrepair. A painstaking restoration brought this icon back to its former glory. You can look at this theater for days and still not take in everything. Every square inch is filled with something remarkably beautiful. It really is quite stunning and I don't think there is a bad seat in the house. Let me say here though, for this play, I've never had better seats. We were in the first row-orchestra pit. How fun!

I saw Yes here about 8 or so years ago and the music was beautiful in this venue. I've heard the Detroit Symphony play here too and that was equally lovely. This was perfect for listening to an orchestra play the music of Irving Berlin-they were fabulous and a lot of fun to watch up close. Just a bunch of regular Joes (and Joans) working the night away.

White Christmas was good, but just not the same without my favorite players. The story line drifted a bit and that didn't really jive with the movie version that I know and love best. I think what was missing was the love that was brewing between the couples. I just didn't feel it during the play. I've seen enough stage plays to know that love can be conveyed in a live performance. The dancing was amazing and so was the singing so I can't say that was the issue. A lack of feeling was.

David Ogden Stiers from MASH fame played the general. He has a great stage presence. It's almost as if he is much better suited to the stage than to the small screen or film. All in all, it was a nice evening out and fun to see that people still get dressed to the nines for a night on the town. Still, I think I'll be watching the movie version of White Christmas for my annual nostalgic fix.

Photos: Google Images-like a fool, I left my camera at home.

SABLE

Am I there yet? I may have reached the pinnacle in terms of yarn hoarding. I should be all set now if there happens to be a shift in the universe and all sources for anything woolly dries right up. I think I may have achieved SABLE- a term coined by The Yarn Harlot (I think): Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy. I won't feel too guilty about this because my knitting is like art to me and yarn is my medium. As long as I have my job and don't have to think about eating this wool for sustenance, I'll keep it.

Today's journey into my stash began innocently enough. I couldn't find a particular skein of yarn in the haphazard collection I call my stash. I've been meaning to get to this mess for awhile now. I bought new containers to organize about 6 or so weeks ago. One single skein led to a complete overhaul; I needed it to finish a moebius scarf I'm knitting. What I found was appalling. Lots, I mean LOTS of unfinished projects. A blanket for my oldest daughter (she is always so appreciative of anything off my needles-that's why she gets lots of stuff). I started that blanket two (maybe 3) years ago. It's past the half way point but I just can't seem to pick it up and work on it. I guess it would help if I left it out. Her green sweater-which is sitting there right next to me-hasn't been touched in 2 weeks. It's mocking me.  It's a fun knit and it's mostly done so I don't get why I won't touch the thing. 


Then there is a beautiful beige and brown blanket that I started last winter but lost interest in. It wasn't turning out the way I expected. I think I should frog that and salvage the yarn for something else. There is another sweater I began in September 2007. A friend gave me a beautiful bottle of Chilean wine with a card that said I couldn't drink the wine until the sweater was done. Guess what? Yep. Wine gone-sweater in time out. The lace portion of the bodice has been deemed a pain in the arse.  I know I came to that conclusion while under the influence of Chilean grapes. I'll ponder the sweater's destiny soon because the yarn I bought for this is too pretty to go to waste.


There's a bag of red Plymouth Galway yarn for a top down, no frills sweater. At least that's not been cast on. Yet. Seeing it there gave me a yen to at least begin this thing. Miracle of miracles, the pattern was in the bag with the yarn! There are other half cooked projects and then, there is all the yarn I bought with nothing particular in mind. It's there because it's pretty. Or soft. Or soft and pretty. In the soft and pretty category are about 10 skeins of Mo. I'm thinking of that cute mohair sweater in Stitch and Bitch-maybe a few sweaters. There's an awful lot of mohair in my stash. There's a small box (in comparison to the others) that's full of acrylic. That's my baby or wool allergy box. Not too much in there. I'm thinking of donating the contents. I'm sure there is someone that would make good use of that box. If you want it, let me know. I'll send it your way-really-it's just languishing in the nobody will use me box. I'm such a heartless wool snob.  There really are some pretty acrylic fibers out there.  I just don't like the way they work up.  Wool is my thang.

The sock box is the best box of all. It's stuffed full (when I finished filling it, I had to sit on the box to close it) of Lorna's Laces, Jitterbug, Regia, Ty-Dy from Knit One-Crochet Too, Smooshy, Noro, Schaefer, Lambs Pride, Bearfoot and truly, I don't recall-even though I just sifted through all of it. I simply can't part with anything in that box. Some is duplication. Those would be the fibers, colors (or names of colors) that appeal to me and I buy one skein as a gift and one for me. On some, the labels have fallen off, leaving me to guess the fiber and color. Can't be helped now.


Here is a picture of the scraps I've salvaged for the birds and squirrels. I'll recycle a potato sack , fill it full of the yarn scraps and hang it outside for critters to shop through for their nest materials. Hopefully, I'll be able to look up and see the remnants of socks, purses, scarves and sweaters next year. I love this idea.

My reorganizing is done for the day. I ran out of large storage containers so some of my stash is still in boxes and bags. As for the single skein of Mountain Colors Moguls that got this project off the ground? Found it.

Thinking of Flyboy

I don't think I've ever resurrected a  post but for today, I will.  This one, from early August, is for Flyboy:

I belong to a group of nurses who knit on Ravelry. There is a question on that group that asks "what's the coolest work gift you've received?" It's really a question of what is the best gift an employer has given but I interpret that question a bit differently.

When I'm treating an older patient, I ask many questions that aren't medical in the least. I want to know what they did when they were young. I'll ask what they did for a living. I'll ask if they served in the war. I'll ask about their families. People want to talk and work their lives out. Often, the end is approaching and they're questioning their value on earth; asking these questions allows them to talk about it and work things through. I do hang around for the answers. It helps that I'm truly interested and incredibly nosy. I can't help it, people fascinate me.

I had one such patient in end stage heart failure about four years ago. He was so sick and although I don't know what happened to him, I'm quite certain he isn't with us anymore. His heart failure was so severe, I don't see how he would have lived more than six months from the time I met him. I'd been pulled to another unit for the day. One where people aren't on life support and therefore, they're able to talk. I asked my patient if he'd served in WWII and his face lit up. My patient had been a flyboy in the war and had served in the Pacific theater. I'd just read James Bradley's newly released book, Flyboys: A True Story of Courage. Although the book didn't make me an expert, I knew a bit about these men and their service. My patient was thrilled to talk about his life as a flyboy. He was proud of this time he'd given to his country. We spent a long time talking.

A few weeks later, I received a package at work. It was from my Flyboy. There was a letter that was quite lengthy in which he thanked me for taking such good care of him. There was a video copy of a documentary about flyboys and he was featured in the documentary. What an amazing life this man had lead! He included a photo of himself, his fellow servicemen and a plane. They were so handsome in that picture.

I think about this man every once in awhile. On occasion, I come across the package he sent to me. He was a gift that was sent my way by my employer. I don't need anything extra for doing my job. Placing me in the right place, at the right time, is gift enough.